by Deanna Roy
My face heats up. I want to tell her I do, but I can’t do that. She’d want more details than I’m prepared to provide. I don’t want to risk getting caught by looking any longer, so I type in “Most famous hymns” in the search box. I click and click on a bunch of links like Mindy taught me. When everything in the recent history looks good, I shut it down and close the lid.
“Blitz Craven,” Mindy says with a sigh. “This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, and it’s not even happening to me.”
I lie back on the flat carpet of the storage space and stare up at the water-stained ceiling. “I don’t know anything about how long he’ll be there or if he’ll even look at me again,” I say.
But I do know one thing. I’m not supposed to have class again until Friday, but I’m going back to Dreamcatcher tomorrow.
Chapter 6
Danika keeps a studio room open most mornings for dance students who want to use a space to work on their recital routines. That’s where I was on Monday when Blitz found me.
So the next morning, I dress in my best light blue leotard and skirt — one without any mended tears — and head to the living room to tell my mother I want to get in an extra practice this week.
It should be fine, because my father always meets his friend Larry for lunch on Wednesdays, so he won’t be home asking what I did that morning. Mom is fanatical about telling the truth and prefers the answer to be “some chores around the house and studied for her SAT.” This gets an approving nod.
I’m not sure I’ll get to go to college, but I like studying for the test and thinking about a future away from my family.
And there’s Gabriella to consider. My situation is perfect for seeing her.
There’s no need to change things. The transition from home high school to studying for the college admissions test has been seamless. Other than a cake with a graduation cap on it six months ago, my life has been no different for four years. Only the grade levels on the booklets ever changed anyway.
Mom looks up from the pie crust she is rolling out. “You’re dressed for dance. You going up there?”
“Just getting a little extra practice in. I really want those pointe shoes.”
She pauses. Her hair has bits of gray in it, twisted in the elaborate braid that she favors. She wears an old pair of jeans and a Houston Rockets T-shirt. Seeing the shirt sends a bolt of nostalgia through me. Our old life. Watching basketball games on TV with other families. Picnics. Movies. Going to the beach at Galveston.
Dad flipped so hard after the baby, after everything. He became a different person than he was before. Controlling. Angry. Disturbed. It’s hard to blame him. We all lost so much.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Just an hour, probably, less than two for sure.” I pick up an apple from the fruit bowl and take a big bite. Mom watches me, her hands on the rolling pin, the dough still thick on a cloud of flour.
“All right. Just be sure to come back in time to do some studying. Your dad will ask.”
I nod in agreement. I think my mom probably wants to end my house arrest, but she doesn’t go against my dad. She has plenty of reason to, maybe even to leave him. But after the baby, our whole family took a turn for the religious, as if getting our church on would erase all the terrible things that happened.
It’s a small church and very old-fashioned. Mom has fallen in step with everyone there, deferring to Dad as the “captain of the ship.” The Rockets T-shirt is possibly her only form of protest, although I’m betting she put it on after Dad left for work and will change it before he gets home. She doesn’t like confrontations. The last big one in our family almost destroyed it. She’s careful. She teaches me to be careful, too.
My eight-year-old brother Andy comes in, arms full of books. “Science test today,” he says with a grimace. “Will you help me?”
I ruffle his hair. “After lunch, okay?”
He looks at Mom. “Can we take it after lunch?”
She gives him a half smile. “Only if you study hard until then.”
“Do a good job, Buddy,” I say to him.
I pick up my bag by the door and leave the house.
I’m out. Free!
The walk to Dreamcatcher is exhilarating. I feel so full of joy and energy. I wish I hadn’t panicked so much when Blitz took me in his arms. It was just a dance move. I could have kissed him! Imagine! We were safe enough in the storage room. What could happen at a dance academy?
I’m determined when I see him today to be bold and not freak out. In fact, I tug at the pins holding my hair in a tight dance bun and let it fall free. It floats against my shoulders and tickles my arms. I feel different, less trapped. Lovely.
I picture dancing alone with him again, and this time accepting his kiss, and I squeal loud enough to disturb the squirrels in the tree overhead. They treat me to a shower of brown leaves.
“Sorry!” I call out, but I’m not the least bit sorry at all. As I approach the academy, my feet fairly fly up the steps to the front door.
Suze looks up from the desk. “Extra practice today?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer, my face falling at the empty foyer. But of course Blitz wouldn’t be out here. If he’s at Dreamcatcher at all, he’ll be in one of the rooms. I just have to go look.
“How full is the practice room today?” I ask.
“Just Cassidy and Allen, going over their ballroom routine.”
I didn’t know Cassidy had a partner now. Another man at Dreamcatcher! Thankfully they wouldn’t be at the recital for Dad to see.
But their dance will take up a lot of space. I’ll be confined to the barre to avoid bumping into them. “Anything else open?”
Suze clicks on the keyboard. “The other three studios are in use. But you could go on the recital stage if you want. Danika is in there so the lights are on.”
Hmm. I definitely want to go down the hall and peek into the other rooms. Maybe I can warm up in the studio and then move on to the recital stage.
“Thanks,” I tell Suze. I grip the strap of the string bag that holds my ballet shoes. I should ask her if Blitz is here, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to be disappointed, but more than that, I don’t want to tip Suze off that I’m interested in him. They will talk.
The hall is quiet in the middle of the hour. I peek into the window of Studio 1. Aurora is there with her baby ballerinas, toddlers in tutus who mostly roll around on the floor. The moms all sit against the wall, ready to redirect their child, kiss a boo-boo, or change a diaper.
I don’t see this class often, as it’s my off day, but today I pause, watching the mothers snap pictures of their little girls. I missed this part of Gabriella’s life completely. I didn’t discover where she was until she was almost three. Then it was another year before she arrived for the wheelchair ballerina class. She couldn’t know who I was. That would be the worst of all.
I cherish my one hour a week with Gabriella and I won’t endanger it. My parents would flip for sure, maybe even move us again. That alone is enough to keep me quiet about who I am.
I just wish I had been there for the years I missed. When Gabriella learned to smile, crawl, and take her first steps. And her last ones. I’m not sure of her condition exactly, but if she isn’t walking a year after the accident, I can only assume she never will again. That doesn’t mean I don’t pray for miracles.
I move across the hall to Studio 2. This is a jazz class taught by Jacob. He’s something to behold, a frenetic ball of energy. He’s showing the students a move that involves a leaping turn in the air, arms outstretched. These children are also small, boys and girls approaching kindergarten age. It’s morning on a weekday, so all the older kids are at school.
In fact, it’s a little unusual for all the studios to be full at a time like this. I glance at Studio 3, where Cassidy and Allen are sweeping through the room in a dramatic tango. If Blitz isn’t in Studio 4, he’s not here.
I stifle a giggle when I approach the window. It’s the Tappin’ Grandmas group, nine ladies in black leotards and tights, gray hair puffed up or braided down. They look awesome, dancing in a line, but the thing that is making me laugh is Blitz.
He’s at the front in shiny tap shoes and black tights, no shirt, and a red bow tie. He looks like a waiter at a strip club, or at least what I imagine one would. It’s hilarious. The woman on the end is wearing a white tank remarkably like the one Blitz had on yesterday, and I have a feeling she’s the reason he’s shirtless now.
They can’t see me with the mirror on the other side, so I lean against the window and take him in. The familiar heat burns through me as I watch him dance. Either he’s learned their routine or he’s teaching one of his, because they are all together, legs out, legs in, tap tap tap. Well, mostly together. Some of the ladies are more coordinated than the others.
I’m not sure who the regular instructor is. Probably Danika herself. It’s the sort of class she would put together. Maybe once she saw Blitz had it under control, she went on to work in the recital hall. If last year was any indication, I should be able to get a lot more time up at Dreamcatcher to help, especially with the new class. More freedom. More time away from home.
More Blitz.
“How’s he doing?”
I’m startled to hear Danika’s voice. She walks through the halls like a ninja, graceful and silent after a lifetime of dance.
“They seem to be enjoying his company.”
She peers through the window and huffs out an abrupt laugh, no doubt the moment she realizes one of the Tappin’ Grandmas has stolen Blitz’s shirt.
“I think he’s found his calling,” she says. “I somehow doubt he can break all their hearts.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “He leaves a swath of destruction wherever he goes.”
She looks at me with surprise, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. Everyone here is used to bright naive Livia, not the one who sounds jaded. “So I read in the grocery store tabloids,” I add.
She laughs a little more naturally. “I was definitely concerned about bringing him here,” she says. “But I owe Bennett a favor, more like a thousand, and for some reason he thinks this joker got a raw deal in the press.”
“Is this all about a Tweet?”
Danika shakes her head. “That was just the part that blew up,” she says. “He stands for everything we should hate. Cheap fame. Exploitation. Shock culture.”
“He’s a good dancer, though,” I say. Blitz is doing a free-form tap routine for the women now. They are clapping and cheering, even though we can’t hear what’s happening from outside the soundproofing.
“There are a thousand dancers just as good,” she says. “But he’s got some sort of magic charisma.” She leans against the window. “He’s charmed all these ladies. He’ll get his happy publicity to offset the bad stuff. This is gold.”
“How is anyone going to know he’s here?” I ask. I realize camera crews might come in and the academy could hit the news. It will be impossible to hide all this from my parents. It’s so close to home. They’ll notice with their own eyes if the media starts blocking the street. It’s less than a mile to my house.
“I’m not going to let him take over my academy,” she says. “But he’ll have some small promo videos done, only with dancers who sign a waiver.”
I wonder if Gwen will do that. I guess it doesn’t matter. Even if the wheelchair ballerina class gets visibility, nobody will know who Gabriella is.
“I can’t sign one,” I say.
She squeezes my arm. “I know. That’s fine. We’ll work around it.” She watches the grandmas take turns dancing with Blitz. “Did you talk to him?”
My face flames. “Only about the girls,” I say. “He wanted to know about their limitations.”
She nods. “I’m really throwing the works at him. He’s got the wheelchair class, these Tappin’ Grandmas, one toddler class, the boys’ hip-hop, and the advanced jazz girls, who I felt could really learn from him.”
“You think he’ll be okay with the babies?”
“I am hoping one of them spits up all over him.”
We laugh together as the lights blink twice in the hall, signaling the five-minute warning until the transition begins. A few mothers trickle in to stand outside the windows of the jazz class.
“Were you going to dance this morning?” Danika asks. “This isn’t your usual day.”
“I’m working toward my toe shoes.” My eyes dart back to Blitz.
“Ahh,” she says. “And to take another gander at wonder boy.”
I shrug and fiddle with my skirt.
She turns to me. “Please take care with someone like Benjamin,” she says. “If something were to happen to you, I’d be devastated.”
“What could happen?” I ask. “It’s just dance.”
Danika peers back through the window at the grandmas. One of them has tricked Blitz into getting close to her face. Suddenly she plants a kiss on his lips.
“That is what I’m talking about,” she says. “He makes women act crazy.”
Blitz sweeps the elderly woman up in his arms and turns in a circle. A silent whoop goes up, the women all gesturing wildly, mouths open. I can’t tell if the others are excited or jealous. One thing is for sure. His charm isn’t limited to any age.
Chapter 7
As the grandmas reluctantly file out, taking Danika with them, Blitz puts his shirt back on and strips off the bow tie. When he heads toward the door, I panic, flooded with shyness, and dash for Studio 3 to do a warm-up.
But he comes out before I can go in.
“Livia?” he asks.
My hand is on the door handle. “Hello, Blitz,” I say.
“You practicing with them?” he asks, gesturing at the window where Cassidy and Allen are still doing a tango.
“Oh, no, I don’t know ballroom. Just ballet.” My face heats up at my ignorance.
“I could show you.”
Now my heart is racing. “We’d all crash into each other.”
“We can check with Danika about this room.” He points back to Studio 4. “I don’t think anyone’s in it.”
He’s right. It looks like we’re about to hit a lull in the schedule. Aurora has another batch of tiny ballerinas headed into Studio 1, but nobody is coming to any of the other rooms. And Studio 4, the Dance of the Shades room, is where we met.
“Okay,” I say. “But I’m not a very quick study.”
“Oh, I bet you are.” Blitz holds out his hand, and maybe because of where we are, or my promise to myself to be bold, I don’t hesitate in taking it.
His expression is earnest, as serious as I’ve ever seen it in real life or on what I saw of his show. It’s like he’s another person entirely, as if there is Blitz and then there is this man, Benjamin. Maybe that’s why Danika insists on calling him by his real name. Maybe she sees it too.
As soon as my fingers brush his, he grips my hand and somehow, without my knowing a single step of couples dancing, he whirls me into a perfect turn.
I stop just inches from him, my face outrageously close to his, and he spins me out again. It’s effortless, like we’ve practiced this a thousand times.
He reels me back in, and this time, moves his hand to my back, where the pressure there must push some button, because I’m taking steps with him, long strides to the door of Studio 4. I feel like Ginger Rogers, rushing across the movie screen with Fred Astaire in one of the few movies my parents allow me to see at an art theater.
“See, Princess,” he says as we break our dance hold to pass into the room. “I knew you were a natural.”
“How did you do that?” I ask. “I’ve never danced with a partner, ever.”
His grin is wicked and sets my pulse jumping all over again. “Then I am honored to be your first.”
I blush furiously as I follow him into the room. I never can tell with Blitz exactly what we’re talking about. Every
word out of his mouth feels like a sexual innuendo.
My gaze darts to the mirrored window. Anyone could watch us and we wouldn’t even know. But that makes it safe, more so than the storage closet. And I do want safe. As much as I’m a moth to his flame, I’m afraid too. This man could charm the panties off a nun.
He heads to the corner where the sound system is stored. I close the door and turn away from the window. Despite knowing no one is out there, I feel on display.
I set down my string bag and kneel to switch out shoes. Blitz is on the other side of the room. There are a half-dozen unfurled ribbon sticks piled near the door, so once I have my shoes on, I roll them up. It keeps my nervous hands busy as Blitz fiddles with the music, scrolling around looking for something in particular, I guess.
I focus so hard on making the bright ribbons a perfect coil that I don’t notice he’s come close until I see his jazz shoes beside me.
“Ready?” he asks.
When I look up, I feel dizzy. It’s like a dream. Blitz Craven isn’t just someone on the television set. He’s here. And extending his hand to me. Me. A nineteen-year-old homeschooled wallflower.
I have to swallow over the lump in my throat. He looks so handsome, so devilishly roguish, that I’m momentarily stunned. I take his hand and allow him to lift me up.
“You look devastatingly beautiful in pale blue,” he says.
I glance down at my leotard and matching skirt. It’s now officially my favorite outfit.
“What are we going to dance?” I ask.
“We’ll take it easy,” he says. “A waltz, like the name of your academy.”
“It’s named after a waltz?” I ask.
“One of the most famous ones there is.”
I realize the music he’s playing has three steps per beat. “Is that what you’re playing?”
“No,” he says, leading me by the hand to the center of the room. “It’s Nocturne in B Major by Chopin.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“One of my favorites.”
He steps in close to me and takes my right hand in his. “Left hand just below my shoulder,” he says.
