by Deanna Roy
His muscle there is strong. I’ve never touched anything like it. He places his free hand lightly on my shoulder blade. A tingle runs up my spine.
“We’re going to go backwards for you,” he says. “Step back, then to the left, then feet together. Ready?”
I nod, although my mind is racing. Are my hands sweaty? What if I step on him? He’s going to think I’m a terrible dancer. I flirt with the idea of sprinting for the door.
But he counts us in, and something in the squeeze of his hand and the pressure on my back tells me when we’re going to move. We step back, left, and together, and then he pauses.
“See, you’re a natural,” he says. “Let’s do it again with the opposite foot.”
We do the step again, starting with the left. “Perfect,” he says. “Now you know it all. We’ll do them both in a row and keep going.”
He starts us off again, and this time we move around the room. I can’t believe it, but I’m waltzing!
“You’re amazing,” I tell him, and I mean it.
“You learn quickly,” he says. His steps become longer, more exaggerated, and suddenly we’re turning, and I’m keeping up somehow. There’s communication in his touch, in the pressure of his hands, some small clue in his posture and position, and my brain gets it. Take this pivot, lean here, stretch out the step.
The music is intoxicating and the beauty of the dance overwhelms me. I’ve loved ballet these two years for its grace and precision. But this dance in his arms is like a revelation, a miracle. I really do feel like a princess at a ball.
The song comes to an end. I’m so overwhelmed by what we’ve done that I can’t speak. My calves ache from standing on tiptoe, and my arms burn from holding myself in position. But it feels amazing.
“Now you need to just relax into it,” he says. “As you learn a partner, the distance between you decreases.” He takes a step in. We’re no longer a foot apart, as we have been, but almost touching.
“Should I wiggle my sillies out?” I ask, remembering him working with the wheelchair ballerinas yesterday.
His laugh is like water splashing in a fountain, bold and refreshing. “Princess, you are a balm for my jaded soul.”
“You, jaded?” I ask. “It seems like you have the world at your feet.”
“No,” he says. “I have the wolves at my door.”
I had forgotten that he was disgraced, his show suspended. It seems impossible that he could be vile when he acts so charming.
But I don’t have another moment to think about it. Another waltz comes on. His hand grips mine, and then we’re off, sweeping across the floor.
Now that we’re closer together, there are more points of communication between us. His hips, his thighs, his knees, the turn of his shoulders, his chest. We glide across the floor like one person. This waltz is faster, more demanding.
My skirt flutters around my thighs. I spot us in the mirror, spinning and turning, the steps long and beautiful. My hair swings, black as night against my pale blue shoulders. We’re a sight.
“Let’s try a turn,” he says.
Fear stabs me. I know I’m going to ruin this moment with a stumble, but when he releases my shoulder and changes his grip on my hand, I just go. I unfurl like the ribbon stick, like a flower blooming.
His arm lifts high and I turn beneath it, the world spinning. I’m glad for my ballet training, as I know how to work inside the rotation without getting dizzy.
Although I might be anyway. I’ve never drunk alcohol, but I think this must be what it’s like, giddy and lightheaded.
He turns me again, too quickly after the last one, and this time I do lose my footing and crash into him. He laughs and crushes me against his chest. We stop dancing, breathing against each other, his face above mine. But the spinning doesn’t stop just because we’re still. It whirls around us as if we are the center of the world.
“Livia, you are a breath of fresh air after all the contestants on my show,” he says. His grin is infectious, happy and full of charm.
I’m completely lost in it. But we’re so close, pressed all the way tight. I can feel each part of him. Chest, belly, and below.
Fear stabs me. Twenty women, I remind myself. He slept with twenty women from his show.
I’m not afraid of things that could happen, I remember them too well. I’m afraid of the after. How many paternity suits had he mentioned? Fifteen? How many were true? He says he has no kids, but how does he know?
I step back. “I’m pretty clumsy,” I say.
“Are you kidding?” He still has my hand, and he twirls me. “Look at you. Dancing like a pro.”
The music is still going, and he walks with me, not pulling me to him, but holding only one hand. His steps are still in waltz time, one-two-three, and I instinctively walk with him, matching his stride.
We remain apart, and I calm down from my thoughts about paternity suits, falling back into the dance, turning in, then out, facing, apart, following his guide. He’s an amazing teacher, but of course he is, guiding all those contestants week after week, taking dancers of all skill levels into competition with each other for his approval.
“How would I do?” I ask without thinking.
“You’re doing fine,” he says.
“On your show, I mean.” I want my mouth to shut up, but it just keeps talking. “If you were teaching me to perform with you.”
His expression is thoughtful. “Well, I would be impressed by your ability to follow me so soon. But…”
Without warning, he turns, slides his hand beneath my back, and takes me off balance. I’m in a dip, weight on his arm, my face inches from his again.
“We’d probably dance more like this,” he says.
He holds the position, and I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I’m completely at his mercy, gripped by him, my hair streaming toward the floor.
His lips are paralyzingly close. He’s going to do it. He’s going to treat me like the women in his competition. Kiss me. Give a good show.
“For the audience,” I say.
This breaks the spell. He lifts me back to standing. “For the audience,” he says, a confirmation. “It’s all about the ratings. It has to seem as though every girl has a chance or they won’t keep watching.”
He releases me and heads back toward the stereo.
“Do they all have a chance?” I ask. “Or is it scripted?”
He stops the waltz and the room goes silent. “You’re asking trade secrets,” he says.
Of course he wouldn’t tell me things like that. For all he knows, I’m the type to sell my story to one of those sketchy magazines at the checkout line. Blitz is a favorite topic. He frequently makes the cover. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure some of the links I saw yesterday involved the paternity suits.
I wonder what a story like that is worth. Enough to get an apartment of my own?
God, I’m horrible. I could never do that.
Could I?
Blitz puts on a tango, and I think about that scene from his show with the girl on the red satin bed. How she stripped for him.
“This is a more challenging dance,” he says. “Latin dances have so much more passion. It’s a good test for the, well, compatibility of a woman with my style.”
Now he looks like Blitz. His walk has that predatory quality, as though he is coming for me, and there is no escape. The song begins, and he circles me, stepping in time with the music. First slow, then fast. Slow, then fast.
My heart hammers. There are so many sides to this man. Are they all real? Or are some an illusion, such an integral part of his image that he no longer separates it from his real self?
I’m no different. I’m naive, I know, about culture and current events and how to act in social situations at my age. But I’ve seen plenty, done plenty, broken some of the most powerful rules of society.
I tap into that person, the Livia of four years ago. Young as I was, I knew what I wanted then. I took it, same as he h
ad. I was headstrong, bold, none of this shyness. No fear.
My circles match his and we walk in tandem, apart, but following the same rhythm. When the music rises, he reaches for me, arm outstretched.
I accept his hand, and within a heartbeat, he has whirled me into him.
This time, our positions feel natural, and our bodies come together without distance from the first try.
“This is trickier,” he says. “But just a little. Lean into me. Shift into a close embrace.”
My hand goes around his back, and his arm fits against me much more tightly. I can feel his breath on my hair.
“First we walk slowly together,” he says.
We take the steps, me backward, him forward.
“Then to the side like the waltz,” he says.
We accomplish that. “Now you must take two steps back, then one foot across the other, then back to the side.”
My mind jumbles at all of that, and I have no idea what he means by across, and I trip on his feet. He catches me easily.
I laugh shakily. “Not so quick on this one,” I say.
“It’s a trickier step,” he reminds me.
He slides me behind him. “We’ll do your step together.”
I pause and look down at his feet.
“Two steps, the cross, then step and slide.” His feet glide effortlessly across the floor.
But I see it now. I do it a couple of times alone.
“Now you have it,” he says. We return to the tango embrace. “Let’s walk a bit first.”
The steps are slow and deliberate, one step to the beat. I can’t relax yet, concentrating, and I sense when we shift to the side.
“Now the new steps,” he says.
I go back, step across, and back into the slide. Then we’re just walking again.
“Perfect!” he says.
We continue this basic step until the end of the song, but it doesn’t feel like the waltz did. It’s tricky and I have to concentrate. I don’t love it as much. I’ve probably failed his sexy dance test.
Blitz releases me and heads back to the stereo.
“Can we waltz one more time?” I ask. “I don’t want to forget it.”
“Of course,” he says. “You have more time today, I see. And it isn’t Friday.”
My face heats up again, remembering how I chickened out yesterday. He knows why I’m here. Maybe I’ll get that kiss yet.
Except, the windows.
“I do,” I say. “We could try the storage room again.”
He stops what he’s doing and turns around. The wolfish look is gone, and he’s back to Benjamin, the sweet charmer. “You sure about that?”
Now I’m not. What does he mean by that? Does he not want me after all? Or does he think I’m propositioning him, that we’ll have sex back there?
I suck in a breath and a piece of hair sticks to my cheek. I push it away. “I — I just meant we could finish the tour. Unless you already got one.”
He hasn’t put on any music, but he heads toward me anyway. Now I remember why I panicked yesterday, why I ran. When Blitz Craven comes at you like a full-on wolf aiming for prey, it’s more than any woman can handle. I fight the urge to startle away again.
Within seconds, he’s crazy close, his lips near my ear. “Princess, I’ll follow you anywhere,” he says, his voice low.
My knees are wobbly. I can’t breathe. His face is so very near. I look at his lips. They are full, with a defined edge. The scruff of his unshaven jaw looks rough and sexy.
“There’s a recital hall. And the staging area.” My voice isn’t very confident now.
“Show me,” he says. “I want to see everything.” His tone tells me he isn’t talking about the academy. His fingers reach for a lock of my hair and he twists it around his thumb.
The door flies open. Danika storms in. “Benjamin Castillo, lay a hand on my dancer and I’ll throw your ass right out of this academy!”
I forgot. The windows.
Blitz sighs heavily and lifts me back to a standing position.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “I was just learning some ballroom.”
“I’ll be happy to teach you some ballroom,” Danika says. Her voice could grate cheese. “Benjamin, I think you’re done for today.” She walks forward and pokes a finger against his chest. “Leave this one alone or you will rue the day you ever stepped foot in here.”
Blitz holds his hands up. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Your school, your rules.” His eyes meet mine only for a moment. “I’ll be on my way.”
He gives us a little bow and exits the room.
Danika turns to me. “I think maybe Blitz shouldn’t work with your class on Tuesdays,” she says. “If your father found out, it would jeopardize your ability to study here.”
I’m ready to cry, or shout, or do something. I’m bubbling over with emotions that rush at me so fast I can’t even name them. “I know,” I say. “I know.”
She wraps her arm around me. “You’re special to us, Livia,” she says. “I’m not going to let some womanizer wrap his talons around you.”
The thing is, he already has.
Chapter 8
If Mom notices something different about me when I come home from the academy, she doesn’t say anything about it. She generally doesn’t question me unless she thinks we need to shore ourselves up for the third degree from Dad.
I help Andy with his science and administer the test so Mom can do laundry. That only occupies an hour, so I head to my room to do some practice SAT reading.
But the lines blur on the page. I’m so full of Blitz, and upset at Danika’s interference. I know she’s right. I know it. But I don’t want to give Blitz up. It’s the first time I’ve felt alive in four years, other than the moment when Gabriella arrived at Dreamcatcher Dance Academy.
And when I discovered where she was.
For a long time after the adoption, I had no idea what happened to her. I just knew one of the Catholic ministries had handled everything.
When I started volunteering at the church three years ago, I only got to do small tasks, such as resetting the hymnals and putting out the missalettes. I graduated to helping Irma open the offering envelopes and organizing the checks and cash. Then stuffing the mail-outs.
About two years ago, she let me into the locked cabinet where the church records were stored. There were many private files in there. Employment records for the priests and staff. Bundles of prayer requests. Tax documents.
I stumbled upon an adoption certificate. Then another. The file was small. Apparently the church had not been involved in many over the years. Until Gabriella, no baby born of a church member had been adopted through the larger umbrella organization since 1998.
But a copy of her birth certificate was there. And the contract sent by the agency, signed by me, my parents since I was a minor, and the new parents.
I had their names.
It took me months to find them. I didn’t know Mindy yet, had no Internet access, and only vague awareness of social media like Facebook and LinkedIn. I did things the old-fashioned way, digging old phone books out of recycling bins and calling “information” from the church phone.
I got their address and phone number through that, but I didn’t know what to do with it. They lived too far away to walk there, and I couldn’t just show up at their house anyway. I did call the number a few times from church and pretend to have dialed the wrong one when someone answered. Once, I heard a child singing in the background and my heart almost exploded. Was that my baby?
Then came Mindy. She was fourteen to my seventeen back then, but already more worldly wise. And she had a cell phone. She showed me Facebook and how to use it, and then the laptop, which was newer then and often got left out while Irma was in meetings.
Only once I was alone with the computer did I dare create a fake account on Facebook and start searching for Gwen. This was before the accident, when she and her husband were happily raising Gabriella a
s a three-year-old.
I won’t forget the day I saw the status update about the crash. I didn’t know until weeks after it happened, as I didn’t get many chances to turn on the laptop with Irma always in the office.
The pictures sent shock waves through me. Gabriella lay in a special bed, bandaged and immobilized. She missed her father’s funeral. I so longed to have been there, holding her hand while everyone was at the service. Was she alone during those hours, with all the family gone? Surely someone stayed with her.
Those were dark days. I considered running away from home, or at least hitching a ride with a stranger to go to the hospital.
I fought with my father, resisted their rules. I stayed out late a few times, sitting in a local park. I really had no idea what to do to rebel. I had very few friends, and Mindy’s family was as strict as mine on going places.
I hated my life, but I hated most of all what my letting Gabriella go had cost her. She was in that car because of me.
Stop.
I have to stop.
Once the blaming begins, there is no end to it.
I close the SAT prep book and go to my bedroom door. Generally, we are not allowed to close our doors except at night, but I angle it as far as I can get away with, only an inch gap, and sit on the floor by my bed. When I’m sure no one is in the hall, I bend down and push aside a plastic bin of old clothes. Behind it is another box.
I pull it out, then pause to listen again. All quiet.
The box is just a cardboard one that once held packages of ramen noodles. When I open it, the top is covered with old T-shirts from my former life. My elementary school logo, one from middle school, and a couple with irreverent expressions like “Don’t blame me, I’m the cute one.” Dad doesn’t allow sass like that now. I set them aside.
Beneath them are the meager things I saved from my pregnancy and the hospital. One oversized shirt my mother gave me to wear, stretched to fit over my belly.
I hadn’t had any actual pregnancy clothes, just a few Goodwill items in larger sizes. My family seemed to believe that if they weren’t labeled maternity, I wasn’t actually pregnant.
