Dance with a Stranger

by JJ Knight

  “You can go to UTSA right here in town and still stay on campus. If you want to stick with your Catholic heritage, there is St. Mary’s.”

  I know about these places. They seem like pipe dreams. “Dad thinks I should do online college.”

  Danika leans in, her blue hair bright on the tips from the lights overhead. “I know Blitz seems like an easy out. Like he can rescue you. But he’s leaving tonight for LA. He’s going on a talk show tour. And if the groundwork he’s laid here at the academy and around the city works out, he’ll be back on his show. There will be no place for a young, impressionable dancer who has very little experience in the world.”

  Her words are gentle, but they still cut through me. “We’re different,” I say. “He’s a different person with me.”

  “I believe you,” she says. “He’s been good here. The best he has to offer. But when he’s back in that world, he’ll be back in that role.”

  I can’t take any more. “I’m going to go now,” I tell her. “I’ll be here for Betsy’s class tomorrow.”

  She stands up, but as I get up to go, she stops me. “There is something else.”

  What now?

  “I spoke to Betsy. You’ve completed your two years in ballet and you’ve done a heck of a lot of extra dancing the past few weeks.” She turns to the back corner of her office. “She expects you are about to earn these.”

  She passes me a small pink bag from one of the dance supply stores that the instructors use. I’ve seen the logo a dozen times.

  I accept the bag, my hand shaking. Too many reversals again. My life has been so complicated since Blitz arrived. I know what I’ll see inside, but I still take in a breath when I see them.

  Toe shoes, perfect and gleaming in pink satin.

  “We based these on your ballet slippers, but we can exchange them for a better size,” she says. “Bring them when you do your assessment and Betsy will check to make sure they are a good fit for you, and we’ll go from there. This was mainly a gesture from me to let you know that I have absolute confidence in you.”

  I press the shoes to my chest. “Thank you,” I say. My eyes smart. “When will she do my assessment?”

  “The week after Thanksgiving. Do lots of stretching and strengthening at home to make sure you don’t lose any ground over the holiday.”

  “I will.” I place the shoes back in the bag.

  As I head out of the academy, my feelings are a jumble. I pull out the phone and start walking down the street. There are a pile of texts from Blitz.

  Hey, Danika has asked me not to come today.

  I want to see you. Can we meet at the park?

  Let me know if you can get away.

  I’m flying to LA tonight. I really want to see you.

  Please text me as soon as you get these.

  I don’t know what to say exactly. I’m about to write him to come to the park when I hear Andy’s excited “Livia!”

  I look up and see him running ahead of Mom. I guess they are going to the park for recess today.

  I shove the phone in my string bag. I don’t think she’s seen. My heart hammers ninety to nothing.

  Andy crashes into me with a hug. “Race you to the swings!”

  I let him go without running. I need to face Mom first.

  Her face is drawn with concern. “What are you doing at the park? You’re supposed to be at dance.”

  “There wasn’t any studio space available today,” I say. “Everyone is practicing for the recital.” I hold up the bag. “But guess what! I get to be assessed for my toe shoes right after Thanksgiving! Danika gave me a pair!”

  “Really?” My mom sits on the bench and holds out her arms for the bag.

  I pass it to her and sit down.

  She pulls out the perfect pink shoes. “They are beautiful, Livia.” She hugs me with one arm. “I am so proud you’ve stuck with this. Will you get to dance in them at the recital?”

  “I don’t think so. It will be too new. But the spring one for sure.”

  “We were going to get you a pair for Christmas, but now we can spend the money on something else,” she says. “You’ll have to let us know what you need. A new leotard, maybe?”

  My freedom, I think, but I don’t say it. “Might need to save it. Sounds like college tuition is coming,” I say. “I know Dad talked about online classes, but there is St. Mary’s. It’s Catholic.”

  She carefully places the shoes back in the bag. “Livia, you know your father. He won’t allow it.”

  “I’m a legal adult,” I say. “If I get accepted and get financial aid, I can go without his permission.”

  She bites her lip. “Do not speak that way, Livia. We have taken care of you all these years, despite your terrible wicked actions. You tore this family apart. We had to move.”

  “It wasn’t my secret,” I say.

  “But you exposed it.” Her voice is hard.

  I stand up. I have to get away. “I’m going home,” I tell her.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shiny red car coming up the street. Oh no no no. It can’t be Blitz.

  I’m so torn. If I wave him down, I can just get in his car, and be gone. Never come back. Would he do that? Would he take me, no matter what the consequences? If I called the police myself, told them I had left home and was not in danger, would that prevent any trouble when my father found out?

  I take the bag from my stony-faced mother and hurry along the sidewalk.

  I’m halfway down the block, then the red car turns the wrong direction, away from the park, and I see it’s some other sports car, not a Ferrari.

  I slow down, realizing how rash I was being. Not thinking. Not planning. Not being smart.

  My time with Blitz is done. I have to face it. When Mom can’t see me, I pull out the phone and text one quick line. Then I turn it off for good.

  I’ve had a wonderful dance with you, Blitz. Enjoy your limelight again. I hope you find the perfect partner on your show.

  Chapter 23

  I make it through most of Thanksgiving week without turning on the phone. I’m like a pendulum, and the moment in the park when I thought about running away was the upswing. Now I’m all the way back on the other side, being a dutiful daughter, working hard to earn my toe shoes, and volunteering like a good Catholic.

  But after dinner on Thanksgiving Day, Dad leaves to watch football with some friends, an activity he won’t do at home due to the salacious commercials. Mom starts pulling out the Christmas decorations and gets totally absorbed in it with Andy.

  So I’m alone in my room, supposedly studying for the SAT, which is now only two weeks away. I want to do well, be eligible for as many scholarships as possible. I want to learn, excel, be better. I won’t live here forever, and I need options.

  I avoid all thoughts of Blitz.

  But in this alone time, I can’t help but wonder if he’s in town, eating with his family. At church last Sunday, Mindy tried to tell me what was going on with him and the show, but I stopped her. I don’t want to know.

  The phone lost its charge days ago. I did take it out once in a moment of weakness, and the dead battery helped me pull myself together.

  But it calls to me, hidden in a drawer. The charger is still behind the desk.

  I can’t do it. I shouldn’t.

  I roll to the edge of the bed. What if he’s here? What if the show hasn’t worked out? What if he’s been rejected and needs me?

  Idle hands are the devil’s playground. It was something that was drilled into me in the weeks after my pregnancy was discovered. It’s happening now. I should go out into the living room and sort the ornaments. I’m the only one who likes tinsel.

  But I don’t. I kneel by my desk, blocking the view of the drawers with my body so no one passing by my door will see. And I dig out the phone and plug it into the charger.

  It’s dead enough that nothing happens for a moment. Then the screen flashes on. Once it’s past the opening logo, notification a
fter notification scrolls up. Many are from Blitz. A few are from Mindy, links to news sites before I saw her and asked her not to tell me anything.

  It’s been seven days since I sent my last text to Blitz. I feel sick now thinking of all the unanswered messages. When did he give up? Did it take a day or two? Or is he trying still?

  I have to know.

  The phone is cold in my fingers. I bring it closer, stretching the power cord to its limit. If anyone comes, I can just drop it in the drawer. I can’t decide if I should go back to the first missed message, or read the most recent one.

  It doesn’t matter. My eyes fall on the newest, sent just an hour ago.

  Happy Thanksgiving, sweet Livia. I wish I were in San Antonio today, close to you. I’d be happy just sitting in our dystopian park, hoping for you to walk by.

  A tear plops on the surface of the phone, and I wipe my eyes, a little shocked at how quickly my body has reacted.

  He hasn’t given up.

  Now that I know this, my finger swipes through all the new messages to go back to the first one, after I told him I hoped he found the perfect partner.

  I don’t have the show back yet. And I still have to accept the conditions even if they offer. My lawyer says I have a case for not returning even if they ask. Please let me know if you’ll take me instead.

  I almost drop the phone.

  God. I never answered that. What had he thought?

  I want to respond now, to say YES, but my eye falls on the first message from Mindy, a day later.

  Saw Blitz on clips from the late-night show. You were right to ditch him. I’m sorry, Livia. He’s an asshole.

  There’s a link to the clip.

  I hesitate. Those are strong words from her. What did she see?

  The divide between the Blitz I know and the one he is in LA is greater than ever. Maybe I shouldn’t look. Just accept the Blitz who wants to wait for me in the park and forget the other.

  Except I can’t. They are both him.

  I click on the link. The title says “Blitz gets his banana back.”

  My face flames. I remember the bad Tweet he sent out was something about the girl eating him like a banana. I don’t know the expression, but I can guess.

  I press play on the clip. Blitz sits next to a desk with another man. They are laughing as it begins. The other man asks, “So you’ve kissed a pig, raised a quarter of a million dollars for women’s charities, and danced with girls in wheelchairs. You think that’s it? Will the girl you shamed take you back?”

  Blitz looks devastatingly handsome. His hair is glossier, bright black in the stage light. He wears black pants, a charcoal shirt, and a black leather vest. His sleeves are rolled up and when I see his fingers, my body quivers.

  I know him. I know him so well.

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “But I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Why don’t we ask her?” the man says. “Can we bring out Giselle?”

  Blitz and the man both stand, Blitz looking anxious, as a woman in a glittery dance outfit struts onstage. She whips and whirls, does a leap, and the audience cheers.

  “This is Giselle Andreas, one of the final three contestants of Dance Blitz,” the man says. “Give it up for Giselle as she lets Blitz know if she’s forgiven him for his viral Tweet about her!”

  The music swells, and she dances around Blitz, climbing up on the chair, then back around. She pulls on the side of her dress, and in a flash, it’s off and a tiny outfit, red glittering stripes that fall in just the right places, is revealed.

  And she holds a banana.

  She dances around him as the music matches her tone, peeling one section at a time.

  It’s bawdy, and the audience is screaming, and finally she tosses the banana peel away. When she kneels in front of Blitz and places the banana near his crotch, I stop the video.

  I put the phone back in the drawer and close it, breathing hard.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to pull my thoughts together. This was last week, the day after he left.

  And he’s still writing me.

  He has to know I’ve seen these things.

  Did he try to explain them? Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Or care?

  I have to know what he said about it. Maybe he was upset, blindsided by what happened. Maybe he was told to behave a certain way or he’d be fired.

  I want to believe anything, anything but that he enjoyed it, wanted it, sought this meeting out.

  I open the drawer again and go back to his messages. I read through them quickly.

  I’m guessing you know by now I’m not in San Antonio. I will come back, Livia. I know we’ve barely gotten started but I can’t let you go.

  Headed to the studio for the first talk show. I hope it goes well.

  Just got out of rehearsal for the show. It should go easy. Just some chatter and a few clips from the video. It’s going well. Miss you already.

  Then a few hours later.

  Shit, shit, shit, Livia. Don’t watch the show. It was horrible. They got me. They pulled one of their stupid ratings-seeking pranks and had Giselle on the show. It was insane. Please believe that I didn’t know anything about it.

  I take in a deep breath. I believe him. He’s too upset for it not to be true.

  I’m so angry about this, Livia. The producers have a whole set of appearances for me, and I fear everyone wants Blitz back. Old Blitz. I’m good for ratings. Apparently assholes sell. We have a contract meeting on Monday.

  There is a day gap after that.

  I don’t know what to say, Livia. I got to rehearsal for the second show, and they wanted a dance number from season two. It’s like the bad stuff never happened. I thought we’d talk about the Dreamcatcher dancers, your girls. But nobody cares about that. They just care if I still have a show, and if I still act crazy enough to garner lots of views.

  Then hours later.

  The show is recorded. The dance number is good, but it’s all so crazy. I have two more to do. I don’t mind the dancing. All the girls are really talented. It’s just the rest of it.

  My heart feels stabbed. Of course those girls are good.

  The next one is over the weekend.

  Gotten through the scheduled shows. I’ve asked for a break. The meeting is Monday. I want to try and come home for Thanksgiving Day. I don’t know if you’re getting the messages, or if your father has taken the phone. I’ll try calling Dreamcatcher Monday and talk to Danika. If she won’t give you a message, I’ll try Jacob. Then the Tappin’ Grandmas. They’ll do it!

  This makes me smile. He’s trying hard. He sounds tired.

  I wonder how those other dance numbers went. Until last Sunday, I hadn’t told Mindy not to tell me about Blitz. So she probably sent more links before I stopped her.

  Should I look at them, or keep reading Blitz? I want the whole picture. And to see these “talented girls.”

  I switch over to Mindy’s messages.

  This one isn’t as bad as the last one, but they are definitely making him into his old self. Did you touch those abs? Because, wow.

  This makes me click. It’s another show, and it begins with a dance number of just Blitz. He’s wearing a white suit with a matching old-fashioned hat. There’s a park bench, and he dances on and around it until a girl appears. She’s wearing a flapper-style dress.

  Then another comes, and another. He’s trying to decide who to dance with.

  One takes off his jacket, then another his vest. The girls get more frenzied, and the dancing whirls faster. He spins one after another after another until one tears off his shirt.

  I see the abs moment. I swallow. I should have touched them. I was just so frightened all the time. I hadn’t wanted to lose control, and by the time I was ready, it was too late.

  The other shows are a mix of talking and dancing. One of them, a super-tame morning show, actually does show a clip from the wheelchair girls.

  But the Giselle girl appears again in th
e last one. And the other two contestants. The host convinces them to have a kissing contest and the studio audience judges the hotness level.

  I watch him kiss only one of the girls, and I have to stop the video. Too much. Thankfully, it’s the last of the clips. There are no more to torture myself with.

  But the frozen still shows me something I had started to notice. Blitz is smiling. His honest-to-goodness, happy grin. He’s enjoying himself now. And he wasn’t fighting that kiss. He was into it. Giving it all to the camera.

  He belongs there. The role has become him again.

  I want to switch back to his thread, feel some reassurance, see if he did call Dreamcatcher. We didn’t have class this week due to the holiday. But I know what the texts will say. That he misses me. That he wants to see me.

  But it’s become clear that he wants it all. The show. The fame. The talented dancers. And me too, the quiet reminder of his private life. That piece of him that he is afraid to let go of.

  The thing is, I want more for myself than he is going to be able to give. And just knowing him, sneaking around when he’s so popular again, with Blitz sightings all over, puts my privacy in danger. If I got caught with him, and my family overreacted, then I would lose my ability to see my daughter.

  So instead of responding to anything, I pull the power cord from the phone and bury it in the drawer once more.

  Chapter 24

  After church on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Mindy immediately pulls me away from my family, saying we’re needed to organize the avalanche of holiday decorations Irma has pulled from storage. Her mother has packed a lunch for us to eat in the office, and I’m surprised to see how well she planned to get me away from home.

  My parents, who have seen me cooped up in my room for an entire week, actually think it’s good for once for me to get out. So soon I’m left in the church sanctuary with Mindy and a dozen boxes of Christmas decor.

  Irma pops in to say she has her weekly ladies’ lunch, but that Father Stephen will be in and out.