by Sarah Bird
“Remind me again,” I said, “why we’re here this early? Is it so I can get even more nervous than I already am?”
“To get a sense of the room, pilgrim,” she snapped, studying every corner of a space where I’d practically lived the past three and a half years.
“Whew, cold.” Rubbing her upper arms, she strode over to the thermostat and adjusted it until the heat clicked on.
“Didi, I have a pretty good ‘sense’ of this room.”
“As a classroom, yeah. But has it ever been the place where you’re gonna get or lose the biggest dream in your life?”
I stood in the glare of the fluorescent lights, imagining Tomás sitting in the metal folding chair the accompanist usually occupied, and I went cold. The glib answer I was going to give froze somewhere beneath my sternum.
“See what I mean?” She glanced up at the fluorescent lights. “Oh, those have got to go. The mood we’re trying for is not State Bureaucrat with a Hangover. Be right back.” The instant she left, the studio seemed to grow large as an airplane hangar. I envisioned myself attempting to fill it with motion and, more impossibly, emotion, and grew cold even as heat blasted over me.
Didi came back, holding a roll of duct tape and a Sharpie. She flipped off the bank of glaring lights, taped the switches down, and wrote, DON’T TOUCH. UNM CUSTODIAL DEPT. across the silver tape. Gray morning light, overcast and moody, filtered in through the high windows. “Better?”
I nodded. “Infinitely.”
She gave the studio one last check, then announced, “Let’s get out of here.”
Outside, we holed up in the cross-shaped concrete bunker where we could spy on whoever entered the gym. We slouched in the shadows and smoked, trying to stay warm. I had enough time to read all the graffiti chalked on the wall behind Didi: STONER CHICKS UNITE. THE PEOPLE SMOKE POT. WWW.HEMPCOALITION.ORG. WE NEED WEED!
“Wow,” Didi said, crushing a butt beneath her heel. “This is a historic moment. Hard to believe, but this will be the first time I actually get to see Mystery Man in person?”
“What are you saying?” My tone warned Didi not to make any further comment. Not to open that particular can of worms at that particular moment.
“Nothing, it’s just that”—I stared hard at her. She shook her head—“Nothing at all. You are here to kick butt, and I’m here to take names. Speaking of which, wow, looks like your boyfriend is a heavy hitter,” I peeked around the edge of the bunker. Besides Alma and most of the dance and music faculty, every great dancer who had gone through the program appeared. Didi ticked the girls off as they hurried in, frozen breath trailing behind them. She handicapped each one “Yolanda. No chance. Worse moves than Vanilla Ice. Adriana. Oh, Driana, doll, you’ve packed on a few elle bees. Blanca, sorry, babe, you’re not going to chew your way into Tomás Montenegro’s heart with those big ole bucky beaver teeth.”
I laughed, loving Didi for trying to lighten my grim, fatalistic mood. And then she said the one name I least wanted to hear.
“Liliana Montoya.”
“Liliana Montoya is here!” I pushed Didi aside in time to see the former queen of the Flamenco Academy hurry into the gym. Then I sank back against the cold concrete. “Shit, that’s it.”
“Why? Just because she dances in María Benitez’s company?”
“Uh, yes, being chosen for, arguably, the most prestigious flamenco troupe in the country might do for starters.”
“Liliana is certifiable. The woman is a psychotic break waiting to happen.”
“I thought that was a prerequisite in flamenco. Didi, I can’t beat Liliana Montoya.”
“Cyndi Rae Hrncir,” she said, putting on a thick Texas accent. “You do everything she does except compete. Story of your life in a nutshell.”
Odd how when you’re poised, ready to jump off one cliff, jumping off another one doesn’t seem that bad. That is probably why I said, “Story of us, too.” There it was, our relationship in a nutshell, the noncompeting sidekick and the action heroine. The air inside the bunker, deadened by half a foot of concrete, seemed to grow even stiller as I waited for her response. But her eyes flicked away toward a figure rounding the soft corner of the old gym, and what she did say was, “It’s go time. He’s here.”
A violent stroke wrenched my heart. I peeked around the edge of the bunker. Illuminated by the flat light of a distant winter sun, the world of snow and shadows outside the bunker was the black and white of an old movie. Tomás sauntered into the frame with the casual assurance of an actor hitting his mark. He wore a rumpled, black-velvet jacket, collar turned up, a muffler wound around his neck. His hair was black, the smoke from his cigarette, white. The shadows etching his eyes, nose, mouth, all black. His guitar case, black. He stopped at the front door, drew deeply on his cigarette, flicked the butt, still smoking, into a clump of snow, and went in.
“Breathe,” Didi ordered me.
I tried, but all the shallow inhalations seemed to accomplish was to jerk my shoulders up to my ears. I felt heavy as stone, leaden with an odd sense of finality and dread. “We should go in,” I said, sounding as numb as I felt.
“Jeez, Rae, what is it? Lighten up.”
Everything bright and shiny had leaked out of me.
“Hey, it’s just an audition. Besides, the slut is going to love you. He’d be lucky to carry your bunion pads.”
I snorted a thin, humorless attempt at a laugh, made my feet carry me out of the bunker, and stepped into Tomás’s black-and-white movie.
Inside the gym, the halls were empty until Didi opened the carved wooden doors of Doña Carlota’s Flamenco Academy. The sight of the old lady’s imperious portrait almost undid me. More than ever she seemed to be scrutinizing and finding me severely lacking. Half a dozen girls sat on the floor outside the door to studio 110. Though I strained to hear the sound of Tomás’s guitar, the hallway was entirely silent. Blanca waved and gave me a cheery greeting. I started to sit down next to her, but Didi yanked me back. “You’re not planning on waiting out here, are you?”
She gestured for me to follow her into the nearest bathroom, shut the door, shoved a metal trash can in front of it, and dug a small bottle of Frangelico from her purse. “Here, drink.” When I didn’t take the bottle, she shoved it in my face. “Drink. You look all shocky and Goth. Worse, you look like you’re ready to surrender.”
I took a slug of the hazelnut liqueur, grateful for the spot of warmth it thawed in my solar plexus.
“Now, here’s the plan.”
I took another swallow, comforted as much by her tone, which was the tone she used to use when taking charge of a mission, as I was by the alcohol.
Didi unwrapped the muffler from around my neck, slid the duffel bag off my shoulder, plopped it down on the floor, unzipped it, and extracted my carefully selected outfit: the black top of stretchy lace that Didi had loaned me, my new gored skirt in the only other color acceptable to the true flamenco, wine-red, and a new pair of Menkes, also wine-red and done up with a vampy cutout on the sides and seven-centimeter heels. Didi had meticulously hammered three extra rows of tiny, silver claves into the toes to give me the secret advantage of louder golpes.
“We hang here until it’s time. We don’t loiter in the hall sucking up loser anxiety vibes. We go last, okay?”
“We?” I asked.
“We what?”
“You said ‘we’ go last. I’m going last. It’s a solo.”
“That’s what I meant. What else would I mean?”
I sucked up my courage. “Didi, I can take it from here. In fact, I would probably be less nervous if you’d leave now.”
She blinked several times and picked her woven bag up off the bathroom floor where she’d dropped it. “Sure. No, that’s fine.”
I had hurt her feelings. Guilt stabbed me. She had completely thrown herself into helping me for the past week. All she’d cared about was getting me to open up and be great. What was my problem?
She started to leave, but so
meone pounded on the blocked door. Didi yelled, “Janitor! Come back later!”
“Don’t leave. I need you. For shit like that.”
“The details.” She grinned. “We all need someone to take care of the details.”
I nodded. She helped me get dressed, taking my discarded clothes, packing them away, and handing over my outfit. When she passed me the new shoes, I balked. “Shoes too?” No one ever put their shoes on until they got into the studio.
“How many chances do you get to make a first impression?” It was one of her showbiz mantras.
“One.”
“And if you’re gonna hook the part, you gotta...”
“Look the part.”
With that, Didi plucked an eyeliner from her bag and held it up. “Thanks,” I said, waving it away. I’d been doing and redoing my hair and makeup since four in the morning. “I’m good.”
“ ‘Good,’ that’s exactly the problem. Come on, no one in flamenco ever went wrong with too much liner.” I let her pencil dark circles on my lids, then smudge them until my eyes popped like a silent-movie heroine’s.
“Fullness, fullness.” Didi waved her hands around my head, indicating that I should bend over so my hair would fluff up. With my head between my legs, Didi directed hot air from the hand dryer toward the spots where the damp air had flattened my hair. When I straightened back up, my hair was twice as thick, there was color in my cheeks, and my eyes looked like Lillian Gish selling violets on a street corner. Confidence ebbed back. I was in the hands of the master. Didi spritzed the air in front of me with a little Must de Cartier, then made me walk forward so that the perfume settled on me in an atomized cloud. She picked a few bits of coat fuzz off my top, then pronounced, “Let’s go nail an audition.”
By the time we reached the hall, the only one left waiting outside the door was Liliana. Like Didi, she understood the importance of going last. She glanced at me, then looked away as if I hadn’t registered, which, I’m certain, in her world, I hadn’t. Didi, however, registered in a big way. Like a lioness defending her territory, Liliana stood and began doing the sorts of impossible stretches that only professionals could manage.
Didi leaned over and whispered, “I’m intimidated, aren’t you?” Her cocky smile said she wasn’t, but I was. Liliana was a professional. María Benitez had picked her out of all the dancers in the world. This was pointless. The past four years of my life were pointless. I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing.
The door of the studio opened, Blanca scampered out, and the door shut again. Blanca, the only dance major I knew who wasn’t obsessed, anorexic, and cutthroat, made me wish for a moment that I could trade it all in and be exactly like her: goofy, cheerful, nice, normal. Instead, I was doubly obsessed. Blanca caught my eye and slapped her hands against her chubby cheeks, her mouth open wide like the Home Alone kid and whispered, “Oh. My. God. He is the hottest guy in this or any other galaxy. I mean, en fuego to the max.”
I blinked twice as if I had no idea whom she was referring to, afraid she was going to utter his name aloud.
She bounced her eyebrows lasciviously. “I think I’m gonna go back and audition a few more times just for some more of that eye candy.”
The door opened again, and Alma poked her head out. “Liliana, you next?”
Liliana stared at Didi, clearly revealing who she thought her competition was, then she bent over to massage her foot and answered, “No, I got a little cramp. It’ll be fine in a minute.” She waved toward Didi. “She can go first.”
“Me?” Didi laughed. “Did you think I was auditioning? No, my girl, Rae is the star today. You are just her warm-up act.”
Liliana was not amused by Didi’s trash talk.
“If you were smart you’d go on before her, because anyone who follows her is going to look like shit. But if you want her to go first, that’s fine too. Rae?” She gestured toward the door, directing me to enter.
I panicked. I believed in Didi’s directive never to be a warm-up, to always go last.
Before I had time to stress even further, Didi glanced down at my feet and pretended to stop me even though I hadn’t moved. “Shit, Rae, you wore the wrong shoes. I told you the heel is about to come off those.”
“They look brand-new to me,” Liliana said.
“Funny how deceptive looks can be. No, there’s no way she can dance in those. Don’t worry, though, Lil, we’re parked close. It’ll only take a few minutes to run out and get the ones I told you to wear. Give you enough time to work out your cramp and get your audition over with.”
Didi pulled me away before Liliana could protest. As we left, Didi twiddled her fingers in a fake-friendly wave and over her shoulder chirped, “Mierda!” the flamenco version of “Break a leg.”
We retreated to the bathroom to sip Frangelico and wait Liliana out. “Okay,” Didi said, checking her watch. “They’ll give Liliana what? Eight minutes, max. Then she’ll hang and flirt with Tomás for, what? Three, four minutes, until Alma kicks her out. Twelve minutes at the outside. Here.” She passed me the bottle. “And quit looking so grim. I’ve got your back.”
Didi had my back. I smiled and tipped the bottle up.
Twelve minutes later, we were back in the hallway when Alma opened the door for Liliana to leave. The star backed out, babbling, “Tomás, I can’t tell you what an honor it was to work with an artist of your caliber. Even this briefly. I actually didn’t really get a chance to warm up and, you know, like I said, I had that cramp in my foot. Anyway, you have my card. I’m available at any time for a callback. Any time at all.”
Didi and I exchanged glances. Groveling? The great Liliana Montoya was groveling? My dry mouth went drier.
Alma pushed the door open farther. “Thank you, Liliana. Someone will let you know.”
On Liliana’s face was a dazzled expression. Tomás had dazzled a flamenco queen. I was a flamenco commoner. Did I even have the right to be dazzled? I wondered. I stiffened my spine and answered, Hell, yes. I’d earned the right with every blister and callus on my feet.
Alma looked at us. “Ah, the Bobbsey Twins. Ofelia, we haven’t seen much of you lately. Who’s going first?”
“I’m just a member of Rae’s entourage.” Didi waved her hand in front of her face and stepped away from the door.
In that instant, I caught sight of him. His dark head was bent over the guitar, his ear nuzzled against the neck of his instrument as he tuned it. He glanced up at the sound of scuffling at the door and, for the first time in nearly four years, looked at me. In that second of delusion, I believed that Tomás had spent every day of the past few years yearning for me just as deeply as I had yearned for him. I smiled. He returned my smile with the polite, distant smile he’d give any stranger. Of course he didn’t remember me. How could I have ever thought otherwise? Leslie was right. I was an erotomaniac. I had stalked Tomás for four years. My mother was crazy, had been crazy my whole life, and so was I. That was what was in my blood.
“Pásele, Rae,” Alma said, waving impatiently for me to enter.
Inside, sitting behind Tomás, was most of the dance faculty along with the entire guitar wing of the music faculty, all gathered as if auditing a master class. All waiting. Waiting with Tomás. What did blisters and calluses mean? They were bumps on my skin, minor modifications to an exterior. Nothing had changed the interior since I’d been too frightened to walk into my first flamenco class. I was born Cyndi Rae Hrncir and would die Cyndi Rae Hrncir. I would have left then, but my legs had turned to lumber. Didi jabbed a knuckle into my spine, but I still couldn’t move until I grabbed her hand and pulled her in with me. Alma shrugged, waved us both inside, then closed the door.
The light filtering through the high windows inside the studio was blue and spectral. A trickle of sweat like melted ice ran down from my armpit.
Tomás stood. Holding the guitar in his left hand, he came forward with his right outstretched. Alma made the introductions.
“This is O
felia.”
She took his hand. “Muy encantado conocer a un tocaor tan dotado.”
“You speak Spanish.”
“Not as well as my friend,” Didi said, smiling in my direction.
He looked at me and Alma supplied the name. “This is Rae Hrncir.”
Never had I hated the soulless grind of Slavic consonants that was my name more than I did at that moment. Then, for one instant, as Tomás took my hand, he looked from me to Didi and a dim recognition flickered across his eyes. He remembered. He shook my hand, staring at me like a man trying to identify a distant sound. His hand was warm against my cold one. In the next instant, he decided he was imagining things and dropped my hand. He waved a questioning finger from me to Didi. “Both of you are auditioning?”
“No,” Didi answered. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“Bueno. Friends. That’s cute. I like that.” He held his hand out, palm up, inviting us with a gesture formal and very European to step into the open area encircled by folding chairs. There was no chair for Didi. She stepped off to one side.
He sat down, settled his guitar, and looked at me. “What do you want me to play?”
He had spoken to me. Everything I’d studied for three and a half years was for this moment. To know the language, the flamenco code, well enough that I could utter the password that would allow me to enter his world. I opened my mouth. My vocal cords were dry and tense. I croaked out, “Soleá por bulerías.” I had spoken to him.
“Bien, soleá por bulerías.” He nodded at Alma, who was cantaora. Yes, she sang, and, yes, el cante is the wellspring of flamenco. But not that day. That day Alma’s singing was inconsequential. It was all about his playing and my dancing. Tomás plucked out notes that rippled through the studio, his guitar a paddle pulling water in concentric swirls that drew us all toward him. He played the warm-up chords a guitarist always plays for new dancers as a way to synchronize style and tempo. But even with those throwaway chords, it was clear why some of the best guitar teachers in the country had chosen to sit in on an audition.
