Tremor

by Tonya Plank

  “I don’t mean to attack you,” Greta said. “I’m your coach and it’s my duty to tell you what I see that’s wrong and how I feel the judges are going to react to it.” She took another breath, and paced for a few moments. “Okay, let’s just keep going through the other dances. We’ll choreograph the other routines and we’ll just keep working on them, and hopefully you’ll either overcome it, or you’ll get so good you can find a way to hide it.”

  I looked at her. She held her arms out and nodded, as if convincing herself it could happen. That would definitely be an alternative. Since I wasn’t sure I could control whether I trembled, I could aim to control how visible it was and how much of myself and my weaknesses I’d actually reveal to the audience. I could hide it. I would try damn hard.

  Drew and I nodded in unison.

  “Sounds do-able,” he said, shooting me a brave smile. I could tell he was worried, but he was trying to hide it.

  “Gud,” Greta said, dusting her hands as if she’d solved the problem, cleared it away. This was the only word where her German accent was so noticeable, and I liked it. Willem’s mother was German. Though they looked nothing alike, there was something about Greta that reminded me of her. It was soothing and took me out of myself, and made me realize how vast the world was that two completely different people who’d never met were so alike.

  Chapter 7

  Jett

  I couldn’t put my finger on what intrigued me about this girl so much. On the surface she was all superior and distant, but there was something substantive beneath all that. Like she wasn’t really that way; it was all an act she was putting on for some reason. She obviously missed her husband, but it had been two years. And that tremor. What was up with that? Was it medical, or psychological? I’d known people with anxiety issues before and sometimes they manifested in similar ways. Hopefully it was just that, something that could be overcome. Funny how I even cared so much to be hopeful for her.

  I wondered if she’d been that way for long. I found myself at a store specializing in all things ballroom dance in Vegas. When I walked in and the clerk asked me how she could help me I realized I didn’t know Arabelle’s last name.

  “Just looking for some DVDs of this girl I just met who’s a, uh, Latin dancer finalist in big competitions, and, uh, supposedly a former showdance champion?” I sounded ridiculous. I made no sense to myself, but maybe I made sense to her.

  The clerk was in her mid-twenties and had long, auburn hair. She had a dancer’s physique, and was petite with long limbs. She shot me a cutely cocked smile that immediately made me want to take her in the back room. Stop it, I told myself. Control, you asshole. Control. Suddenly, her face blossomed with recognition. Oh good, I thought. She knows who I’m talking about.

  “Hey, aren’t you Tarzan on the Strip?”

  I laughed. She was a dancer; of course she’d recognize me.

  “I am.”

  “You’re awesome.” She gushed. “I’ve been to the show six times.”

  “Wow, you’re a regular. So, you dance yourself?” I always enjoyed a compliment, and I always enjoyed connecting with other dancers. But, as interesting as I’m sure this girl’s dance life was, I really wanted to find out more about Arabelle.

  “Yep. I’m in the corps at Las Vegas Ballet.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  “Yeah, and I also do ballroom so I can teach and stuff, you know?”

  I nodded. I did know. That was Arabelle’s story too. And, having been a ballet dancer myself, I knew how much harder it is for girls to get jobs than us. They have far more competition than the guys because there are so many more of them. And most never advance out of the corps, where you make hardly enough money to live on. Some girls end up stripping to make ends meet. That could be dangerous; one woman I knew had been assaulted, and her friend even kidnapped. I felt relieved Arabelle had chosen a less dangerous side gig. Again, I found myself caring about a girl I hardly knew.

  “So, anyway, back to why you’re here,” she continued. “Are you talking about Arabelle Fonseca?”

  “Oh, hey, yeah, that’s her name!” I was so excited I must have sounded like a schoolboy. “I didn’t get her last name when I met her.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, she and her husband used to do show dances at Blackpool and some of the other big competitions. Since I’m a ballet dancer, I used to really like them. Then he died, and she stopped and suddenly changed to Latin. She and her new partner competed in Blackpool in Latin, not showdance, and they made third place. Drew and Arabelle are okay. But they’re nothing compared to Willem and Arabelle.”

  My heart sank a little for her.

  “Wow, I’m impressed. I met her and you know way more than I do,” I said.

  She giggled. “Yeah, well, you know, that’s what they pay me for. So, you wanna check out some of her videos? We have most of the DVDs of when she and Willem danced at Blackpool in the showdances. And we just got last year’s Blackpool Latin of her and Drew.”

  Okay, what the hell was happening to me? My heart was pounding nearly out of my chest at the thought of sitting home tonight, on my night off, and watching videos of Arabelle. “Everything you have,” I said.

  She disappeared into the back room, and returned with an armful.

  “Cool. I’ll take them all.” I whipped out my credit card.

  “What’s she like?” the girl said, ringing me up.

  “Oh, ah, really nice. Shy and soft-spoken, sweet.” I lied, leaving out the haughtiness—and the tremor of course, wondering if it had been visible to this girl too.

  “She seems all of those things, just from watching her dance.”

  I nodded and eyed the girl’s tag. “Listen, Nancy.” I reached into my back pocket, where I kept what everyone who knew me called the ‘fuck forms.’ “Here’s a backstage pass with a code for a free ticket. Check the roster to make sure I’m dancing, and I’d love to treat you to a drink and a little backstage tour.” As the words came out of my mouth I wondered what the hell I was doing. This was totally out of habit. I really wasn’t interested in Nancy, though she was pretty and certainly fuck-worthy. What the hell was wrong with me?

  She giggled and snatched the pass from my hand.

  * * *

  I had to admit, it was nice to spend an evening in. Just Ranger and me. It was a rarity, but one that was starting to become more frequent and that I was beginning to enjoy.

  And this was the best evening I’d ever spent in alone. Arabelle was simply breathtaking. Judging by the way he cocked his head at the screen, I believe Ranger agreed. And I don’t just mean the way she looked. I mean the way she moved, the way she worked with her husband. He did these really gorgeous lifts with her, holding her high above his head. She’d make these beautiful, beatific lines, looking heavenly, like an angel. She was feathery and weightless in his arms. He was so clearly her hero—both in the act and in real life. The lifts were stunning but weren’t presented as such. They told a story, the story of their romance, with him lifting her up to the heavens. Hell, how horrible the guy went so young. But watching him made me really want to be him. To hold her, lift her like that.

  And, really, I could do anything he could. I could lift her, hold her high above my head, make her soar high above me. I could balance her on one hand, hell, on one finger! She knew what I was capable of after what she saw during the show. There was no tremor whatsoever throughout any of her dances with Willem. It had probably resulted from his death. So, it was likely psychological. Maybe I could help her overcome it.

  But I had to agree with Nancy about the Latin dance. Arabelle was too lyrical a dancer for all that sexy booty shaking. She didn’t really have the rhythm in her body. She didn’t really have the sexed up-ness of it all. Above all, she just didn’t have the passion for it. I could tell. She was a ballerina, a show dancer. I know she’d quit because of her husband’s death, but that’s where her heart was. It was crystal clear.

  And that spill she took at the
end of the Latin competition was really awful. In the semi-finals round, some asshole threw a water bomb down into the crowd. It just barely missed this hot Latin couple, a Russian guy named Sasha and his partner, Rory, who the crowd really went nuts for. Now they had a passion for Latin, and for each other. They were by far the favorite of the crowd, and someone obviously wanted to sabotage them. But they totally missed Rory, and struck poor Arabelle. She went crashing to the ground, landing on her face, then slipped and slid halfway across the floor. When Rory helped her up, Arabelle’s face was all bloody.

  Drew carried her offstage. But then she and Drew returned for the finals. She wore a big bandage across her nose and her beautiful eyes now bore dark bruises underneath. Still, she was a damn trooper. She really went for the gold, more determined than ever. The finals were their best round. Even if her will to kill it was more out of anger and struggle to overcome than passion for the dance, she really did have a damn good comeback. Shows major fortitude.

  That resilience, that beautiful artistry, that passion for showdance, that lack of passion for what she was doing now and who she was with…I could help. I could take her back to her roots, and help her return to stardom, to doing what the world needed her to be doing. I knew I could. If she’d let me.

  I knew Beauty in Motion’s tour was coming up. Not to sound like a bombastic ass, but I was rather famous in Vegas—at least in the dance world, if I do say so myself. Well, I was well known anyway. A lot of local women wanted me. A lot of tourist women, and men, admired me when they saw me dance. They wanted to meet me, and some wanted to be me. I had a good thing going here in Vegas. The touring sub-company was never quite as good a deal. You were only in other places for a short time, and didn’t develop enough roots there to get a reputation. Travel could be interesting, but I’d already been to most of the cities the tour was going to, most of all L.A.

  But given that Arabelle lived and worked there, that presented a whole new aspect to touring L.A. I had been in Vegas for a while. I had to admit, every night I grew more sick of the after-parties and of always having to entertain people long after the show ended. Maybe it was time for something new.

  * * *

  “I want to be Tarzan in L.A.” I told Veronique, the company director, the next day.

  “Sorry, what?” She peeked up at me from the mountain of paperwork currently creating a little volcano on her desk.

  “I want to go on the tour. At least to L.A.”

  “Why in the world would you want to do that?” She laughed, tossing her brown curls about. “You’re a star here. People come just to see you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, shrugging off her compliment.

  “I’m not! Didn’t you read the early reviews, when the show first premiered?”

  I had. Of course. They mentioned me by name. Maybe Arabelle would look that up, like I looked her up. Yeah, not likely. I nodded. “So then, that will draw people in L.A. to the show. And come on, it’s not that crazy here in the winter.”

  She threw up her hands. “Jett, it’s always crazy here. You know that. And it’s a different crowd. You know that, too. Those audiences don’t know the local stars; they just want to see tricks. They’ll be happy with anyone who can do them. Like Buck, for example.”

  “But that’s just it. No one can do them better than I can.”

  She snickered. I shrugged. She knew I was right.

  “They won’t appreciate you like you’re appreciated here. L.A. is totally different. You know Hollywood. People there are snobs. Do I really have to tell you this? You’ve never asked to tour before.”

  “I really want to branch out. I really want to try L.A. Give me a chance, Ver. Maybe they’ll give us a longer tour, more staying power. Maybe we can open a franchise or something.” I didn’t know where all I was going with this. I was blabbering. I knew she’d let me go. But I wanted to make as good a case as I could.

  Her mouth hung open. “You mean you want to stay permanently?”

  “No, no, no. I’m just thinking big, Ver. I’m not making any plans. If we get a solid start in other cities, we really could extend the franchise. Become a way bigger company. Like Cirque du Soleil.”

  She shook her head. “That’s kind of what I was trying to gauge with this initial tour. I just can’t lose my Vegas star.”

  “Okay, then how about if I come back on weekends. Maybe do the Friday and Saturday night shows here, and the Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday ones there?”

  She laughed. “That’s a lot of traveling.”

  “No it’s not. Vegas and L.A. are a forty-five minute flight apart from each other.”

  She lowered her head and looked at me over the tops of her eyelids. “Jett, is this about a girl? I mean, you’re going to a lot of trouble for her.”

  “What?” I laughed. “I’m sorry, not to be obnoxious Ver, but do you know how many girls I have here? What would I need with one there?”

  “You’re right. That is obnoxious.” She rolled her eyes, shot me her cocky smile. I knew she’d had a thing for me. She’d even so much as told me one evening, when both of us had had a few too many, that if I wasn’t her employee she’d want nothing more than to get me in the sack and screw my brains out. I knew how she felt. The attraction was mutual. Or it had been, anyway.

  “Come on, give me a chance, Ver. Let me prove to you what I can do for you. For this company.”

  She shook her head and raised her palms to the air in a ‘what can I do’ gesture. “Let me think about it.”

  “Thanks, Ver. You rock.” I kissed her hand.

  Chapter 8

  Arabelle

  Saturday night was the monthly party at Infectious Rhythm, my studio. Most of the teachers usually did a showcase, and the advanced students who were training for competition performed with their teachers. Infectious Rhythm boasted a large number of pros who did very well at the big competitions—including Sasha and Rory, the current Latin Blackpool champions, Mitsi and her partner Billy, Hustle champions, Pepe and his partner Jose, top same-sex national mambo champions, and now Drew and me, third place Blackpool finalists. Alessia, the studio head and a former champ herself, encouraged all of us to perform at the parties. It helped draw new students to the studio and kept the returning ones happy and entertained. So, Drew and I decided to show our now finished rumba routine, which we’d dance in competition soon at Blackpool.

  Pepe and Jose danced first. They were always a huge crowd pleaser. Pepe was such a fun, sexy, fantabulous gay man, and he really knew how to ham it up with all the booty-swinging and super sharp hip twists. He and Jose danced to “Mambo Italiano.” Predictably, everyone went wild at the end as Pepe placed a big sloppy kiss on his partner and boyfriend’s lips.

  We were next. Since our costumes were nowhere near ready, I wore a light blue practice dress made of a leotard with a diaphanous blue tulle skirt. It was soft and pretty, and nice for lyrical dance. Rumba wasn’t really lyrical, but it was close.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Alessia boomed over the mike, “This next couple needs no introduction for those of you who have been with Infectious Rhythm for a while. But for newcomers, this amazing pair competed for the very first time at Blackpool in May. Though they’re a new partnership, they actually placed third in the entire competition!”

  Everyone cheered loudly.

  “Belle Arabelle,” some students chanted. That was my nickname, the name that audience members who knew me would often call out when I danced. It began after Willem died. I think everyone felt sorry for me, or for the former us. I think it was their way of saying I was still a beautiful dancer, that I still moved everyone, and that they still wanted me to dance. It was very sweet of them, and I appreciated it immensely. But at the same time, I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me, to see me and think, ‘there’s the tragic girl who lost her partner and life-long love.’ As time went on, I didn’t want people to be moved by my dancing just because of what I’d lost, or who we were. I wan
ted them to be moved and entertained by my dancing with my new partner, in my new style. Yet, whenever I had that thought, I felt like I was being unfair to Willem and to his memory. Like I was being selfish for wanting it to be about me, the new me.

  After watching Pepe and Jose I really longed to do a fun dance like theirs. I regretted not doing a cha cha or a samba instead of rumba. But everyone—including Alessia—knew I was best at rumba, and that’s what they expected from me. It was the soft, pretty dance closest to ballet.

  “They’re going to be competing at Blackpool again in not too long,” Alessia continued, to the increasingly raucous cheers.

  “Yes, Arabelle and Drew! Go, Arabelle, Belle Arabelle! Go Drew!” people chanted.

  Alessia smiled. She ate this up, like she was reliving her earlier days when she reigned supreme in the ballroom world. “Yes, go Belle and Drew! Here, to give you a sneak preview—you’re the very first audience to glimpse it—of the rumba routine they’ll use to compete… Ladies and gentlemen, Drew Charles and Arabelle Fonseca!”

  The students graciously cheered so loudly and so long, we had to wait a few seconds to cue the deejay to start our music. I stood center stage, blushing. Applause just often did that to me. But suddenly, a split second before the music began, I felt something. I don’t know how to explain it, but I felt a presence. A strong presence. I’d always told myself Willem was in the audience, watching me. But now I really felt it. I gasped as our music began. Drew shot me an ‘Are you okay?’ look and I nodded a silent response.

  We danced to a lyrical, wordless instrumental that was very soft and balletic. I tried hard throughout the opening sensual sequence to focus on Drew, on the movement, and not on the strange sensation that I was being watched by a strong power. The choreography got more complicated as Drew led me into a slow, romantic underarm turn, then pulled me quickly in to him before whipping me out into a series of spins. I was good at spins thanks to my background and I rose to my toes and did the lightning fast chaîné turns I knew the audience would love. And love them, they did. Drew abruptly stopped me and pulled me into him again, lunging as I hovered over him, almost angel-like, my arms up and back arched. My back was flexible and I could go far back. I made it look as if I was soaring.