by Tonya Plank
We got the reviews the next day. The critic was totally enchanted. She pronounced me a “hero for our times. The way he swung in as Tarzan, picked up his girl into his big brawny arms, and really took care of her exhibited great artistry and theatrics simultaneously. It takes a seasoned dancer to do that.” And she also said my ballet technique was enormous and my lines and form just as stunning as the feats. Better review than anything I’d ever received in Vegas!
After our practices indicated we had everything under control and all the glitches worked out, I ventured out looking for other studios. I’d found a house to rent in the Hollywood Hills. It had a nice backyard for Ranger and it wasn’t far from all the studios, many of them in Hollywood. I wanted to see what L.A. had to offer dance-wise. It didn’t take much research and asking around to find out that Infectious Rhythm in Hollywood was the ballroom studio with the most teachers who were champion ballroom dancers. Was it any surprise it was also Arabelle’s studio?
I honestly didn’t originally plan to teach at her studio. But when I learned it had the best and brightest pro dancers—which attracted the best students—I couldn’t help but want to be part of that one. I checked their roster of classes and saw that they had no showdance classes. Arabelle was teaching Latin only. Showdance was a part of ballroom, so I thought I’d mosey in and talk to the owner about maybe teaching a class in theater dance that included aerials and tricks and the like.
The owner was this pretty cool chick named Alessia. I explained who I was and said I just wanted to watch some classes and maybe teach a short one for the time I was here, if they had use for someone of my talents. I gave her a little CV I had of the shows I’d starred in, along with some of the clips of reviews I’d received. I told her she could definitely look me up on the Beauty in Motion website, as well as YouTube, if she wanted to see my work.
“Very impressive,” she said, watching the videos. “We used to have a showdance teacher and champion here. Well we still do, but she’s switched to Latin and she seems to want nothing to do with showdance anymore.”
I almost instinctively nodded, and had to stop myself. “Oh really?”
“Do you know what showdance is, in the ballroom context I mean?” She looked dubious.
“Yeah. I had a friend in Las Vegas who was really into ballroom and wanted to go into showdance. I went with her to performances.” Okay, this was a little white lie. But I’d really learned a great deal from watching Arabelle.
“Well then, I think you’d be great to take over Belle’s old class for a month! I’ll get the syllabus to you and find a time that doesn’t conflict with your performance schedule.”
I nodded. “I just want to make sure I’m not taking over someone else’s thing though. I mean, if this belongs to her, I’d never want—”
“No, no, as I said she’s done with all that. She’s one of our Latin teachers. Wants nothing to do with showdance now. Damn shame, too.” Alessia looked out the window.
“Really? Why?” I figured I knew the answer, but wanted someone else’s perspective.
“She was a beautiful dancer. Her husband died—that’s who she danced with—and I think she may think she’s not honoring him if she dances with someone else. It would be too painful.” She looked me up and down again. “You and she would make quite the couple, now that I think of it.”
“Really?” I hoped I didn’t sound too over-eager.
“Yeah. You’re a tough, manly guy. And she’s this sweet little thing. I can totally see you guys together.” Alessia sounded like she was lost in a dream. “But, you know, she’d never go for it,” she added, shaking her head, shaking off the thought. “And it’s too bad.”
Yeah, you can say that again, I thought.
Before starting classes, Alessia wanted me to perform at the first student party of the month so she could introduce me. I talked Belinda into doing a routine with me. It was really fun choreographing. I knew Arabelle would be there, so I took some of the tricks I’d loved watching her do and put them into our routine. Of course, I meant to entice her back into doing them, to show her I knew how to do the man’s end of it. Belinda couldn’t do all the tricks full out, which was fine. It would show Arabelle that she could do the woman’s end. That I’d look way better with her. She was too great a showdancer. She had to come back to it, leave Latin behind.
Those feelings were again confirmed at the party when I watched her dance with Drew. As I’d noticed in the Blackpool videos, she was good; she was beautiful “Belle Arabelle” with a ballerina body and nearly perfect technique. But there wasn’t that extra zing that she had when she danced showdance. Her body was naturally more geared to lyrical, not rhythm. But most importantly, you could tell her heart wasn’t really in it.
And then that tremor thing happened again. Poor thing. It started not at the very beginning of the dance, but pretty soon after. It was right after they’d done this series of turns, she just started shaking. First the wrist, then the whole hand, then from the elbow down, and eventually all the way up from the shoulder. At first it was only apparent whenever she held her arm out. But then you could see her shaking while she was holding onto him, when she was trying to do a balance against him. It had to be hard to maintain control, for both of them. It totally destroyed the line, her concentration, their connection, and the whole beautiful, carefree image. I felt so badly for her, for both of them. And yet I noticed the shaking wasn’t always there. It wasn’t there at the start of this dance, and it wasn’t there when I first met her, or at lunch, or on the High Roller. It couldn’t be a disease, like Parkinson’s or something permanent. It had to be anxiety-related.
And then we were on. I’d seen Arabelle take a seat in the audience after her dance ended. She’d be watching us. I’d taught Belinda the whole two and a half minute routine in only two days. She’d gotten it down right away. I showed her the DVDs too, so she’d know what it was supposed to look like. Belinda wasn’t the natural ballet beauty that Arabelle was; she wasn’t quite as flexible and her limbs weren’t as long so as to make the mouthwatering lines. And she didn’t have the same weightless feathery look Arabelle naturally had. And, as I said, she couldn’t do all the fancy tricks Arabelle could. But we did everything with proper technique and conviction and made it look flashy and sexy and romantic all at once. My trademark, if I may say so myself.
The audience was definitely into us. They cheered like crazy and gave us a standing ovation. I couldn’t tell what Arabelle thought. I couldn’t look at her while we were dancing; with some of the tricks we were doing it would have been dangerous to take my eyes off my partner. But I caught her gaze at the end, very briefly. She looked away the second our eyes connected. But they connected. People were standing and clapping, their hands raised in the air. I led Belinda to take bows in all different directions, as was the cordial thing to do. By the time we returned to Arabelle’s side of the room, she was no longer in her seat. I looked all around but didn’t see her.
I wanted to find her, but several people wanted to talk to me. They asked me about the Beauty in Motion show, where they could get tickets, and wanted to find out more about my class at the studio. You have to be super cordial with people, with your fans. That’s what it means to be a true professional. So, I gave up looking for Arabelle to chat with everyone. Before I left, I found Drew, complimented him on their routine, and asked him if his partner was still around. He thanked me, but told me she’d gone home feeling sick and that he was worried about her. He didn’t know me, and his feelings seemed genuine. Immediately, I liked this guy.
I was worried too, but didn’t want to bother her. Now that she knew I was at her studio, she could come to me.
The students who signed up for my class were an awesome bunch. There were about twenty people. There were more women than men so we’d have to rotate partners. Most of the men—and a few of the women—said they’d seen me perform with Belinda at the party and were just interested in watching. They didn’t know if t
hey were ready to learn lifts yet.
The other half of the class was ready for anything—my kind of people. My favorite from the get-go was a lesbian pair, Kendra and Josie. I like those two and a woman named Paulina, who had a deep voice and whom I figured to be transgender. She was one of the ones who’d said she was smitten with me, and therefore curious about showdance, but just wanted to watch for now.
“I’m a lead and I’m strong, sir,” Kendra announced, flexing her bicep. “I can do anything. Just lay it on me, sir.”
My kind of girl!
“I’m not sure you can do anything with me, dear!” Paulina called out from the back, with a laugh. “But don’t worry, I’m just watching for now.”
“Bet you I can, Paulina. Bet you I can!” Kendra pumped her fist in the air again.
“You know what, I bet ya you can too, girl,” Paulina chirped. Everyone laughed.
“Well, let’s wait until we’re a little farther along in class and everyone knows the basics.” I chuckled.
“Mr. Ridley, we compete in the amateur Latin competitions,” Josie piped up, her voice much softer than Kendra’s. “We’re thinking of changing to showdance. I know teachers usually rotate students in class, but we kind of wanted to work together, if that’s okay.”
It was perfect actually. I took note of Josie’s size; she was much smaller than Kendra. They should do well together. If Kendra partnered with more muscular women, it might be harder on her. In addition to Paulina’s humorous little outburst, I had seen several female open mouths and raised eyebrows when Kendra had announced she was a leader and could do anything. So I was glad they wanted to remain together.
“Excellent choice,” I said. “The world needs more showdancers.”
And the following is why Kendra and Paulina easily became two of my favorites.
“Sure does, sir. We need Arabelle back, is what we need,” Kendra shouted loudly enough for the entire building to hear.
“Second that one! Belle, Arabelle,” Paulina hooted, clapping.
At the mention of Arabelle’s name, I felt my face redden a bit. Was that a blush? From me? Crap. I hoped the class hadn’t seen.
I spent the first class basically teaching people how to not get hurt. I started by teaching the men not to try anything too crazy on someone you just met, and to get a feel for the woman first and see what all she could do before you went doing some deep dip or mini lift, or the like. And to always check the dance floor to make sure it wasn’t too crowded and you had the room.
Then we talked about how women held themselves up from their center and therefore helped support some of their own weight during a lift to make it easier on the guy. And I taught the guys how to lift using legs and thighs, not back muscles. Never, ever back muscles. It’s the worst and easiest place to get hurt badly. I led them in an exercise where we felt each other’s weight, kind of like in the game of trust, where one person falls onto another relying on them to catch you. We talked about how lifts and tricks depended so much on trust, as did all partner dancing. At the end, I showed them a couple of easy, basic dips and we took turns practicing with each other.
It was a great class. The students who danced seemed into having fun but being serious at the same time.
After class, I gathered my things and was just about to head down to the lounge when Kendra and Josie approached me.
“We decided we want to compete in showdance,” Kendra said confidently.
Josie nodded.
I raised my eyebrows and felt a big grin spread across my face. “That was quick. You liked the class that much?”
“We did, sir,” Kendra said.
“So, we’d like to sign up for private lessons,” Josie said.
Private lessons. I hadn’t asked Alessia if I could teach those. Flattered, I told them I’d ask her and get back to them.
* * *
“Are you serious?” Alessia laughed. “One group class in, and you already have private lesson students!”
I shrugged and shot her my loopy smile.
She laughed again. “We can always use more private lesson students. They’re the bread and butter of the studio, you know. If you can fit it into your schedule, it would really be amazing.”
I thought about it. Belinda and I were already well rehearsed for the show. I only had performances five nights a week. I had my days free. If need be, I could call Veronique and tell her I wanted to stay in L.A. full time. I was doing well here; critics and audiences both liked me, so she shouldn’t mind that. I nodded. “Yep, I can fit it in.”
“Excellent. Let me show you the private lesson room.”
Alessia led me up two flights of stairs to the third floor, and into this enormous room lit by several chandeliers. The space, which looked to be nearly 5,000 feet, was enclosed by mirrors on all four sides, with side track white Christmas lights around the bottom and top perimeters. It looked like Heaven up there.
And that it was indeed Heaven was confirmed the moment I spotted her. Arabelle was in a back corner with Drew and an older woman with a very chic asymmetrical platinum bob that made a dazzling wave whenever she shook her head “no” in a correction. Definitely a former pro, now presumably a coach.
The second I saw her, Arabelle’s big blue eyes met mine. Her mouth opened as if she had to catch her breath. She blinked, those gorgeous black lashes covering her beautiful irises for a slight second. Then she immediately looked away, seeming determined not to make eye contact with me again. Drew paid close attention to the blonde woman, but the blonde seemed to know Arabelle’s concentration had been momentarily taken away, and she looked right at me. Her eyes connected with mine, and she gave me a full up and down, followed by pronounced raised eyebrows. Her lips curled up into a slight smile. I wondered if she’d seen me dance Saturday night at the party, or at the theater. I didn’t remember her from Saturday night. She turned back to Arabelle, who wouldn’t even slightly turn her head my way. She didn’t seem happy I was there. Why? The blonde, however, kept looking back at me, that smile curling up a little more every time she did. Maybe Arabelle was mad I’d encroached on her studio. Well, fine then. I’d leave her be.
I’d made the lesson with Kendra and Josie for two days later. But the next day, Alessia called me to ask me if I could take another couple as well. Apparently word had spread fast that I was available for privates. I said sure thing, of course.
My first private lesson was this couple who was on a mambo team at the school. They wanted to branch out and compete on their own. They were very advanced mambo dancers but wanted to know how to do the “cool stuff” that would really wow the crowd, as the guy put it. They weren’t in the class but had seen me at the party and thought I could help. Paolo was a muscular Latin guy and Judy a tiny-boned, dark-haired beauty. They looked good together. I was working with them on a pot stir—a cool-looking but difficult move where the guy stands over the girl and spins her while she’s seated, and he keeps turning her while she slowly comes to a standing position.
About halfway through our lesson, she walked into the room. I was concentrating on helping Judy spin without getting dizzy when I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Arabelle took one look in our direction, huffed, then stood looking at me, hand on her hip. When Judy finished the spin sequence and took a breather, I turned to Arabelle. She immediately removed the hand from her hip and looked up and away, as if she wasn’t really looking at me in the first place, before stalking off. She marched to the very back of the room, nearly walking into a mirror. But the mirror was actually a door leading into another room. After she walked in, a light came on. I could see her inside. The endlessness of this place really impressed me. But, geez, why was Arabelle so mad?
By the end of the lesson, Judy was clutching her stomach, announcing she was on the verge of losing everything she’d had to eat that day. But she assured me I’d given her solid skills for learning how to turn fast without spotting, which she’d need to go so fast.
“It just
takes practice,” I assured her. “Practice, practice, practice.”
We scheduled a lesson for the following week, and I told her to contact me before then if she had any questions or problems.
I didn’t have to be at the theater for several hours so I decided to practice some of my own turns. I hadn’t done much floor dancing in a while and I could use some practice to up my game for teaching here.
I found myself an ideal piece of real estate, a corner area surrounded by three mirrors ideal for scrutinizing my technique. Drew walked through the main practice area to the back, followed by the blonde-haired coach from before.
I decided to practice a series of pirouettes. It had been a while since I’d done those. I held my arms out to my sides and swung myself around with as much force as I could muster. I made four the first time, which was pathetic. I was really out of practice, ballet-wise. I tried again and made five. Then six. But I couldn’t go past that. Damn. I used to be able to do twelve. Ten on a bad day.
I wondered how I’d do at whipping fouetté turns. I held my arms out to my sides, wound myself up, and gave it a go. Crap, only four? I was sucking at those, too. And I hadn’t before. I really hadn’t. I was way out of practice. I was determined to get back to where I’d been while at ABT, dammit. I could nail these. I whipped myself around and had another go at it.
Suddenly I spotted the blonde coach looking right at me. Her eyes could really pierce you. I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or intrigued. Well, whatever. I turned back to myself, started back to the fouettés. Better. Seven in a row. I tried again, holding my leg out like Baryshnikov for a few of them. Not as good, but fair. I put them together, throwing a pirouette or two in between the fouettés. Yeah, I was clearly out of it. But I’d be back in shape in no time.
Soon I realized I had a small audience. Several people in the room had stopped what they were doing to focus on me. I glanced to the back room. Sure enough, the coach’s eyes were still on me. Or one eye anyway. She seemed to have a way of looking at me and Drew and Arabelle simultaneously.
