by Toby Neal
God left our family that day, and as far as I can tell, He/She/It hasn’t returned.
My oldest sister, Ruby, already married, came to St. Thomas with her husband Rafe and helped Mom pack up the rented house I spent my first fourteen years in. They took eighteen-year-old Pearl, who was doing drugs and boys, back to Boston. I stayed with Mom, traveling to Eureka, California to live with my grandparents.
Until this moment I’ve lived a quiet, invisible life, a simple loop between home, the ballet studio on Fourth Street where I study dance with my teacher and mentor Jo-Ann Curtola, and school.
After I graduated from high school, the loop only had two stops.
But that’s all over now, because this show has been my sole goal for the last three years.
I’d saved enough money from giving lessons to be able to get here and back home, but I didn’t want to tell anyone about my attempt to get on Dance, Dance, Dance until after the audition, and the cheapest hotel I could find was a two-star on Polk Street. I’ll check in, shower, and call home.
The bus, a long, two-sectioned caterpillar, creaks around the corners. Its noise and rocking motion gradually bring me back into my body. I rub hand sanitizer between my hands in thirteen efficient gestures, then gaze out the window to count the utility poles. I nod off briefly, but wake at the driver’s call of “Polk Street!” I pick up my gear bag and purse and swing off the bus onto the crowded street.
The hotel’s a few blocks west of the bus stop. I’ve been to San Francisco before, a few trips with Mom and my sister Ruby when she visited with my nephew, but never on my own. Now I find the bustle of the sidewalk and the brisk wind off the Bay bracing, smelling of buses, humanity and the ocean. I circle a clutch of Chinese women chattering on the corner, a socialite walking a poodle, and a gay couple swinging held hands.
I buy a sandwich at a deli, roast beef with extra mayo as a treat. Carrying my tightly wrapped prize, I climb narrow stairs to the seedy motel, a doorway sandwiched between a head shop and a bar.
I check in with a tattooed clerk sporting so many piercings he could qualify as an earring stand. “Jade Michaels.” I plunk my cash down. “I made a reservation.”
He smiles. One of his teeth has been pierced too, and a gold star winks at me. “Classy lady.” He opens a jingling metal cabinet behind him and extracts a heavy brass key, with a dangling plastic penis attached that designates the room number.
“We don’t usually get overnighters,” he leers. “Make sure you lock up good.”
“Thanks.” I head up the rickety stairs, feeling his eyes on my butt. “Time to grow up, Jade Star Michaels,” I mutter to myself, refraining from touching the worn metal banister. Once in my shabby room with the door locked, I take my favorite soap out of the bag. It’s pale, lavender colored, and I buy it by the twelve-pack at Primm’s Victorian Emporium in Eureka.
I can’t wait to wash my hands.
The sink has a deep yellow rust stain marking the line of a leak that plunks continually from the tap. I try not to look at it as I run my hands that first sweet time under the cool water.
It takes me exactly thirteen motions to wash my hands, and that’s important. Thirteen is bad luck for most people but it’s my lucky number. But I’m not going to wash entirely thirteen times today. That’s reserved for bad days—and today, for all its challenges, was a very good one.
I get into the shower and luxuriate under the thin flow of water, using my lavender soap all over. My body performed so well today. I appreciate it—everything but the strawberry birthmark in the shape of a heart on my inner thigh. If I could scrub that off, I would. Thank God I didn’t get the big breasts both my sisters have—all wrong for dance.
Mom must be worrying about where I am. It’s past time for the ordeal of calling her. Out of the shower, I braid my long, wet hair and put on a pair of black sweats. I go back down to the clerk. “Do you have a phone?”
He thumbs down the stairs. “Pay phone on the corner.”
“Can I get some change?”
He rolls his eyes. “Good thing I emptied the massage bed this morning.”
I hand him a five. He counts out the quarters, and I trot down the steps outside past the noisy bar next to the place. At the pay phone, I feed in quarters and dial the familiar number of home.
I’m surprised when it rings the requisite five times before dumping into the answering machine. Somehow I’d expected Mom to be home, waiting for my call—but maybe this isn’t as big a deal as I’d thought.
“Hey, Mom. Just wanted to let you know that I’m in San Francisco. I didn’t want to tell you anything until I found out what happened, but I auditioned for that TV show we like—you know, Dance, Dance, Dance? Well, I got on to the next level! I’m going to LA, all expenses paid.” I blew out a breath, wondering what else there was to say. “Sorry if I worried you, but this was something I just had to do myself. And you can keep an eye on the show and see how I do.” I pause again, thinking of Mom’s strongly boned face, her hazel eyes surrounded by care lines that deepened after Dad died. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll call again in a couple of days.” I hang up and turn away from the phone, only to feel a tug on my arm.
Someone’s trying to grab my purse! I clutch my arm tighter to my side. “Hey! Let go!”
I’m wrestling a teenaged kid. Fortunately, he’s around my size.
“Let go, bitch, or I’ll cut you,” he yells, tugging at my strap with one hand and brandishing a pocketknife with the other.
“No! You let go!” I yell back. “Help! He’s stealing my purse!”
A passerby shoves the kid, who staggers comically before falling off the curb into the culvert. He scrambles to his feet and takes off.
I hug my bag close, feeling adrenaline wash over me.
Everything I have is in this purse—my ID, my Golden Ticket, the few dollars I have to my name—everything.
“Hey miss, you okay?” The guy who knocked the purse snatcher off me pats my shoulder. He’s a head or so taller, and handsome in a golden-skinned way that reminds me of some of the men of my home island of St. Thomas, descended from a mix of races.
“Thanks so much. I’m fine. Oh, God. That was close.”
“He was just a kid.”
“He would still have taken everything I have.” I shiver at the thought.
Warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “I know the feeling. Hey—didn’t I see you at the audition?”
I swivel to face him fully. “You saw me at the audition?”
“You were hard to miss.” He grins, extends a hand. “Alex Rodriguez. Happy I’m a dude so I don’t have to compete against you in the contest.” Two winners are chosen in Dance, Dance, Dance—a male and a female. I look him over as I shake his hand briefly—it’s warm, dry and strong. I resist the urge to reach into my purse for the hand sanitizer.
“Are you staying around here?” I gesture to the seedy area surrounding us, where neon signs for bars and massage parlors glow in the lengthening shadows.
“That fleabag.” He gestures to my motel. “Surprised they didn’t charge me by the hour.”
“I had the same thought.”
“Well—you hungry? We could grab a bite.”
I mentally tick through my choices. My belly is gnawing and all my energy reserves were used up during the tryout—but do I have enough money?
“My treat.” Alex sees my hesitation. He extends an elbow in a courtly-gentleman way. “And in case you think I’m hitting on you—I’m gay.” He winks. “No ulterior motives.”
I feel my cheeks heat. Ruby, my oldest sister and a sharp lawyer, always said I have a ridiculously easy face to read. “I’d love to get something to eat. But let me pick up the tip, at least.”
“It’s a deal.”
I set my hand lightly in the crook of his elbow, wishing I didn’t have to touch him—but I have to get over that. The dancing is all couples on the show.
“We’ll probably have to dance together at le
ast once in the next few weeks,” Alex says, as if reading my mind. “So we might as well get to know each other. Where are you from?”
“Eureka, California.” We navigate around a wino weaving toward us, reeking of booze and vomit.
“Where?”
“Ass end of California. Logging town almost on the border of Oregon,” I say. “But St. Thomas before that. You?”
“Oh, St. Thomas!” Alex rolls his eyes to heaven and shudders in mock ecstasy. “Is it as beautiful as they say?”
“Probably more so.” A memory of crystalline Magens Bay directly across the street from our modest plantation house, with its deep porch and shady roof, swamps me momentarily with homesickness. We weren’t rich, but we were happy there—until Dad died, and everything changed. On the other hand, I never would have learned to dance in St. Thomas—and dancing is the only thing that really makes me happy. “You never answered where you’re from.”
“Right here. My family lives in the East Bay.” He gestures with a hand toward the urban sprawl across the Bay, visible as we reach a downward slope in the steep street.
“So, where are you taking me?” I’m glad of the heavy sweats I put on as a chill wind blasts up the hill, swirling leaves and bits of trash around my legs.
“Little place I know. I’ve got a lot of friends in the city and one of the things they do well in San Francisco is food.” He steers me around a newspaper kiosk. “But it’s a few blocks away, so you can use the walk to tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell.” I let go of his arm.
“Yes, there is. There’s a story behind a girl that got started dancing at fourteen and still developed crazy moves.” Alex gets in front of me, talking as he walks backward. “Let me know if I knock any old ladies or hot dudes off the sidewalk.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Okay. My dad died, which is why we had to leave St. Thomas. We moved to my mom’s parents’ house in Eureka. I was super miserable.” I can hardly bear to remember how miserable, everything known and familiar gone, just me and Mom in the creaky old Victorian. Getting used to the cold, chilly rain that was one of Eureka’s defining characteristics alone was difficult. “Mom put me in dance lessons because…” I wasn’t going to tell him about my OCD, how my nonstop cleaning, counting, and rituals had driven Mom to send me somewhere that would ‘get me out of my head.’ “I needed something physical to do.”
“But how’d you master all those styles?”
“Watching music videos on MTV while the adults were out of the house.”
“Yes!” Alex grins big and holds his hand up for a high five.
“Watch out!” I cry, but it’s too late—he trips, arms wind milling, and crashes into a hip-looking young couple.
“Sorry!” he exclaims. I take his arm and turn him around.
“Eyes on the road, buddy. Now tell me about you, and why you’re trying out for this crazy dance thing.”
“Youngest of five, so Mom and Pops pretty much let me do whatever I want. We’re from Puerto Rico originally, but I was born here, and I’ve been dancing since I was this high.” He makes a gesture near his knees. “I never was drawn to one particular style, but ended up doing more breakdancing than anything else since that’s what guys do on the street in the East Bay.”
“Show me some moves,” I say. “I want to see what I’m going to be dealing with. That is—if you made it to the next round?”
“I did. And to celebrate, I’ll show you this.” He whips a Walkman out of a roomy pocket and plugs in a tiny speaker, then sets it on the sidewalk. “Might as well see what we can get,” he says with a twinkle, and throws down his Chicago Bulls ball cap.
I laugh as the Bee Gees’ Stayin’ Alive bursts out of the small, surprisingly powerful speaker. Alex busts into a spin, dropping to do some ground work, arching up and exiting in a flip. I’m clapping with the beat, smiling, and a crowd gathers, applauding at Alex’s uninhibited, fearless breaking. Coins rattle into the ball cap, then a few bills, and then Alex grabs me by the hand as Stayin’ Alive gives way to Play that Funky Music.
I’m still clutching my purse, but with a grin he snatches it from me, and picking up on the playful mime, I act horrified until he puts it under the cap filled with money. I’m laughing as he takes my hand and swivels his hips like they’re a gyroscope. Facing him, I match his rock step, letting my hips out to play too, and he swirls me into a cha-cha.
Fortunately, this is one ballroom dance I took lessons for, and the seventies song is surprisingly perfect for cha-cha. We circle around my purse and the increasingly full ball cap and get down and funky, riffing off each other’s moves as he plays ardent pursuer and I, shy ingénue.
Alex can dance, that’s for sure, and he knows how to lead and has some darned sexy moves. I can feel a magnetic chemistry building between us, and he sure doesn’t seem gay in the moment as he dips me, twirls me, and spins me out and in, all to the unlikeliest song.
Our impromptu performance continues to be a crowd-pleaser. When the song ends, we get a round of applause and dollar bills flutter like confetti as Alex runs around making a comedy out of capturing the money and coins, tossing them in the air to catch them behind his back, juggling them, stuffing them into his pockets and around his belt like a stripper.
I retrieve my purse and watch, grinning, as he pretends to find a quarter behind a kid’s ear and then presses it into the child’s hand. “Keep the change,” he says magnanimously, and returns to take my arm.
We skip down the sidewalk, because Alex makes me. “Are you sure you’re gay?” I say as we reach a little storefront restaurant with CHOW on the window in gold letters.
He laughs. “Oh honey. I’m whatever I need to be on the dance floor.” He pushes open the door of the restaurant with a showy bow. A bell tinkles overhead, and good smells surround us. “This is one of the best restaurants in the city. Prepare to be amazed.”
“All right.” My cheeks hot from exertion, my hair unraveling from my braid, I’m happier right now than I remember being... maybe ever? But in just the span of an hour, Alex has brought more fun into my life than I’ve had in years.
Ruby’s the achiever, Pearl’s the rebel—and I’m the introvert with OCD. But not when I’m dancing. When I’m dancing, I’m just me. The best part of me. I never think of my rituals when I’m dancing, and the need to count things is a strength—I learn steps quickly.
But thinking about my OCD makes me remember all the touching I’ve been doing, and I need to wash my hands.
“Where’s the restroom?”
He points to it. “Want me to order you a beer? We have plenty of loot to pay for dinner.”
“Oh no. I’m not legal yet.” I stand up from the table, clutching my purse.
“You aren’t serious,” he bulges his eyes comically. “Refusing alcohol after a day like today? You can pass for twenty-one. I’m getting you a beer.”
“But even if I passed for twenty-one, as you say, I don’t drink. Too many calories.”
“Bet you’re a virgin too.”
My cheeks get hotter. “None of your business.” I march off to hear his low, teasing whistle behind me.
“Sassy bugger,” I say to my reflection. “I’m not discussing my sex life—or lack of it—with someone I met an hour ago.”
Of course I’m a frickin’ virgin. I can hardly stand to touch anyone’s hand, let alone their…
I undo my braid and let my hair down, a river of dark auburn ripples that brush the top of my waist, and fluff it out. Mom’s hair, when she was younger. I splash water on my face to cool down my red cheeks, and wash my hands. Two pumps of soap, thirteen quick passes through the water, one paper towel thoroughly used, even under my nails.
People don’t know how really stressful OCD can be.
Alex whistles again, in a different way, as I return to the table. There’s a beer in front of my place setting, deep amber with a head of foam on it an inch deep. I sit down and give him a quelling glance, to w
hich he winks. “You danced enough today to earn one beer. Or are you a virgin with alcohol too?” he says.
“Stop teasing me.” I slurp at the foam. It’s tangy, yeasty, and not entirely horrible. “We’re going to have problems if you keep teasing me.”
“But you blush,” Alex says, smacking his lips loudly over his beer. “And you don’t know how rare that is—irresistible, too. Here’s your cut of tonight’s loot.” He pushes a pile of coins and bills over to me.
“No, no. You did all that,” I protest, and push the pile back.
“C’mon. There’s always more tomorrow.” He pushes the money back to me again. “Let’s do some pop and lock tomorrow. That’s always a good haul. The crowds love it.”
“Aren’t we going to LA tomorrow?” I give in and pour the cash off the bread plate he’d set it on into my purse. I really do need it, after all.
“Not till later. How do you think I’m paying for all this?” Alex makes an expansive gesture, grinning. He has a dimple and perfect white teeth. The girls are going to love him on the show, more fool they.
“You’re the friend I’ve always wanted and never had,” I say fervently, as a plate of pasta with two fist-sized meatballs swimming in red sauce and Parmesan cheese arrives. I’m lightheaded with hunger. “I bet you can even give me clothing advice.”
“A complete overhaul is what you need, if those awful sweats are any indication. And wait until I can get my hands on your hair.” Alex eyes the disordered tresses blanketing my shoulders. “I’m a hairdresser when I’m not dancing. Yeah, I’m the friend you’ve always needed.”
I moan, biting into my pasta and meatball. “Oh, sweet baby. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“You haven’t seen me really dance yet.” Alex points his fork at me. “That’s the best thing in the world. Except for you, maybe, but the crowd will decide that.”
I kick him under the table, and he laughs.
Chapter 3
Brandon
There’s a lot to do to move Dance, Dance, Dance from the tryout phase to the big LA film studio where we are putting together the rest of the show, but even though I’ve got a hundred things on my mind and clipboard, I flag down one of my assistants. “I want to run that mini-interview with Jade Michaels. Where’s the footage on that?”
