If Ever

by Angie Stanton

  "I just want to go home," I plead.

  He pauses to study my meltdown. "I know." And for a moment I think he actually feels sorry for me. "But we have to."

  I struggle to keep my breathing even, giving into the fact I have no choice. "Hopefully we'll be voted off and I won't have to do it ever again." I kick a pebble out of the way, stubbing my toe.

  "That's a definite possibility," he says, and there's something about his tone of voice that makes me wonder if he wants us to go home too.

  2

  An hour later with the dress rehearsal over and Dominic having marked the dance with me three times, I'm on my own. He insists we need to think of anything other than the show for a while, so he's off shooting hoops with a bunch of the other pro dancers. I wander back to my trailer to call Anna so she can talk me off the cliff, but on the way discover Hank dressed in his sequined cowboy outfit, lounging in a lawn chair outside his trailer. He holds up his glass in salute.

  "You've got the right idea," I lean against his trailer, envious of his ability to remain calm.

  "After that torturous experience, I feel like a damned fool. I deserve a couple stiff ones, don't you think?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Join me." He gestures to a stack of plastic tumblers on the steps.

  I eyeball the bottle of amber-colored liquor. "Is it allowed?"

  "Everyone around here's strung tighter than a virgin on her wedding night. Candace Capri is screeching in her trailer over the shade of her spray tan, and someone's smoking some wacky tobacky in the trailer behind me. As long as we show up on time, I'd guess anything goes."

  I help myself to a glass. "I've never tried bourbon."

  "No time like the present." He pours and sitting in the late afternoon wearing my sparkling costume, I have to agree that a bit of scorching booze down my gullet takes the edge off.

  Just before show time, it's more than the dancers who are bursting with nerves. The crew, producers, and techies are running around trying to hide their panic. Clearly they haven't been to visit Hank. I'm introduced to the rest of the stars. Most say mild hellos and others appear too nervous, or in one case too altered, to pay much attention.

  "Whatever you do, stay out of the way," Dominic instructs. "Otherwise you're likely to get bulldozed by a crew member or set piece."

  I nod numbly both excited and terrified, watching the monitors backstage showing the packed audience. My shoes are squeezing off the circulation in my feet, my costume is creeping up my butt, and the adhesive pasties that are supposed to prevent a wardrobe malfunction are pinching my left nip. If only the effects of Hank's bourbon hadn't begun to wear off. The announcer warms up the crowd and suddenly it's all lights, camera, action as the band strikes the first note and the pro dancers take the stage for a mind-blowing opening number that leaves me feeling even more unworthy to be here.

  Suddenly Dominic is at my side, leading me on stage for our four-second twirl and pose as each celeb and pro are introduced. Of course, this exposes me as an incredible fraud, as I'm the only person in the cast without an actual celebrity status. I'm "America's chance to dance."

  We take our place with the other contestants, all bouncing to the music like a bunch of strung-out bobble heads. Cameras pan the line while I try not to puke on national television. Dominic is all smiles, totally at ease. I fake smile to the guy next to me, a pro partnered with an Olympic gold medalist in volleyball. He smiles brightly, and for a moment I feel part of the group. Before I know it, Dominic pulls me aside and the host, Marcus MacIntyre, introduces the first couple to dance, Molly Gibson, a reality dating show reject and her partner Pavel.

  While we wait for our cue, Dominic marks through the number with me one last time. Others are stretching or having their hair and makeup retouched. Then I'm chewing on my newly painted nails and counting the minutes till this is over. Dominic slaps my hand away from my mouth.

  Before I register what's happening, Mary Kay touches up my lip gloss and Dominic tugs me to the dance floor. Marcus, a tall man with a goofy expression, high forehead, and flat hair, commands the microphone with ease as he introduces me to the viewers.

  "Since our debut, fans have begged for a chance to be on the show and when fans speak, we listen. For the first time on Celebrity Dance Off history, we bring you Chelsea Barnes, a college student from Iowa City, Iowa, dancing with pro Dominic Yardley. Watch the clip on how Chelsea came to the show."

  I cringe because I'm no longer a college student. I left my job at an international business acquisitions firm because I couldn't stand the oppressive climate, and now I've landed myself in this insanity.

  The screen flashes through pictures of me from college and then the audition tape of me dancing at Anna's engagement celebration rolls. They make it out as if I worked long and hard to get picked for the show.

  "None of what he's saying is true. I never even planned to audition," I mutter as the announcer says I won the spot over tens of thousands of other people. I was drunk and did it on a dare.

  Dominic's head snaps around. "You didn't?"

  Footage rolls of our rehearsals and me fumbling to learn the steps, stumbling, and always appearing uncoordinated. As I stand here in a risqué college dance team costume, having never been on a dance team in my life, I feel the blood drain from my face. My heart pounds in cold stark fear. This is a colossal mistake.

  "Chelsea? Look at me," Dominic squeezes my hand. "Ignore the tape. They always take the promo package on some tangent. It's you, me, and the dance now. Tune out everything else. Can you do that?"

  "I'll try," I whisper.

  "Remember to relax, long lines, and smile."

  I take a deep breath. This is supposed to be fun. I force a smile on my face as the music plays and we begin. I focus on Dominic and pretend I'm in the dusty rehearsal room. He guides me around the floor, feeding me the steps as we go. The dance flies by. I don't think I messed up anything major but honestly can't remember a thing.

  Dominic guides us to Marcus in front of the judge's table. There's the perky Nikki LaFlash, a tiny brunette; Stephen Harris, a balding, more serious fellow with distinguished good looks; and Brice Zimmer, an exuberant former dancer with a goatee that thinly trails his jawline like an eyebrow pencil.

  My heart is pounding and my breath heaving. The judges speak, but I don't hear them because my mind is flooded with the relief that it's over. I did it! I danced on national TV! Dominic's arm is on my waist in a show of friendly camaraderie that surprises me. He grins and pulls me closer as if we're besties. My fake smile is pasted on as I suck in air and try to catch my breath.

  Our scores are announced, two sevens and a six. Dominic gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. The show goes to commercial break, and he steps away. "Not bad. I expected worse."

  I nod a bit deflated by his comment. The whole experience is a bizarre whirlwind of fabricated stories, fake camaraderie, and phony people. "We're done?"

  He laughs. "Yes. Now just hang around the balcony and be sure to look entertained as the other couples dance. Don't look critical of anyone, or the cameras will catch it and you'll come off like a jerk."

  Note taken. I have no right to judge the others after my performance anyway. I spend the next hour clinging to the railing that overlooks the dance floor. Hank and his partner Sonya dance an adorable cowboy number. He shuffles through most of it, but his comedic personality shines through leaving the judges in stitches. There's no way the actress Eva Alveraz could dance that well in three weeks. I'm pretty sure she's been dancing all her life, and then the poor newscaster. He has no sense of rhythm and clunks through the number like he's blindfolded with his shoes on the wrong feet.

  When all the pairs have danced to varying degrees of success, Dominic and I line up for the closing. Thankfully all we have to do is stand with our partners as clips of each dance are played. After the music ends and the cameras turn off, we're ushered to a spot on the dance floor for media interviews. It's a weird procession as variou
s news outlets from the big guns like Entertainment Tonight to obscure bloggers I've never heard of. It's like a school popularity contest as they pick and choose who to interview. Dominic and I are at the end of the line and I really want to ditch.

  "Smile, and stop fidgeting," he whispers.

  Of course, pop diva, Candace Capri, has a long line waiting to cover her, and Brady, the charismatic celebrity chef knows how to flex his PR muscles. Dominic and I are finally approached by a waifish, over-glammed interviewer along with an ape-shaped man hiding behind the blinding light of his camera.

  "Stacey Phillips with In Touch America," she announces, shoving her microphone in my face. "Chelsea, tell America what it's like to be on Celebrity Dance Off?"

  "Um." I look to Dominic for support. He's wearing his boy-next-door smile and waiting for my response. I turn back to her. "It's terrifying," I blurt.

  "The judges seem to think you have potential, commenting on your clean lines and musicality."

  "They did?" I say. Dominic nods. I don't remember a word any of them said.

  She laughs. "Do you feel you deserve to be America's chance?"

  "Probably not," I say, followed by a dead silence where she waits for me to elaborate. I don't. What can I say that would sound intelligent? There must be a thousand other girls who would do better than me. Why can't I even come up with a snappy answer?

  Stacey turns her attention to my partner. "Dominic, the word on the street is that you were supposed to be paired with Mallory Becker, but she withdrew at the last minute. How does it feel to be paired with a total unknown?"

  "Celebrity Dance Off always throws us new challenges, and Chelsea's terrific," he says in a honeyed voice that I don't believe for a second.

  "So you believe the Dominic Yardley magic touch can turn Chelsea into a top contender?"

  "It's early in the competition. I wouldn't rule us out."

  The interviewer thanks us and moves on.

  Dominic's arm drops from my side and he frowns. "Chelsea, they're looking for a useful sound bite. Monotone, two-word answers aren't going to help."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  An hour later I arrive at a local restaurant for the post show party. It's teeming with all the pros and stars and looks like I'm the last to arrive. Pulling off the false eyelashes and swiping away the lacquered on makeup took longer than expected.

  Eyeing the boisterous crowd, my first instinct is to run, but Anna's voice rings in my ear. Being here in L.A. and on this show is a once in a lifetime experience, I need to go for it, so I hike my purse strap higher and head for the bar. Candace Capri is with her partner, Raul, and her posse. A tiny white dog peeks out of a giant purse on the center of the table lapping up unattended drinks.

  The middle-aged newscaster is chatting with the celebrity chef and the Olympic volleyball champ. The body builder is flirting with the super model and by his expression, hoping to score tonight.

  I spot Hank with Shane, a cute teenager who also happens to be a world-class diver, and his pro partner, Cassie, along with a couple girls from the troupe who I haven't actually met. I approach their table and smile. Hank is chatting with Shane and doesn't see me, but the redheaded Cassie does.

  "Hi," I say with my best I'm cool laid back voice.

  Cassie, still in her stage makeup and wearing a silky emerald top with a daring low-cut back, gives me the once over, making me wish I'd worn something nicer. "This is a private party," she says in a condescending tone.

  My face falls. Is it even worth explaining I belong here?

  "Chelsea! We survived!" Hank says spotting me from across the table.

  Cassie squints at me for a sec. "Oops, didn't recognize you without any makeup." She scoops up her drink and swishes away.

  Do I look that bad? I put on mascara, blush and lip gloss before I came. As I look around the room, I realize every woman from the show looks stunning, still in her stage makeup and wearing flashy clothes.

  "There's a seat right here." Hank pats a bar stool next to him. I could kiss the old man.

  "Sure, give me a sec." I set my drink on the table and make for the ladies room to improve on my dismal appearance. The restrooms are down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, Dominic is talking with pro dancer Pavel.

  I'm about to greet them, when I hear Dominic say, "It'll be a miracle if we make it past tomorrow's elimination, let alone week two."

  I halt and step back out of sight.

  "She's not bad. You might eke out a couple of weeks," Pavel says.

  "Hardly. It's bad enough she's a nobody. Did you see her with the press? She hasn't got a clue. She's as green and uncultivated as the Midwest farm she came from. God, I hope we're out tomorrow so I can get on with my life and work on my tour."

  I break out in a sweat. He hates me.

  Afraid of discovery, I flee back up the stairs. Here I was having the time of my life and all this time he's been putting on an act pretending to like me.

  The party room is bursting with laughter and post-show elation. I've never felt so unwanted or out of place. This was a huge mistake. I slip through the crowd and out to the parking lot. Inside my car I grip the steering wheel. I don't belong here.

  As I drive back to my apartment, every possible solution flies through my head. I could claim I'm sick and not show up tomorrow and let us be voted off without having to face the music. Or I could just call the producers and quit. Or maybe I should pick up my stuff and keep driving until I'm so far away there's no way I can be forced to see this thing through.

  My phone rings as I'm pulling into my lot and I jolt. It's Anna.

  "You were amazeballs!" she gushes.

  I cringe.

  "I can't believe you're out there with all those famous people dancing your ass off. You looked great!"

  "Oh, Anna. The whole thing is a mess." I sigh and gather my bag from the car.

  "Why?"

  Inside my tiny apartment, I flick on the light revealing the bareness, a stark contrast to the colorful chaos of the ballroom. "I don't belong here. This show is meant for celebrities, people who know how to behave in front of a camera. No one even talks to me."

  "Come on. Give it a chance. It's only week one, and you've got Dominic everyday. That's nothing to balk at."

  I plop down on the couch. "He doesn't want me here either."

  "What?"

  "I overheard him with his friend. He's hoping we go home tomorrow."

  There's silence on the other end, and then she says, "That's horrible. I thought he was a nice guy."

  "More like Jekyll and Hyde. Sometimes he's nice and funny, other times he's distant and brooding. Now I know why."

  "I'm sure it's not that bad?"

  I hug a throw pillow as if it will keep me afloat. "Either way, it sucks to be me. I hope I get voted off tomorrow and can run home in humiliation. I expect some serious drinking to try to wipe this experience from my brain."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, well, don't sweat it. Just don't ever drag me into one of your bright ideas again. My ego can't take it."

  The next day after an 8 a.m. hair and makeup call, Dominic and I meet with the wardrobe designer to discuss costumes for the next week, which is such a joke because there's is little to no chance I'll be here. I nod and smile in agreement because what's the point?

  Afterward we block the beginning and end of the show and in the afternoon run a dress rehearsal, getting prepped on where to stand if we're in danger of being voted off or staying. Other than Hank and Dominic, no one speaks to me. They're all either hung over, self absorbed, or just plain rude. The whole experience takes me back to when I was fourteen and the odd girl that no one talked to because my mom died and I didn't have a dad.

  In my trailer I hide out eating pizza and gummy worms, and consider my odds at staying on the show. I'm definitely the least known person. All the others know how to work the camera for maximum appeal while I'm more concerned with making sure I don't have food stuck in my teeth.

/>   What if Dominic's past popularity as the it boy on the show pulls us through despite my mediocre dance moves and lack of social media presence? Then what? Another week of pretending that what started as the best experience of my life has turned into a disaster?

  At the appointed time I drag myself to the ballroom and wait as the A-listers are hovered over for final hair and makeup touches. I soak up this time of being so near the celebrities while the pro dancers are on stage for a massive opening number. Watching their perfectly coordinated, lightening-fast dance steps is awesome. In comparison, the rest of us dance like clumsy kindergarteners.

  "Chelsea?"

  Mary Kay, the makeup girl, approaches with her bag of tricks.

  "You don't need to bother. It's fine."

  "Nonsense. You're a star too." She tugs me into the light and expertly brushes powder over my nose and forehead.

  "Hardly. I'll be out of here soon."

  She smiles, but doesn't disagree, then reapplies my lip color and gloss. "Whatever happens, you look great."

  3

  New York City

  “Hey Tom, I thought I’d find you here.”

  “I’m nothing if not predictable,” I respond as I sit in the rear mezzanine of the New Amsterdam Theatre overlooking the sea of empty seats to the grand stage.

  My costar, Paige, walks up the aisle and drops into the seat next to me. “It must be another one of your British quirks.”

  “And I stand by all of them.”

  “So, who will be in these seats tonight?”

  I run my hands over the armrests and contemplate who might be sitting here forty-five minutes from now when the curtain rises on Crossing Lines. “Well, I’d say it’ll be a group of coworkers in New York for their first time.”

  “Why do you think it’s their first time in the city?”