by Tonya Plank
But it wasn’t to be. The guitarist began a folksy rendition of “Bandolero,” a samba, and I felt a tap on my left shoulder. I turned.
“Hey, you made James’s gal into a real dancer,” shouted a rotund man wearing a pin-striped suit that accented his shape. “You think you can work that magic on this little lady?” He pushed a petite blushing blonde who was the antithesis of him toward me.
“Of course,” I said with a polite nod.
I turned back toward my ballerina. I meant to thank her and ask her to save another dance for me, but I got completely lost in her gaze. Her eyes had lost their spark and the corners of her mouth had turned down slightly. She was sad again, and reminded me more than ever of Tatiana. I was stunned speechless and simply continued looking into those soulful eyes. Finally, she took a deep breath and her fingers drifted out of my hand. I released her and watched her walk slowly back to her unappreciative beau.
I couldn’t help but continue to glance back at her as I danced with my new partner. My ballerina didn’t look happy. It looked as if she and James were having words. Not necessarily angry ones, but it looked like she was defending herself or struggling to explain something.
At the end of that dance, the band stopped and the emcee took the stage to announce the raffle. I walked out of the light, toward the back hallway, where I could observe her expression. I could tell she was surprised by the whole raffle. When James Prescott was named the winner, she opened her mouth widely, literally bounced in her seat, and grabbed his arm with both of her hands.
He raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief, then stood. “Well, they’ve certainly chosen the most two-left-footed person here,” he said with an anxious-sounding chuckle. She clapped and continued bouncing in her seat, her lips now curled up into the happiest smile I’d seen on her all night. She looked like a girl in a candy store. The juxtaposition of their expressions broke my heart a little.
“We’ve paid the studio. You can go now,” said the rotund man to me, matter-of-factly. I hadn’t even seen him approaching me since I was standing in the shadows. He seemed eager to get rid of us now. I nodded and turned away, guiding Xenia with me. It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t get to dance with my ballerina again tonight. I would definitely be dancing with her soon, back at the studio.
Chapter 2
“I need you to make space for one new student, actually a pair, in my schedule,” I told Alessandra Del Toro, the studio manager, the next morning when I went got to work.
She burst out laughing. “You? Taking on a new student? A pair? What is this, a wedding couple? You’re being sarcastic, right?”
“Not at all. It’s for a James Prescott and his partner.”
“Are these your friends?” She looked completely flummoxed. It was unusual for me to take on a pair. I only took on serious students who wished to do professional/amateur competitions with me.
I shrugged. “Sort of,” I said, feeling like I didn’t owe her an explanation. I was the star dancer here and I’d done a lot for Alessandra over the years. She could cut me some slack.
“Sasha, seriously. Since when does the national champion have a second of space available in the studio’s calendar? You’re totally booked. Who is this anyway? It doesn’t sound like a friend of yours.”
The remark annoyed me. So the name wasn’t Russian. I could only have Russian friends? But I let it go. “It’s the couple who won the lessons at the party you sent us to. At the Beverly Hilton last night.”
“Why in the world would you give up time with a serious student for them? You know one of the lower level teachers always takes those raffle people,” Alessandra said with disdain, fluttering her hand about. She looked at me like I was truly deranged.
I knew she’d give me a hard time. But I brought a lot of money into the studio because so many students wanted to do pro/ams with a world champion. That gave me a good deal of sway here. She knew that, I knew that. She could also make my life hell by firing me if I got too demanding, making me return to Russia to apply for a visa for a job with another school. I’d get another job easily but not without having to go back and deal with a hideous tangle of red tape in the interim. So, we each had some power over the other. But I had the greater share. Cash was king here. She stood to lose too much if I left.
“I choose to take on this pair of students,” I simply said. “There are several students who have three or four appointments booked each week who aren’t registered for any upcoming competitions.” I knew the studio would be hard pressed to let me cancel a spot with a student who regularly paid to dance with me in comps. The comps were the studio’s cash cow. “Like Holly, or Marie. They haven’t competed in years,” I continued. They don’t need all that time.” Holly took five lessons a week with me. She wasn’t getting any better and, frankly, she was wasting her money—or her husband’s money—on so many privates. Giving her four hours a week and my ballerina one seemed more than fair.
Alessandra sighed and looked down at some paperwork. I knew she was worried about losing Holly, or any of the rich Beverly Hills women, if they got upset over a change in the schedule. But I was tired of feeling like a slave to them.
“It’s only one hour a week, Alessia. And this could easily turn into another good customer, who could…eventually compete,” I said. I could have added that the female portion of the couple was oozing with talent and passion for dance, and whom I could go far with in pro/ams. But I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want her to become one of Alessandra’s cash cows. She was far too special for that. “If they don’t continue after the tenth lesson, then Holly can have her additional time slot back.”
“If she hasn’t left the studio by then,” Alessandra said with a huff.
“She won’t. And if she does, if she’s really that small about it, so be it. I can’t have one student taking up so much of my time, Alessia.”
“What am I supposed to tell her?” she said, looking back up at me.
“We can make up a rule that unless someone is training for an upcoming competition, they are only allowed two lessons per week.”
She raised one brow.
“Or three,” I said.
“We already have the no-fraternizing policy because of you,” she said, one brow still arched halfway to her forehead, eyeing the large sign above the reception desk that read “NO STUDENT/TEACHER FRATERNIZING ALLOWED.”
I gave her a cocky grin. Yes, it was true. Back when I was involved romantically with Xenia, there had been several women who’d wanted to date me outside of class and didn’t seem to care. It created quite a problem with my relationship with her, which in turn created a problem with our dancing. And it was difficult to rebuke their advances without offending them, which neither Alessia nor I was particularly keen on doing. So we decided to create the bright line policy.
She loved my cocky grin. It always made her smile. Even when she didn’t want to.
“It’s not easy having you, you know,” she said, the edges of her mouth turning up ever so slightly. I’d won.
“It’s not easy to have the national champion, second in the world? Ridiculously in demand? No, probably not. But you love me and you know it,” I returned, with a playful wink.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, changing for your first private or something?” She flicked her wrist at me.
“Thank you, Alessia,” I said, calling out over my shoulder as I left.
She continued shaking her head, that smile still on her lips.
“Wait, Sasha,” she called out just as I was heading upstairs. I turned back. She was searching the computer.
“Which time slot of Holly’s do you want me to give them?”
“Whichever time she…they want when they call. Just tell them those are the slots available and let them pick.” At least one of them was a lawyer. They wouldn’t have a lot of free time. I had to be flexible.
“Sashaaaaaa,” Alessia moaned.
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“Appreciate it, Alessia,” I said and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
***
They phoned right away, as I knew they…she would. She chose one of Holly’s now open slots the following night, as I knew she would.
I was elated when the receptionist told me it was only one person, not a pair. I knew it. I prepared special music, consisting of all my favorite rumba pieces, the dance I would teach her first, as it was the most romantic, and the basis of all Latin dance. I changed clothes, even though I’d only had two earlier lessons, to make sure my shirt was crisp and fresh.
But words cannot express what I felt when I saw the receptionist leading my new student through the studio’s private lesson area toward the glass doors to the back room reserved for me. Instead of cascading down her back, her blonde hair stopped at the shoulders. She had bad posture and walked with her feet turned in. It was not my ballerina. It was the other woman, whom I’d danced with before her. The one who’d seemed a bit over-possessive. My heart dropped out of my chest.
“Sasha, your new student, Cheryl,” the receptionist said, opening the door.
I nodded, trying hard not to reveal my disappointment. “Thank you.” I extended my hand toward Cheryl. “Hello,” I said, with the most polite smile I could muster. What had happened? Why had my ballerina rejected me? Had her boyfriend made her relinquish the lessons? Was he jealous and threatened by our obvious connection?
Cheryl said nothing but clawed at my hand and giggled. She laughed without smiling, which I found strange. She clutched my hand rather tightly, too tightly, as if she didn’t dare let go for dear life.
“I will just go and find the proper music,” I said, trying to pry myself apart from her. “The iPod is in the back.”
Finally she let go, holding her head down bashfully, but still giggling.
I changed the music from my favorite rumba to a very slow song with easily decipherable beats, and walked back to her. As soon as I saw her clawing hands rise toward me, I slowed, put my palms up.
“So your husband won’t be joining us?” I asked, standing a few feet away, out of her reach. “The lessons were for two, I think?” I continued when she said nothing.
Finally, she opened her mouth but didn’t speak. She only shook her head.
“Okay, well, we’ll start with rumba then, the basis of all Latin dance. If that’s okay with you?”
She nodded rapidly, and let another giggle escape. Then she reached toward me again, her fingers stiffly bent at the knuckles, making her hands literally look like claws.
Not to sound obnoxious, but the incessant tittering and inability to talk during a first lesson weren’t new to me. I often had this effect on women, at least initially. The clawing hands, though—that was a first. That, and the complete lack of facial expression while giggling.
“Let’s focus on technique before we dance together,” I said, wanting to avoid the clutching hands as long as possible. I turned her toward the mirror, and stood beside her. On the second beat of the music, I began a basic step. She did nothing but widen her eyes at my pelvis. “Okay, now you imitate me,” I said.
She looked stunned.
“You can do it. Quick, quick, slow,” I said. “It’s just a box pattern. We’ll add the hip movement later.”
She had the hardest time simply placing the right foot in the right place to the beat. Forget proper movement of the hips, pelvis, arms, and rib cage. I’d never seen anyone struggle so with the footwork on a basic box step. She barely had it by the end of the lesson.
“Thank you,” Cheryl said after I told her time was up and instructed her to practice the basic until next week’s lesson. The words startled me a bit. I was beginning to think she had no voice. “I’m sorry I’m so bad.” She held her head down.
I felt badly. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s a learning curve for everyone. I saw improvement already from the beginning of the lesson to the end,” I lied.
“Oh really?” she said, looking at me as if I’d just told her she’d won a year’s cruise around the entire planet. Her lips edged outward a bit. It looked as if she was trying hard to smile.
I nodded. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Oh, I’d so love that! To be a great dancer, like that girl you danced with! I can’t wait to be just like her!” Before I could brace myself, she’d grabbed me again, this time clamping her claws around my wrists. “She’s so beautiful. And you’re just…a god. I’m so glad you think I have potential!” Her voice was nearly a whisper when she’d apologized but now she was practically screaming. And she was shaking my hands madly. I’d have to seriously massage my wrists before my next student.
***
Monday nights were long. After all my private lessons were over, I had an advanced group class, then a short break, followed by two hours of rehearsal with Xenia. I couldn’t stop thinking of my ballerina—I guess I should call her the ballerina I’d lost. I couldn’t get her face out of my head. Soon her face melted into my sister’s. It was as if fate was cruelly teasing me. Would I ever see either of them again? I could find the ballerina. I knew her boyfriend’s name and the name of the firm he worked for. But I wasn’t a stalker. And though she didn’t seem very happy, it appeared she didn’t want to be found. Perhaps also like Tanya.
Tanya had left home as a teenager to go to Tokyo. Some “international modeling agency” was visiting Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia, where we lived, and put a call out for all local girls to audition. Tanya wasn’t local, but she was so excited, she had her friend drive her five hundred miles from our small town for the auditions. Tatiana was beautiful, with a young, innocent face, and, though not tall, was thin and had a model’s body. When the agency accepted her, it was the happiest I’d seen Mother in a long time. I’d left home very young, and she never forgave me.
I’d loved my dance lessons in school. Dance set me free. Dance class was the only place I could be myself, and I excelled at it like nothing else. One day an instructor from a neighboring village saw me in social dance class. Her niece was beginning to compete in junior ballroom and needed a partner. She organized a tryout and said I was the best young dancer she’d ever laid eyes on. The woman wanted me to live in Novosibirsk with her so that I could train with her niece. At first my family protested vehemently, but then the woman, who had money, offered to pay my family for my time. My parents accepted and I escaped. From that point onward, I felt what it was like to be free from fear, from my father’s drunken anger, sometimes his fists.
The girl, named Tamara, and I began winning children’s competitions. Eventually we traveled all the way to Moscow for a competition. It was there I witnessed serious talent. I realized I could go much farther with another partner. I met another girl, Oksana, whose parents agreed to take me on so we could train. I refused to return to Novosibirsk with Tamara. Which meant the money flowing to my parents stopped.
That’s why I partially blamed myself for what happened to Tatiana. I went through partners and won junior championships. I sent some of my winnings home to my family, but not much. I had to live on most of what I made. I think my family got desperate. And when Tatiana got this “opportunity” to go “model” in Tokyo, the agency promised her she would make loads of money. They’d pay for her flight, room and board, and half of her earnings would be sent home. My mother was thrilled. But the agency soon called to say Tatiana wasn’t working out as well as they’d hoped, and my family owed them twelve thousand dollars for her room, board, and traveling expenses in order to be sent home.
My family didn’t have that kind of money. But I did. I’d won a series of prestigious junior championships with Micaela, my former partner, then finaled in those same championships in the professional division with Xenia. We’d begun teaching at Infectious Rhythm in Los Angeles, and my earnings there, combined with championship winnings and the money we were paid, as finalists, to perform all over the world, gave me enough to easily pay off Tatiana’s debts
. But I was so caught up in my own drama, my bad breakup with Micaela and obsession over beating her and her new partner, that I wasn’t fully aware of the danger Tatiana was in until it was too late. I wired the money to my mother but was told Tatiana never boarded the Aeroflot plane to return to Russia. She disappeared in Tokyo. My mother’s brother and his sons—very thuggish, and I suspected them of having mafia ties—had gone to Japan several times searching for her. But to no avail.
Japan is very supportive of ballroom dance, and Xenia and I often are invited there to perform. Every time I go, I look for Tanya. She doesn’t have a work visa so I assume she’s supporting herself stripping, or worse. I’ve visited just about every strip club I could find and passed around her photo. But no one has seen her. Or no one will talk. I always ended up getting kicked out by management and bouncers who say I was making people nervous, causing problems. I had some dancer friends permanently located in Tokyo, and they kept a lookout. But no one ever spotted her.
I’d visited the agency. They claimed they’d never received my money. My mother had apparently kept it. I didn’t care about the money. I just wanted to know my sister was safe and happy. The agency says they have no more responsibility toward her or us, and insist she loved living abroad and didn’t go home because she didn’t want to. I understood that. I knew that kind of desire, of wanting out, of wanting to live in the world outside of Siberia, and I wondered if my father was abusive to her as he was to me. I desperately wanted to find her, but on her terms. I would never force her to go back to Russia, like my mother and uncle aimed to do. I’d planned to offer to let her stay with me in California. I’d hide her from them. If only I could find her.
These thoughts flooded my mind while I prepared for my group class, slicking back my hair with more gel, changing shirts, and patting sweat from my face with a cloth.
Perhaps that was why I was so stunned when I saw her.
