Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  “If there was ever a good time for newcomers, it’s now,” she reiterated.

  I looked at Rory. Beautiful, naïve, unguarded, innocent Rory. Rory, my sister’s double. I knew myself. I knew what a crazed, demanding perfectionist I was. And I’d be all the worse with someone new, who I had to train quickly. I just couldn’t unleash myself on her. She didn’t deserve that.

  As I watched her, thinking, I saw Pepe, the mambo teacher, approach her and tap her on the shoulder. She was focused on her rumba and she jumped. He’d startled her. No, way too delicate for me. But as they talked, a huge grin overtook her entire face. That same look of elation she’d had while dancing with him. The feeling I’d wanted to fill her with. Alessia had mentioned that the school was starting a social mambo team. I instantly knew he was asking her to be on it. As he should. She belonged to him. He was her teacher and they worked well together. He wouldn’t be a slave-driving asshole. He would treat her well.

  “She is not my student,” I said to Greta.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t talk to her, ask her for a tryout,” Greta said. “I’ve never known you not to rise to a challenge. Food for thought,” she said, giving me a final pat on the shoulder before getting her things and walking out.

  Chapter 8

  “Earth to Sasha,” Greta snapped, with a swift clap of her hands.

  I turned toward her, and the lovely dark-haired woman standing next to her, who happened to be the Dutch national champion, who’d flown quite a ways to try out with me. And I was repaying her by focusing on Rory, again out in the general practice room, going over her rumba. I was thinking of all the things that were wrong with said rumba. Very slightly wrong, that is. She needed a bit more grounding. I just needed to press down gently on her shoulders, make her rooted to the floor, make her movement more organic. But of course I wasn’t supposed to be thinking these things at all. She wasn’t mine.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said to the Dutch champion.

  A frown that was more sad than angry slowly spread across her face, and her eyes began to water. I felt awful. But it wouldn’t work. Our half hour of tryout had already made clear to me that she just wasn’t sharp enough, quick-footed, quick-witted enough to read my cues, to keep up with me. I reached out, took her hand in mine. She really began crying now.

  “I am so sorry, but it will not work,” I said in slow, elongated English, knowing her English wasn’t great. “I will reimburse you for your plane ticket and in addition will pay you for your time.”

  “I don’t need your money. You didn’t even give it a chance,” she said, bewildered.

  Greta shook her head at me in a scolding manner as soon as the woman left.

  “What? She was too slow on the uptake. It wouldn’t work,” I said. “Why waste time? Time is too short at this point.”

  “Too much of a back-leader, too slow, too fast, too stubborn, too jealous, too delicate, too dumb, too inexperienced, too aggressive… Sasha, there is something wrong with everyone!” Her German accent made her words sound all the more harsh.

  “This is what tryouts are for, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, to try,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “I don’t see you doing that. I don’t see you giving any of these women adequate time. I see you staring at that girl again. Again! Why don’t you give her a try?”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t even know enough for a basic tryout.”

  “Why don’t you try and see if she can follow you, then?”

  I continued to shake my head. “She’s a lawyer,” I said.

  Greta laughed. “So?”

  “So, she won’t have time for serious preparation.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because lawyers are busy.”

  “Sasha, that’s—” She made a circular motion with her hand. “Stupid logic,” she finished, not knowing the English word for circular. “Maybe she’s on a leave from work or something. She’s here in the studio all the time.”

  It was true. She was. But I didn’t want to tell Greta my real reason. That I was a grade-A asshole with my partners. And I didn’t want to hurt her. I couldn’t trust myself. I knew myself too well.

  “You won’t be successful until you are honest with yourself, Sasha,” Greta said, pushing the door and whizzing by me.

  I took a breath and slowly sauntered out. Would I ever find someone?

  Suddenly I found myself right behind Rory. I reached out as if to press down on her shoulders, as I’d envisioned doing earlier. But what was I doing? I had no place touching her. She wasn’t my student. She wasn’t my partner. She wasn’t my girlfriend. So I stood behind her. And I did the same movements as she. But I did them correctly. She spied me in the mirror. I could see a brief look of self-consciousness cross her face. Her eyes widened, and she straightened up. Good. Good posture was everything. She didn’t look right at me but it was only too obvious she saw me. And I knew she saw me because suddenly she was dancing better. She was more grounded, her hips were settling better, her movement in her rib cage was more fluid. She’d lost her self-consciousness, and was watching my body move, and emulating it, moving hers accordingly. We were stepping, swaying in tandem, like I was shadowing her. Like I was her puppeteer, pulling her strings. And yet, I wasn’t touching her. She was following me by sight alone, without touching me.

  And then it was over. Luna stormed through the practice room. She shot me a questioning glare and darted straight for Rory. What was she doing?

  Rory jumped as she tapped on her shoulder.

  “Time’s up. This is my space,” she spat out as Rory turned to her.

  “Oh, gosh, you’re totally right. I’m sorry,” Rory stuttered, glancing at the clock.

  Everyone was so damn afraid of Luna. It hadn’t taken Rory long to figure out who had the money and the power around here.

  Right before leaving the studio, I checked my phone. Sadie had texted.

  I overheard Alessia yelling at the new receptionist. Rory signed up for your beginning group rumba class.

  My body filled with heat. The good kind. I knew she was serious about dance. She hadn’t rejected me. That asshole James gave the lessons to Cheryl, against Rory’s will. I knew it. She wanted to be my student.

  Problem is, Sadie continued, Alessia’s rule that beginners can’t take international classes until they’ve completed six months of social unless they’re also taking private lessons.

  The rule was somewhat stupid. It was meant to prevent students from advancing themselves too quickly and holding the rest of the class behind. But it held back students like Rory, who had prior dance training and a natural talent. She’d never hold a class behind.

  Sadie’s text continued. Alessia told the girl to call Rory tomorrow and tell her she was removing her from the class unless she signed up for privates. I thought you’d want to know to, perhaps, make room in your schedule.

  Sadie was a godsend. Thank you for the heads-up. I owe you big time, as always, I texted her back.

  I know, she wrote, with a smiley-face emoticon.

  I’d need to cancel a regular private lesson slot to make room for Rory. And I knew just whose that would be. But would Rory take it? I didn’t know if she could afford it. I didn’t know if she wanted privates with me. I’d find out tomorrow.

  I walked to the admin office. Alessia was gone. The new receptionist was there.

  “Hi, I’m Sasha, or Alex if you prefer,” I said.

  “I know that! You’re a legend,” she said with a giggle.

  I laughed and shrugged. “Well, thank you.” I logged into a computer. “Do you get here early tomorrow?”

  “Ugh. Yes. I have to open for the nine o’clock privates,” she said, sticking her tongue out.

  I gave her a weary smile in sympathy, and deleted Cheryl’s standing Saturday eight o’clock lesson. I’d had lawyer students before and knew it was the easiest time for them to make; the night they’d least have to be at the office. “Well, just to
let you know, I had a cancellation for a standing private lesson time at eight o’clock on Saturday nights. So in the chance a new student wants to book tomorrow, you can book me then.”

  “Anything for you, Sasha,” she said with a little laugh, as if she knew exactly what I was asking her to do.

  I’d have Sadie call Cheryl on behalf of the studio tomorrow and explain that I now needed that time slot free. She already had three slots since Holly left, including the Saturday night seven o’clock. She shouldn’t be mad. If Alessia balked, I’d tell her I needed to be fair to another talented new student who might well want to compete. To her, more students meant more money.

  Not that I wanted to turn Rory into a cash cow. Not in the least. She was far too good for that. I just hoped she could afford privates. If not, I’d have to come up with something.

  Chapter 9

  My plan worked perfectly. Alessia called me the following morning to make sure I did have a free slot available in my schedule, as the computer indicated. I did, I said.

  “And Cheryl is okay with this?” she asked dubiously.

  “Yes, she is,” I responded assertively. Sadie told me this morning Cheryl seemed to take the news okay; she sounded confused but not angry.

  “Sashaaaaa?” Alessandra said with a sigh, not believing me.

  “She hasn’t expressed anger over it. Look, Alessandra, Cheryl now has all of Holly’s old spots. That wasn’t my intent. She must share.” I hated how defensive I sounded. Alessia needed to let me control my own schedule without giving me hell. I knew she had a studio to run and needed to maximize income but she also had to keep her employees happy. “Cheryl is difficult. Two hours a week is enough for one student.”

  “How do you mean difficult?”

  “Don’t worry, Alessandra. It’s nothing I can’t handle. It simply makes more sense to divide the slots between serious students rather than give only one all three hours. And, in general I would like to be consulted first if one student wants to sign up for multiple private lessons per week. I would like to have a say in that from the get-go.”

  My demand was met with silence. My immigration lawyer had told me I could apply for an artist’s visa or become an independent contractor. Those options were looking better and better. Then I could choose my own students and not have to grovel. But that was for the future, when returning to Russia to apply for a new visa wouldn’t disrupt Blackpool. I needed Alessia to bend.

  “Cheryl will be fine,” I assured her.

  “Okay,” she said after another momentary silence. She didn’t sound happy.

  ***

  Greta was really excited about my next tryout, Arabelle, currently the world show dance champion. Her husband and former partner had died in a motorcycle accident and she no longer wanted to dance show dance. But she couldn’t give up ballroom entirely. She’d danced Latin prior to meeting him. She was ready to move on with her life. I’d seen her dance at Blackpool. She was a truly lovely dancer. But she looked more like a ballerina than a Latin dancer. I was doubtful but Greta insisted I give her a try.

  And I realized why when she walked into the back room. I hadn’t seen Arabelle in a couple years; I’d never focused much on the show dance competitions anyway. I hadn’t realized how much she looked like Rory. She had Rory’s slim, willowy build, with long legs and arms, and moved with her same innate gracefulness, with slightly balletic turned-out feet. She even had Rory’s long, bun-length hair, and long, swanlike neck. She emanated simple beauty and sophistication. Just like Rory.

  Greta followed her in and raised her eyebrows at me. I immediately knew what she was doing. She was setting me up with a dancer who closely resembled Rory, but who had a lot more Latin training.

  “Sasha, allow me to present Arabelle, five-time world cabaret show dance champion.” Greta was so formal, so European, true to her German roots.

  I did a slight bow and took Arabelle’s hand. She was still wearing her wedding band. So, she wanted to move on with her life dance-wise, but not romantically. Which was good, since my mind was occupied solely with Rory in that department. She had large brown eyes that were doe-like and innocent, like Rory’s. She lowered her chin and smiled politely.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said. “And, please allow me to express my condolences—”

  “No need. But thank you. I appreciate it.” She blinked, pursed her cheeks and swallowed. “It’s been a hard year, but I’m ready to dance again. To move on to another phase in my life, but not past Willem. He will always be my show dance partner. Always.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “So…” She took a breath. “I want to dance Latin. I am ready…for this phase of my life.” She nodded, as if trying to convince herself.

  Greta and I exchanged glances, both of us unsure she was as ready as she insisted. She was fragile, and I was a pusher. I respected her greatly but didn’t know if this would work.

  “Let’s get to it, then. We’ll start with rumba?” Greta said, turning on the music.

  Arabelle had natural movement ability, an innate understanding of the rhythm, and a body that looked perfectly suited to dancing a soft, slow, romantic dance. She was a version of Rory who already knew the steps, who had the Latin motion down, who didn’t need any training, but only to learn to work with me. Perhaps this would turn out perfectly.

  She looked equally at home doing the less balletic, faster dances as well. I immediately thought of Rory. That Rory would too, eventually. Could I ever not think of Rory? My main issue with Arabelle would be whether we worked as a couple. She was a little fragile and delicate and I was strong. It felt sometimes like I was pushing and pulling her around. But it seemed like she was trying to adapt.

  Greta clasped her hands together at the end of our session. She raised her eyebrows, a puckered little smile on her face. “So?”

  I nodded. “I think it can work.”

  Chapter 10

  I was as excited as a schoolboy for my beginner rumba group class. The one Rory was taking. As I approached the door, iPod rumba mix in hand, I heard an enormous amount of chattering. It sounded like a party in there. I opened the door. Whoa. It was the most packed I’d ever seen a room anywhere in the entire studio. In any studio, for that matter. I didn’t often teach beginner classes and had forgotten how crowded they were. Alessia had talked me into covering for Xenia this month. I had no idea how I was going to teach with no one able to move. And I couldn’t see Rory’s beautiful visage anywhere. I was met instead with a forest of eyes.

  Immediately the chatter died and was replaced by dead silence. The air thickened with tension. I couldn’t see any familiar faces. Except for a couple of my advanced Russian regulars, and, as always, Luna was front and center. Cheryl wasn’t in the room. She hadn’t canceled her privates with me but I had a feeling she was mad. I didn’t care in the least. I hooked up the iPod, and looked past Luna, making it clear, to Sadie at least, that I was looking for her. A tiny, dark-haired, olive-complected woman soon emerged from behind statuesque Luna, who harrumphed as she squeezed past.

  I set the music to “Bésame Mucho,” a Spanish love song with a slow rumba rhythm easy to learn the steps to. The song reminded me of Rory. Maybe because that’s what I wanted her to do to me. And because the songstress’s throaty, sexy voice was similar to that of “Fever,” our first dance.

  I faced the mirror, the students behind me, and began doing the basic. The students followed, or tried to, given they were packed like sardines. There were six rows of people. The only way I’d be able to see if Rory was there was to order them to switch, the fair thing to do anyway.

  “Okay, front row go to the back, and everyone shift one row forward.”

  Luna shot me a glare like I’d just asked for her first-born.

  “I want you all to see yourselves in the mirror at least once,” I said. With a dragon-like exhale through flared nostrils, she stomped toward the back.

  It took all six rotations before I finally had
Rory up front. What the hell was she doing so far back? But that was just like my Rory: shy, wishing to give others the lead, both out of generosity and so she could watch and learn.

  She was so damn beautiful. And so humble, which only added to her beauty. She locked eyes with me a couple times and immediately, within a heartbeat, looked back at her own reflection. She was honestly the best student in the room. Yes, she was better than not only the other beginners, but the advanced students. Her technique wasn’t perfect yet, but she connected with the movement and the passion of the dance on a fundamental level. I would make her perfect.

  “Okay,” I said, pausing the music. “Let’s begin the routine. Ladies on my side. We’ll do your choreography first. Gentlemen, facing us.”

  Sweet, sweet Rory. She remained right where she was, looking at my feet, my legs, concentrating, getting ready to watch intently and learn. But of course, that’s not what I had directed her to do. I had to correct her.

  She caught me looking at her. She did a double take, her long lashes blinking once, then twice. The proverbial doe in the headlights. Doe in the spotlight was more like it. Where she would always be with me. When it was clear I wasn’t going to look away from her, her expression turned bemused.

  “Are you a man?” I said to her, a cocky smile crossing my lips just to ensure she knew I was teasing.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, beautiful eyes widening.

  “I said ladies on my side, behind me.” I reached out and motioned with my arm for her to stand at my side. Her gorgeous face turned red.

  “Oh, oh, I’m sorry,” she stuttered.

  “That’s quite all right. Understandable,” I said, still holding my arm out for her.

  But she was gone in a flash. Now somewhere far behind me. It wasn’t until I looked toward my hand that I realized how crowded it was on my side of the room. She couldn’t have stood beside me. There were at least fifteen bodies scrunched into that exact spot. Well, things would be different during our private.