Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  “Ladies and gentlemen, how beautiful was that?” the emcee asked.

  Again, people cheered, many rising again to their feet. After a couple of minutes, the applause died down and the emcee announced the standard comp would begin. I walked back to the practice room, knowing, with all the heats they had to get through, we’d have about half an hour until we were on. At least. I knew it would take her a while to change into her Latin costume, so I practiced my part of the steps on the parquet.

  Other pros nodded and wished me luck. I thanked them and returned their good wishes. A few amateurs watched. I smiled graciously then put my earbuds in and closed my eyes, making it clear I was concentrating on my practice. I usually was not disturbed for autographs when I did this. The fans were very respectful, which I greatly appreciated. I’d told Cheryl and Luna not to come into the back, to stay out in the ballroom, watching the standard comp, and I had Sadie out there making sure they did.

  Soon Arabelle joined me. I could tell she’d been crying but was now put together. She looked radiant. Her dress was gold and gorgeous. Her hair was tied sleekly back. Her makeup flawless. She was a true pro. I hugged her.

  “No matter what happens out there from now on, you’re a true champion. That was the most beautiful dance I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you, Sasha. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that,” she said, her voice cracking, but only barely.

  “Latin’s up,” said one of the scrutineers. I squeezed Arabelle’s hand and escorted her to the ballroom.

  The emcee began calling competitors to the floor. It was hard to hear the numbers through all the cheering. But I already knew from the program that we were in the third heat. We stood and watched the first two rounds of cha-cha. I grabbed both of Arabelle’s hands in mine, and gave them another little squeeze. “Here we go.”

  When I heard my number I led her out to the floor, to the center, of course, even though I worried for the first time in my career that I didn’t belong there.

  “Sashaaaaaaaa!” The screams echoed around the room, the crowd roaring as always when I took the floor.

  I looked for Rory. I couldn’t even see our banquet table in all the light.

  The music began. And we were off.

  “Go Arabelle! Beautiful Arabelle, bella Arabelle!” people—mostly women—chanted.

  “Davay Sasha, davay Arabelle!” screamed the vast amount of Russians.

  As usual, all the cheers, the screams set me on fire. I was immediately in another world. I was transformed into a consummate performer. This was my stage. I danced with all my heart and soul. I hoped Arabelle felt the same. I knew though that she’d already given her heart and soul to her earlier performance.

  Cha-cha was over, seemingly before it began. People went wild as we exited the floor, completely out of breath. On our way off, we passed Xenia and her new partner, Piotr. I felt a pang of worry. I knew this man. He was a good dancer, but not as good as I was. I don’t mean to sound arrogant. He just didn’t have my strength, precision, agility, speed, not to mention animal passion. But ballroom dancing was all about partnership, not about solo performances. He and Xenia could well have that in their favor. We’d see. We managed to exchange polite smiles.

  At the beginning of their heat, the roaring began again. She had a good deal of fans too.

  “Xenia, davay, Xenia!”

  I had to admit Piotr was fun to watch. He was a real ham. His facial expressions ranged from wide eyes and a wowed, O-shaped mouth, to flirty raised eyebrows and a cute schoolboy grin, to a thrown-back head with wicked laughter. Xenia seemed much more at ease with him. He looked laid back, perhaps like the quintessential Californian, which, despite his Russophile name, he was. He was out there to have fun and show his partner and the audience a good time. Funny, because Xenia, even more relaxed as she was, now seemed to be the more serious partner in this couple. She was definitely stronger, like she’d taken on my role.

  The first round of dances went pretty much without incident. We danced fairly flawlessly, clean, without any mishaps. I was faster and sharper than Arabelle, but that was typical of a partnership anyway. The man was the stronghold, the woman the artist; the man the frame, the woman the picture, as the saying went. During the traveling dances, samba and paso doble, the roars of the crowd followed us as we circled the floor. People seated at the banquet tables soon began to do waves of applause, standing as we passed, like in American football games. The crowd went wild for us. Both of us. They liked our partnership, even if we both knew in our hearts it wasn’t going to work. I smiled out at them, mouthed “Thank you,” and blew kisses. My usual. Arabelle smiled and waved, but I could tell she was still, in her mind, dancing that first performance of the night. And I could tell she was nervous I knew it and would be mad.

  As the night went on, as always, the roaring of the crowd kept me going, making me feel like a rock star. I couldn’t let them down. I let the audience pull me on. I danced my utmost, even if Arabelle was a little behind. My hips moved at lightning speed, my back arched so in paso doble I nearly touched the ground. My jive jumps and paso doble tour jeté jumps were sky high. My hands and feet sliced the air. I had fire in me, a boundless energy that was ready to explode in a split second. I felt Rory’s eyes. I wanted her to be wowed. I wanted her to feel my passion. For dance and for her. I knew she could. I danced for her. It was a horrible feeling though. I wasn’t dancing with my partner at all. The one I was currently with, that is. I was far outshining her. That was wrong and I knew it.

  The night went on for a long time. There were many competitors, and thus many heats and rounds. I tried to smile at Arabelle and squeeze her hand often, but it was impossible to talk to her, to tell her she was doing well, because I just couldn’t lie to her. I watched Xenia and Piotr. Neither one was technically perfect, and there was a big imbalance between them in terms of skill. But the distance between them wasn’t as great as between Arabelle and me. The judges could very well pronounce them the better, more balanced partnership. But they couldn’t win; they just couldn’t beat us.

  Toward the end of the semifinals, Arabelle was getting tired. I was too, but I knew better how to pace myself since I had more experience with these kinds of competitions. In show dance, the competitors performed only a single showcase. It was more like a sprint. Ballroom was a marathon. Though we hardly spoke, I knew we were both getting crabby, and less able to maintain our pleasant facades.

  It was one in the morning when the finals began. We’d been dancing, on and off, for about seven hours total. I still had every last bit of my steam. But Arabelle had lost a good deal of hers.

  “You didn’t pace yourself as I’d told you to do,” I snapped at her without meaning to. Though I’d tried for so long to prevent it from happening, my frustration was finally getting the best of me.

  “I thought I did,” she said after a long pause. “I’m sorry.”

  I simply shook my head, unable to speak for fear I’d say something I’d regret. We needed our energy and confidence most for the last round. There were now only six couples on the floor. Everyone could see us, very clearly. Judges and fans. Everyone could see each mistake.

  The roars of the crowd were louder than ever. But they were now of a more “you can do it; you’re almost done” variety, and mainly directed to her. “Come on, Arabelle, you can do it, girl!”

  “Bella Arabelle, you still look beautiful!”

  There were still a few of the crazy “Sashaaaaaaa!” wails, but I could tell the crowd was worried. I’d never felt the crowd’s pity. Never. I’d always been rock solid. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t help but resent Arabelle for it.

  I danced my fullest in that last round, gave it everything I had. To the crowd, to Rory. Arabelle’s lovely long-limbed body felt so frail and thin, and it felt—and probably looked—like I was pushing and pulling her around. She was worn down. Admittedly, worn down just as much by me and my hyper-anxious intensity as by the actual physical exertion
. When we finished our final jive dip, I felt like she was going to collapse in my arms. I practically had to lift her out of the dip, hoping the crowds were too mesmerized with excitement to tell.

  We went backstage as the standard ballroom winners were announced. I pulled a large bottle of water from my bag and handed it to her.

  She took it from me and gave me a weary smile. I could tell she was trying hard to blink back tears. She said nothing. Nor did I.

  The emcee announced there was a delay with the Latin results and invited the audience out for more general dancing. This was a bad sign. It meant there was likely an upset, or near upset. Since Xenia and I were champions from last year, there was no clear favorite to win this year, except that it be one of us. When she’d last danced Latin, Arabelle had ranked far higher than Piotr, so we were by definition considered the most likely to win. An upset meant Piotr and Xenia had won.

  “Here, sit,” I said to Arabelle, pulling the chair out. I hadn’t meant to be so taciturn. “I’m sorry,” I said. She gave me an understanding nod and sat.

  My blood began to boil as we waited. I did not want to come in second place at a competition like this. If we couldn’t win here, and win easily, we’d never win Blackpool. We’d never beat Micaela and Jonathan. Never. I paced while she sat, both of us in silence. Other pros were watching us, though they pretended not to. I tried to ignore them. I made sure not to lock eyes with Piotr or Xenia.

  Finally, I don’t know how many blasted general dancing songs later, the scrutineer told us to return to the floor. Cheers again erupted as Arabelle and I walked out. The bottom three placements were called, leaving standing Bronislava and her longtime partner, Nikolai, Xenia and Piotr, and us. You could definitely cut the air with the proverbial knife. There was dead silence as the emcee pronounced Bronislava and Nikolai third-place finishers. I was breathing so deeply. I squeezed Arabelle’s hand, too hard, out of nervousness. I felt her body pulse. Or maybe that was my pulse I’d felt, beating through our connection. I let go of her, fearing I’d hurt her by squeezing too hard. I looked at the floor. I could hear my heartbeat echoing in my eardrum.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said slowly, elongating his words, making me want to jump on him and shake it out of him. “We very nearly had a tie. There was a simple one quarter of a point difference between these two couples.”

  I found myself pacing back and forth now, sweating from every pore. I knew it didn’t look good for me not to be touching my partner. It was like I was abandoning her. But I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to touch her for fear I’d be too hard. Anyway, who cared what the audience thought at this point? They’d care more about the results. And over that I now had no control. What was done was done. The judges had made their decision. I felt my throat get hot. It felt like there was fire emanating from my nostrils. I had to stop it. I had to control my temper.

  “Tying with the first-place couple in cha-cha, rumba, samba, and paso doble, and placing second by one quarter of a point in jive, the second-place winners are…”—there was no drumroll but a horrendously long silence—“…from Los Angeles, Piotr Smekalov and Xenia Lupinski.”

  My throat opened. The fire cooled. I took in a big breath, looked at Arabelle and gave her the best, most relieved smile I could muster. The room erupted in applause, screams, and roars.

  I nearly forgot to shake hands with Piotr. He smiled and congratulated me. He was the consummate pro. More professional than I was acting, certainly. Xenia didn’t meet my gaze as I hugged her. I could feel the heat of her cheek on my neck. She was not as relaxed as she’d looked. She was, in the end, a fierce competitor too. She was as hot with fury as I’d been. After I released her, I walked toward Arabelle. She wore a very worried smile, looking like she was terrified of me. Oh this poor girl; I’d put the fear of God in her with my ridiculous all-out desire to win. Suddenly, I cooled. I smiled, and my smile felt natural. I took her hand, caressing it gently now. The audience roared even more. We’d made up, so to speak, Arabelle and I. We were partners again. I took her in my arms and hugged her lightly. I could feel her body shaking. When I held her face in my hands, I could see light tears.

  “It’s okay. I’m so sorry. It’s okay,” I whispered, kissing her on the forehead. She nodded, sniffing back tears. I twirled her to the center of the floor, and bowed toward her, in appreciation, then extended my arm toward her as if asking her to take her curtsy to the audience. This was customary, but I meant it. I truly appreciated her right then. Then I turned to the audience and bowed to them. They went wild again. But it was a small bow. I’d behaved like a gigantic ass all night. I didn’t deserve this applause. I didn’t even deserve to win. I wasn’t a partner. I was a show-off. A consummate jerk, caring only about myself, about winning at all costs.

  I held Arabelle’s hand as I escorted her to the top podium. Her tears began to flow as the head judge placed the gold medal around her neck and handed her a lovely bouquet. The audience applauded yet more raucously. Perhaps they thought she was crying tears of joy. Anyway, the fans were so happy for her. I grinned for the onslaught of cameras but I felt like an imposter by this point. My smile felt so phony. I knew Rory was there. I felt her. But now I wished she hadn’t stayed. I was embarrassed at how I’d acted.

  Chapter 15

  The next day I told Arabelle I needed to take a short break to think things over. She’d nodded. She knew I was going to end it with her.

  I spent the practice time I’d reserved for her on my own, working in my home studio instead of Infectious Rhythm. I didn’t want to instigate gossip. I had a fairly substantial house in the Hollywood Hills. I’d been able to afford it with my earnings from performances, dance camp teachings, some choreography I did for TV shows and films, and from winning or finaling in prestigious championships. It was important for me to plant roots here, so I bought a place not far from the studio but secluded enough that I felt like I had down time away from the fray. I’d converted a large downstairs room overlooking the backyard, with a view of the pool and beyond that, a cliff, into a ballroom studio, replete with parquet floors, ballet barres lining the walls for stretching, and a grand mirror, along with surround sound speakers mounted in the ceiling corners. I loved that room. My favorite in the house.

  I spent a lot of time that week thinking about Blackpool, envisioning myself dancing with Rory, wondering about her work life, her personal life, how much time she’d have to train. I decided it didn’t matter if she was busy. She was the one I needed, I wanted. She was the one for me. The only one. Greta was so right. I should have listened to her all along. We’d lost valuable time while I spent the last several weeks working with Arabelle.

  “You’ve finally come to your senses,” Greta said when I told her. She agreed to watch in on our next private lesson, though she wasn’t going to coach just yet. I had to figure out a way to broach the subject to Rory. If I told her all that I felt, I might scare her off.

  ***

  Throughout the week, I noticed while I gave my private lessons that Rory rented space in the private area every day. She was practicing, working very hard. But I also noticed she made a point of refusing to return my gaze, pretending I wasn’t there. What was that about?

  ***

  Cheryl’s private lesson Saturday was excruciating. Particularly since I was so anxious to see Rory. Her pride at placing in the finals had shot straight up through her spine and out through her skull, giving her way too much confidence. At first, she would hear none of my critiques, insisting she knew best. But toward the end of the lesson, she became all flirtatiousness and giggles, seeming to interpret my critiques as some kind of foreplay.

  Greta was standing in the main room, surreptitiously watching Rory as she practiced. Rory was trying hard, I could tell, not to look in at Cheryl and me. At one point, when Cheryl lost her balance by crossing one foot over the other, I told to her leave more space between her legs.

  “Don’t you wish!” she shouted, then burst
out in wicked laughter.

  Greta looked right at me, raising her eyebrows as if asking me what was going on in there. I rolled my eyes in return.

  I finally ushered Cheryl out of the back room, and held the door open for Rory, who made it a point not to take even a step toward the room until Cheryl was out the front door.

  As Rory walked toward me, she and Greta briefly locked gazes. Rory’s eyes widened and she shot Greta a humble blush. Rory clearly knew who Greta was—a ten-time world champ. Rory appreciated Greta. Yes, my girl indeed. This was going to work. But Rory’s expression soured at me when she passed through the door.

  “How are you?” I asked as her arm clumsily bumped mine on her way in.

  “Okay, I guess. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said, trying to maintain an air of politeness. She seemed pissed about something. My treatment of Arabelle?

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded once.

  “Did you like the competition?” I didn’t want to apologize or explain the situation with Arabelle until I got a sense of what was going on in Rory’s mind.

  “No,” she said, flatly.

  “Oh? You looked like you were really enjoying yourself.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” she snapped, such bitterness in her voice, I subconsciously took a step back. “I thought your student Svetlana was really good. No, I know she’s really good. It’s obvious.” She sounded almost accusatory. But why was she angry at me about this?

  “Yes. Yes, she is,” I said, my inflection at the end indicating I didn’t understand her tone.

  “She’s your best student. And she should have placed better than…than…your other students,” she said, nearly shouting.

  “I agree. Sveta should have placed higher than she did. But my other students… I mean, you can’t compare her to Luna and Cheryl. They were in totally different competitions. Cheryl and Luna had far fewer competitors. Sveta was in a much tougher group,” I explained, still wondering why Rory was so put off.