Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  Rory’s frown just grew deeper. This wasn’t, apparently, a good enough explanation. Why did she care anyway? Maybe she wanted to compete in pro/ams? “Sveta hasn’t competed much. Yet. I’m sure she’ll do better in the future.” I lifted my hands. “Are you really that upset about Sveta’s results?”

  Rory averted her gaze to the back corner of the room, rolling her eyes. Apparently I was annoying her that I wasn’t addressing her issue, whatever that was. She did want to compete, and wanted me to explain the system, it seemed.

  “You are right that Sveta is very good. It takes a while to get going in these competitions. You have to pay dues, so to speak. You and Sveta are both very talented. You will do well event—”

  “No!” she shouted, now startling me.

  I took a full step back.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” she continued. “I’m a beginning attorney working for a very small firm, not one of your Beverly Hills housewives. I don’t have Cheryl or Luna’s money.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that. So I didn’t. I stood there openmouthed.

  “I mean,” she continued. “Of all the women at the Beverly Hilton that night, I was the absolute worst one for you to try to lure to your…your…” She couldn’t seem to come up with the right word.

  But I knew exactly what she meant. She thought I was using her for her money. She thought I’d invited her to watch the pro/ams in order to lure her into doing the next one. How hard up did she think I was? Was she thinking me a kind of gigolo, using all these rich women for their money? I was getting so angry I couldn’t speak. I could feel my jaw tighten, my fists clench. She actually eyed my hands. I immediately released them, splayed my fingers. She didn’t really think I could become violent. No, of course not.

  She stepped toward me. “Even if I did have the money to enter a ridiculous number of competitions to pay my dues, so to speak…I have no interest whatsoever in ever winning just because I dance with you, the popular guy from the popular studio. I want to win because I’m genuinely the best. I want to earn it.” Her voice was growing louder, but shakier. The heat of her anger was so palpable. She looked down at the floor. Said nothing for a good few seconds.

  My turn. And I was just as angry, for all the assumptions she was making. “First of all, what do you mean when you say my ‘Beverly Hills housewives’?” My voice was deep, gritty. And yet I’d managed not to raise it. I was going to remain calm.

  She rolled her eyes. “Your students who can’t dance their way of out of a paper bag but who win all these competitions just because they dance with you, and bring the studio and… you…all their m-money.” She stuttered toward the end, as if she was losing the power of her convictions. And she should have. She was calling me a kind of gigolo.

  Was that really what she thought of me? That I used my charms to convince untalented rich women to compete so I could get their money? This wasn’t even where I made my money. I tried hard to remain calm.

  “I see,” I said after a breath. “And you think that I went to the Beverly Hilton the night I met you with the intention of making you into one of these so-called wives?”

  Her cheeks grew red. Whether it was embarrassment or anger, I didn’t know. She was unable to look at me. Now the steam I felt was my own. Hers was dissipating.

  She took a breath, still not looking at me. “No. I don’t know.” Her voice softened.

  “No, you don’t, Rory. You don’t know anything.” I was fuming but trying hard not to show it. She was making a judgment and she knew nothing about the situation. She’d made a big assumption about me. About my intentions, my life, my earnings, my ethics. It hurt. And I didn’t feel like setting her straight. At least not right now. I was too mad.

  Her face now reddened considerably. Good. Let her squirm.

  “All I want to say is that I have no intention ever of…” she began but lost her words. “I don’t have mon…I’m just not a cash cow. Like Cheryl. That’s all. That’s all I have to say,” she finished, her voice light and squeaky as a mouse at the end.

  I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had gone by. Pissed as I was, discussing this was not something we should be doing on her dime. It was time to work. I walked toward her, pulling her into dance hold, as gently as I could. Which wasn’t hard. When I touched her, she was impossible to be anything other than gentle with.

  “Thank you for letting me know. This is your time. We should spend it wisely,” I said.

  She finally looked into my eyes. Her eyes were wet in the corners.

  I clicked on the iPod and rumba music began. I led her in a basic. She was good, even when she had other things on her mind and wasn’t completely concentrating. A great deal of proper technique had made its way into her muscle memory. I physically made a few minor adjustments but said nothing. I didn’t feel like uttering a word to her right now.

  After several basics, I positioned her into a shadow hold, where I was behind her, like before, and led her in a series of rumba walks around the room. Still, I said nothing but, again, made corrections.

  We had time left so I led her in a series of steps from the advanced syllabi that were new to her but that I knew she’d seen at the competition. I suspected she’d have an idea of what I was leading her to do and how the steps were supposed to look. Though I was still heated up over her words, I found myself pleased that my suspicions were correct. She’d been paying close attention during the competition and had an innate sense of how to do each step. This belied her insistence that she had no interest in competing, even if she didn’t have the money.

  Now it hurt to realize how good she was, and how badly she wanted to dance. But I would not be called a gigolo.

  When the clock struck nine, I promptly dropped her hand, and removed my arm from her back. “Time’s up,” I said, walking toward the door. I opened it, and held it while she gathered her things. Her face reddened again, and her eyes teared as she took one final blink at me and passed through the door under my arm.

  “Rory,” I called out as she began walking away.

  She turned.

  “It is probably better for you not to make assumptions about people you know nothing about. And an even better idea not to make accusations against them when you have none of the facts. I would hope you know that from being a lawyer.” I could feel my nostrils flaring and my lips were tightly pursed. With a final narrowing of my eyes, I turned my back to her and walked away, letting the door slam shut.

  ***

  Rory avoided the practice room the following week, but I couldn’t help but peek in on her lessons with Bronislava and Mitsi. She’d made many friends—Paulina, the accomplished transsexual standard dancer, who seemed protective of Rory; the Indian man from the competition; a Latino man who made her laugh while they practiced hustle at the disco party; and Pepe, the mambo team coach. Though I was still upset with her, I couldn’t help feeling a tinge of jealousy watching her with Pepe. She was so happy and confident and relaxed with him. She was so on edge in my hold, so anxious of pleasing me. Partly because I was so damn serious. And partly, I supposed, because she trusted he wasn’t using her for money. It wasn’t my fault she’d made such an assumption about me. I hadn’t done a damn thing to make her think that.

  On Friday, I got a last-minute call from my uncle. He and my cousin were in town again. Before he could ask, yet again, for my address, I suggested a local Hollywood hangout—Musso & Frank. It was an elegant restaurant not far from the studio that had been frequented by Raymond Chandler in his day and was still popular among celebrities. It felt very L.A. to me, and I loved L.A. Places like this made me feel settled in my new home. And I needed those feelings to be at the forefront of my mind whenever I met with my family.

  I chose a table for us in the back. I nearly laughed when they arrived. They were dressed all in black and wore slicked-back hair and sunglasses, even though it was night. They looked like quintessential mobsters. I hoped to God I didn’t look the same, despite
my slicked back ballroom hair and black dance attire. Funny how superficially we looked alike.

  The second I stood and motioned them over, I saw her. Rory was at the bar with the Indian man. I don’t think she saw me. I sat back down immediately. A bolt of electricity darted down my spine. She was wearing dance clothes and her face glistened with sweat, her hair still pulled back by a rubber band. And yet she was breathtaking. Pissed as I still was, I couldn’t help but think that.

  It was uncanny, talking about my sister while she sat only feet away. It was like Tatiana’s ghost was in the room with us. Somehow that made me feel good, positive, like she was alive and well, and I’d find her. Soon. Uncle Oleg noticed the emotional change in me.

  “Are you okay, Sasha?” he asked, looking around. I didn’t dare point Rory out. I wanted him to know as little about my life as possible.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “So, what brings you here? Another happy family meeting?” I asked, trying not to let the sarcasm show.

  He laughed, obviously detecting it. “Actually, Sasha, you will be pleased to hear that we have a little update.”

  I sat up. “What? Tatiana?” I was right; Rory had brought me luck on that front. “What is it?”

  “Her debts are all paid off,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “What?” I said, shocked at this news.

  Right at that point, I locked eyes with Rory. Her lips curved up into an ever-so-slight smile and her cheeks grew rosy, this time in a good way. She shot up straight in her seat as if I’d just pressed on the small of her back, reminding her she was slouching. Damn, I kept having to remind myself I was angry with her. It wasn’t easy.

  “Her debts are totally paid? How do you know that?” I said, returning to Uncle Oleg.

  “The agency told us.”

  “They called you?”

  “We called them.”

  “Who paid them?”

  He shrugged. “We don’t know. They had no information.” He was wearing those stupid sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. I strongly sensed they had more information he just wasn’t telling me. For some reason.

  “Well, didn’t you press them?” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Of course,” he responded, with a little laugh.

  “And they just said no, and refused to give you anything further? And you did nothing about that?” This I knew was crap. He and his thugs never would have let them off the hook. They would have sent someone to Tokyo to “persuade” someone at the agency to talk.

  He took a breath. “Sasha, we are investigating. Of course.” He talked slowly, and turned his head to look out the window. “But if you are going to Tokyo soon, you could also make a stop at the agency,” he said.

  “I’ve already tried. They won’t give me anything. We’ve already been over this.”

  He shrugged yet again. “You could always try once more.” He was still looking out the window. Or at least his head was turned that way. I was getting frustrated. Of course I’d try again. I’d do anything to make sure she was safe and sound, and to get her back, if she wanted to come back. Still, I didn’t understand why they wanted me to go. I was an artist; they had mafia training. I wasn’t about to find out something they couldn’t.

  Rory was glancing back and forth between me and her friend. If only Tatiana was as safe, and content, as she was.

  “Of course I’ll go again,” I said. It was no use trying to figure out what was going on.

  “Very good. Good boy,” Uncle Oleg said, with a firm nod, now returning his gaze to me. I thought.

  I tried to get more out of him but it was no use. He insisted he knew nothing. And they both continued to wear those glasses. I felt like they were giving each other some kind of signal. But I was probably just paranoid. Still, I didn’t trust them.

  When we got up to leave, Rory’s eyes immediately connected with mine.

  Shit. No way was I going to let them know anything about her. They began to walk toward the entrance. My cousin turned around to wait for me.

  “I just dropped something. I’ll be there in a second.” I couldn’t read his expression through the glasses. He stood looking at me for about ten seconds before shrugging and turning. It was like they didn’t trust me. Which was making me not want to trust them.

  I fiddled around with my pants leg then got up and walked to the door. Rory and her friend were sitting right near the entrance. My cousin and uncle had already walked out of the restaurant and were milling about on the sidewalk looking around. Good, there would be no introductions. Still, I didn’t want them even seeing me talk to her. If it was clear I saw her, she’d expect me to stop and talk. So, I went on, head straight forward, pretending I didn’t see her.

  But I could see her out of the corner of my eye. She was looking right at me.

  “Sasha,” she shouted, rather loudly.

  I hesitated. My cousin and uncle were right outside talking. I stopped, turned toward her. When I looked into those beautiful eyes, I momentarily forgot my anger. All I could think about was needing to protect her from my family.

  I tried to look surprised.

  “I just wanted to introduce you to my friend, Rajiv. He’s a big fan.”

  “Hi,” Rajiv said, reaching toward me. He looked a little embarrassed. I nodded and shook his hand. “Congratulations on winning the championship,” he said.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.” My uncle and cousin were peering in at me. Rory’s eyes followed mine. “It’s very nice meeting you,” I said to Rajiv. Then to Rory, “I’ll see you at the studio.”

  “Yes, see you Saturday,” she said, eyes darting between them and me.

  My uncle and cousin were about to come back in. I needed to get away from Rory, lest they see her and want an introduction. I waved, indicating I was on my way, then turned back to Rory. Needing her to let me go, I flashed her a sly smile, and winked before turning back. Immediately after I did so, I was mad at myself. I was still upset with her and wasn’t yet sure how I’d deal with it. I shouldn’t have given her that smile. That made her think everything was okay.

  “I was just greeting a student,” I said, pulling my uncle and cousin along, down the street, hoping it was too crowded at the bar for them to make her out.

  ***

  Cheryl’s necklines were getting lower and lower, and her touchy feely-ness more and more pronounced. All she could talk about was doing another competition. That was the last thing I wanted to do, but to placate her, I agreed to one in Las Vegas that was a month after Blackpool. We had plenty of time for her to learn the steps. And I’d have time to focus on Blackpool, whomever I would be dancing with there.

  I should have canceled my private with Rory that night. I found myself getting hot-headed all over again on seeing her approach me. She was all sweet smiles. She’d thought my sly smile at Musso & Frank meant we were okay now. She was wrong. Other women, rich women, had assumed I was this poor Russian, this simple dancer, vulnerable and in need of their money, that I couldn’t make my money through my actual talents. I didn’t expect those assumptions from Rory. I couldn’t deal with her thinking such things. I should have taken a little break from her. That way I might not have let my emotions get the better of me. But I didn’t.

  Without saying anything to her, I turned on the music, gave her a polite but professional smile, and extended my arms toward her, inviting her into closed hold.

  I played a rumba—“Take My Breath Away” by Jessica Simpson. The lyrics and the melody were soft and sweet, just like Rory. I’m not sure why I subconsciously chose that song. Maybe because I thought it would make me think of her that way again.

  As I began leading her in a basic, my mind went to Tatiana. She might be prostituting herself in the literal sense. I hoped not, but I had no idea. What would Rory think of her? Back in Russia, I had needed money. Just like Tatiana had in Tokyo. Okay, when I originally began teaching, it was like that. I needed money and I needed students to pay for lessons. Bu
t not now. Performing around the world, winning huge championships, choreographing. That was how I made big bucks. Alessandra was now simply the source of my American visa. Nothing more. I felt tension span Rory’s body from head to foot. She was moving well; I’d taught her that. Her basic was solid. But she was too tense to follow. Or was it that she was too haughty to follow me? I was getting more and more heated. After the song finished, I lightly caressed her shoulder blade with my fingers, then let her go of her. She stepped out of my embrace, frowning.

  “You made clear to me last time that you do not want to compete,” I said. “And that is perfectly fine. Ballroom dance is also social, fun. But I have so many other students who do wish to compete. And it’s unfair to them for me to take up a valuable private lesson time on someone who is not serious.” I had no idea what I was saying. Words were just coming out of my mouth. I needed to take a break from her. And this was the way my subconscious apparently found to do it.

  She took a step back, her mouth turning to a grimace. “Cheryl?” she said, sounding bewildered.

  “What?”

  “Cheryl’s a serious student.” She placed air quotes around the last two words and rolled her eyes. Her attitude suddenly changed to accusatory and judgmental again. “You’re going to give her back this time slot?”

  I was pissed all over again. Damn her judgments and assumptions. “Rory, that’s none of your business.”

  She blinked, now looking on the verge of tears, making me momentarily feel sorry for her. “That’s, that’s okay. I understand,” she managed, after a shaky breath. “She’s the one with the money. I’m just—”

  “Stop making this about money,” I yelled. I was so tired of her reducing my choices to money.

  She flinched at my tone. Then her lips stiffened into a solid line and she glared, apparently mad I’d startled her.

  “How many more lessons do you have with me?” I asked, softening my voice.