by Tonya Plank
She was completely flustered the whole way home. Her mouth did not stop running. This time, Gunther had insisted she finish a substantial research project on a different case. “I mean, I could have just flubbed it, but I needed to be thorough. I swear, he needed to give me a good week on that for me to do it justice. One night? I just don’t know what he’s doing. It’s like he’s setting me up to fail. I just, I don’t mean to sound paranoid. I’m sorry.” She put her head in her hands again, and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms.
“I don’t think you’re being paranoid at all. His behavior is really odd and uncontrolled lately.” I tried hard not to worry about the missed practice. But we were missing a lot, especially since the time before we hadn’t exactly gotten a lot done. By way of dancing I mean. But doing well at her job was extremely important to her. I tried to keep frustration from tingeing my voice, my body language. It would only make her more anxious.
It was so late when we got to her building I insisted on walking her up.
“I am sorry you have such a bad boss. Hopefully he is just going through something and will get over it,” I said, trying hard to mean it.
She breathed and nodded.
“Rest up for tomorrow,” I said, giving her a light peck on the lips in front of her door.
“I want…I’d so love for you to come in,” she began, whilst trying to get the key into her lock, and not having an easy time of it. Poor thing was exhausted.
“Thank you. But no. You get good rest. I will need you to be in top form mentally and physically for our next practice. It won’t help for you to be half there.”
She swallowed, and nodded.
“And Rory,” I called out right before she shut the door.
She opened it again and peeked out.
“Please eat well,” I said, noticing how famished she looked. Bastard boss probably didn’t give her time to eat, even if she had the inclination. Stress did not help an eating disorder.
She looked me straight in the eye, as if in complicit understanding, then nodded as if I was correct both in my assumption and my command.
When I picked her up for our next practice, there was another problem. When she opened the door, the first thing I noticed was her beautiful eyes, as always. But the second thing I noticed was the large bandage covering her right knee.
“What happened?” I said, my voice falling.
“Nothing serious,” she said, waving it off with her hand. But her voice was laced with worry.
She’d had mambo team practice that day. “Did this happen today?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I mean, yes and no. It happened before but got worse today.” Her eyes widened; she could tell I wanted more explanation. “It just gets sore when I do a pot stir—where I spin on one leg in a seated position. I guess I’m kind of at a weird angle so I get some pain there sometimes. I went to a doctor last week and she said it was okay, the meniscus wasn’t torn, but I have to be careful on that move so I won’t hurt it further. Today in practice, another girl and I collided and I fell, which made it worse.” She spoke a mile a minute and ended the whole explanation with a nervous laugh. “It was actually pretty funny. You should have seen the looks on everyone’s faces. We totally were going the wrong directions and…um, well, you had to be there,” she said raising her hands.
I didn’t laugh with her. I couldn’t. An injury was no laughing matter to a dancer. She knew that. I knew she did.
“The doctor just told me to wrap it up and it should be fine,” she added, nodding rapidly as if to assure herself of that conviction as well as me.
I looked out the window. “Rory, please be careful. Please take care of yourself. As dancer, you must take pains to keep yourself healthy. One little thing can damage entire career,” I said with faltering English.
She nodded, looking ashamed. Which made me ashamed. She loved being on that team. I wasn’t about to ask her to leave it. It made her laugh. It relieved stress. Two things she needed now probably more than ever. Her practices with me were often the opposite, full of intensity and hyper-seriousness.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you have fun on the team. It’s good to be able to laugh at yourself.” She raised both eyebrows at this. And I knew why. I was giving her advice I never took myself. “It’s important to let loose and have a good time,” I continued. “And that is especially so with social dancing. But competition is serious. To me.”
She kept my gaze for several seconds, then nodded. “I know it is,” she said.
***
“Rory, you’re back-leading again,” I said. We were in my studio, without Greta. I felt like we were back to square one. This is what happened when you took too long of a break.
“I think I’m just used to this pattern. We’ve been doing it for a while now,” she said.
I stopped her midturn, looked at her, shook my head. “That’s a non-sequitur. No excuse, Rory.”
She burst out laughing. This was so serious. My mouth stiffened into a flat line.
“On my God. How long have you been here?” she said, shaking her head and throwing her hands up.
“What? I bought this place about three years ago. What does that have to do with anything?”
“No, I mean in the country. You have a better vocabulary than about ninety-five percent of the people I know! Non sequitur? That’s a lawyer word!”
I exhaled in frustration, too annoyed with the dancing mishaps to talk about something so meaningless. I didn’t understand why it was a big deal that I’d learned a lot of words anyway. I wanted to fit in. Why was it so hard to understand? “Five years. Look, Rory, it doesn’t matter if we are doing the same steps,” I said, not taking her bait to change the subject. “You are anticipating and moving my arms and stepping without me guiding you. You are basically dancing on your own, not with me.”
“Okay, I’ll try not to anticipate,” she said. “I’ll try to read your mind again.” She closed her eyes. “I mean your body.”
I shook my head. Her eyes were still closed. She opened them just a smidge to peek at me.
“Oops. Maybe we need to get the blindfold again. I can’t seem to stop looking at you,” she continued, clearly wanting to play.
We couldn’t. Not today. Not with the serious work we had to do now that we’d missed so much.
But for some reason my mouth had its own mind, as it twisted itself into a wicked grin. But no. That was enough. “Rory, we need to be serious right now.” But I was fighting myself as well as her. “You need stronger frame. That is part of the problem of why you can’t read my signals. I’m seeing that now. You’re all loose arms. Look.” I flailed about like a bird flapping my wings. “See, loosey-goosey.”
“I do not look like that,” she countered, hands on hips, still being playful.
“Try again,” I insisted.
She took a breath. “Fine.”
“Thank you.” I took her back into closed handhold. “Now you’re too tight.” I sighed and let go. “You have to resist but not too much.” I was becoming exasperated. She should have had the frame down pat by now. We tried again but it was worse. She was like an oak tree. I stopped and released her hand.
“I’m trying, Sasha,” she said, nerves now spent, no playfulness in her voice whatsoever. “Didn’t you and Greta agree that only she could criticize me?”
I was momentarily pissed at Greta for telling her. “Yes, but since she can’t be here today and we are now so far behind, we’re going to have to relax that. We have too much catch-up. You have to learn from me as well.” I could hear the frustration in my voice. I couldn’t control it.
I walked away from her to the patio door, opened the curtain and looked out. Sometimes it helped just to walk away from the situation, look at something new. But there was just a big canyon out my window, reminding me of how far my ranking would sink if we didn’t kill this at Blackpool. I shook my head and took several deep breaths before turning back to her. Before I look
ed directly at her, I blinked hard then ran my fingers through my hair. I could see her forlorn expression in my periphery.
“I can’t stand it when you get mad. I’m trying.” Her voice was cracking.
I nodded. “I know.” I had to control myself. I walked to the iPod and changed the music. “Okay, maybe we will wait for Greta to help with the connection,” I said, turning back to her. “For now, let’s work on jive. We’ll do side-by-sides that don’t involve a connection. We need to get you up to speed on that dance. You are not fast enough. Yet,” I added, walking back to her, while the iPod began blasting “Rock This Town” by the Brian Setzer Orchestra, my absolute favorite band for jive music.
“Oh my God, are you serious?”
I looked at her, totally confused.
“Can you slow it down to like three-quarters speed? At least?”
I sighed and continued walking toward her without touching the remote. “Rory, we need to get your speed up on this. They are not going to be slowing down the music to three-quarters time or anything else at Blackpool. You can do it. I know you can.”
She simply opened her mouth in exclamation.
“Come on,” I yelled over the music. “Triple step, triple step, rock step.” And with that, I took off. I was on fire. Jive was originally my favorite dance because of the speed. But it was also the biggest challenge because it was so hard to keep up the razor-sharp precision, the height on the jumps, the technique, all by moving at what felt like the speed of fricking light. I loved that—the challenge. I finished the sequence, gloriously out of breath. I loved that feeling, of being so on fire you could only gasp.
But Rory wasn’t with me. She’d stopped halfway there. Not even halfway. A quarter of the way. Maybe ten percent of the way. I clicked off the music, and turned to her, hands on my hips.
“You’re just so awesome, Sasha. You’re this wondrous ball of just…sex. I can’t take my eyes off you.”
What? But I saw the seriousness in her eyes. She wasn’t trying to get me to go easy on her with empty compliments.
I looked up, slowly rolled my head on my shoulders, one way, then the opposite, then laughed. I looked all around the room before returning my gaze to her. I wanted more than life itself to rip her clothes off, pick her up, carry her upstairs, throw her on my bed, and just drink her in. All of her. I could feel my mischievous smile threatening to return. But no. No.
“Rory, I desperately need you to concentrate at this point,” I said, forcing my smile into a frown and stomping my foot to the ground to give my words conviction. “Come on,” I said, making my voice solid and commanding. “Let’s go.” I turned the music back on and walked briskly toward her. I stood next to her and faced the mirror. “Now!” I yelled, and I took off.
She was already behind when she started. She sucked down a quick gulp of air and began. She tried hard to catch up. I could tell. I could see in her eyes that she was trying her hardest. But she just couldn’t. She closed her eyes. But that wasn’t going to help when I wasn’t leading her. During the side kicks, she kicked too hard and too far and fell off her center of balance. She nearly twisted her heel in her fall.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately picking herself up off the floor and dusting off the back of her leotard. “Let me try again.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was in disbelief. I’d never seen anyone trip all by herself like that. I just nodded and returned to the iPod.
She took a deep breath and held her hand to her chest as if to get her heart ready to beat fast to the music. Okay, maybe I did need to slow it down a bit. We couldn’t have her twisting her ankle or having a heart attack.
“Nothing fancy this time,” I said. “Just the basic.”
She nodded, still looking like she was about to begin an Olympic sprint.
I slowed the music to one quarter the speed, and pressed play. I watched her, calling the steps out. “Triple step, triple step, rock step, triple step, triple step…”
She focused intently on herself in the mirror. And she did it. She found the rhythm. She recovered her technique. Her precision wasn’t bad. The steps were actually close to perfection. Her body had a fundamental understanding of what it was doing.
“Okay, good,” I said. “Nowhere near perfect but we move on for now. Now we do the jive kicks.” I knew my grammar was a mess and I didn’t care. Not with Rory. She understood me, why it happened. She didn’t judge. I knew she had her own tics that belied her nerves, and she knew I knew. We were two equally screwed-up peas in a pod.
Again, she grew intensely serious. She tried with all her might. But they looked all wrong. They looked like she was doing Brazilian capoeira or some kind martial art.
“No, no, they should be like a snake’s tongue, snapping at something. Needs to be quicker and sharper. Don’t jump so high, Rory, it’s slowing you down. Your movement needs to be directed down, not up. No bouncing.”
She nodded. But I could see panic in her eyes. Panic that she wouldn’t be perfect, that I’d come unglued. Panic was never good. She tried again. They were even worse. My frustration, my intensity threw her. Even knowing that as I did, I was in full-fledged bastard mode, unable to stop myself. My own panic had infected my clear-headedness as well.
“No. No. These are horrible. So sloppy.” I turned off the music.
“Do you mind if I take my shoes off to practice? Until I get the speed down, I mean?” she asked.
I threw my arms up. “Rory, I’ve already turned the speed—”
“I know, I know. And thank you. That’s helped a lot. But I think I need to get the movement right without the heels—”
“I don’t want that. You’ll get used to doing it that way and it’s wrong. You have to wear the shoes in competition. I don’t want you to practice it wrong. Remember, it needs to be right in your muscle memory. Okay, come on, we do it together. Stay close to the ground, and flicks with a small bounce, no jump.” I was speaking faster than she was when she was overcome with nervous energy.
We faced the mirror and I stood beside her. I counted the beats and we did the footwork in sync. I counted slowly.
“There. That’s perfect,” I said without smiling. “See, I knew you could do it.”
“Yes, I’m fine in slow mo—”
“Now, we go at proper speed,” I said, slicing my hands through the air to indicate I wanted no excuses, no explanations. That was always the easy way out, to try to explain everything through words. Actions spoke in dance, not words. “If you can do, you can do. You know. Speed doesn’t matter.”
I walked away from the stereo and back to her. The music came on at full speed.
I gave her a second to regroup, then shouted, “Go!”
And off she went. She did okay, but was a smidgeon behind the beat.
But a smidgeon was a smidgeon. The judges would see it. “Come on,” I yelled, calling out the steps. “You can do it.”
She closed her eyes. Now I realized, closing her eyes helped her to be less self-conscious. It wasn’t about follow/lead. And she was actually doing it. She was actually keeping up.
“You’re doing it!” I yelled excitedly.
But then her facial muscles grimaced in pain and she stopped, reached down and grabbed her knee, placing both hands around it and rubbing.
“Sorry, I need a break,” she said, kneeling and putting her nose to her knee, as if not daring to look at me.
“Here, let me see,” I said softly, kneeling down before her, wondering what in the world I’d done. I slowly removed the bandage.
The kneecap looked slightly inflamed. I rubbed gently over it, then down the calf, massaging her muscle very gingerly.
“Here, sit up.” I removed her shoes and gave her a mini foot massage, which made her squirm a bit. Ticklish. I looked at her and allowed myself to smile. Finally.
I’d been too hard. I’d hurt her. I was ridiculous. I was an ass. I needed Greta to keep me under control. I massaged her calf again, her thi
gh. I moved my face to her knee, and rubbed my nose over the bone. Then I kissed it, on the top of the cap, then on the side, then making my way up her inner thigh. I stopped when I got to the elastic of the leotard. I looked down at her with puppy dog eyes, as if the evil cloth was preventing me from spreading my kisses any farther up. Clearly, said evil clothing had to be removed.
Then I couldn’t help myself. Yes, we were supposed to practice, but fuck it. She was injured. I crawled on top of her and kissed her slowly and deeply, my tongue exploring her mouth, my lips widening to take in everything. I pulled the spaghetti straps of her leotard down, much more quickly this time. Her confidence was up now. She didn’t need coaxing. I pulled my lips away from hers to look at her beautiful bare chest.
“You’re exquisite, Rory,” I said, cupping both breasts in my hands and kissing her again. I pulled away briefly only to pull the leotard down her legs, the elastic-waisted skirt coming down right along with it. I threw the clothes aside and crouched down above her, balancing myself on my arms as I took in her sumptuous body.
“Sasha,” she whispered, suddenly seeming very bashful.
“Yes, Rory,” I said, smiling wickedly up at her.
She seemed like she was going to say something but then just closed her eyes, threw her head back, lifted her knees and crossed her ankles over my back. “Come here,” she said, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and pulling me down onto her.
My pleasure. She moved her legs into another straddle split. Our favorite position. I kissed her deeply again as I moved atop her, my iron-hard bulge thrusting between her legs without penetrating her, my pants still on.
She reached around my back, trying unsuccessfully to tug down my waistband from behind. When it wouldn’t budge she grabbed my ass and kneaded her palms hard over my glutes. I flexed and made her giggle. She bent her knee and raised her leg so that her toe was at my waistband. She began to dig under the material in another attempt to get my pants down. Yes, it was a bit ridiculous but I was having fun seeing her try so hard. Finally, I bounded up into a standing position, taking her up with me. She squealed as I lifted her and she bounced at my waist. Giggling, she rewrapped her legs around my back and hugged me tightly as I walked toward the staircase, holding her around me.
