Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (27 page)

Her partner of the past few weeks, Boyd, was out, Lana saw with shock. Replaced by the likeable Sergei, a soloist, but still, it was unnerving. And one of the other female soloists was out. Replaced by Gabrielle. That was how quickly one’s favor changed. The thought unnerved her, horrified her.

Reaction from this posting was different from the time Lana’s name had appeared as the female lead in
Autumn Souvenir.
No glares sent her way this time. Gabrielle gave a little squeal and jump of excitement. She spied Lana nearby and hurried over. “We’ll be rehearsing together now, it would seem,” she said. Her tone was casual but her eyes sparkled.

Lana tried to echo her enthusiasm. “I know, isn’t that great? Congratulations on making the
Arpeggio
rehearsal list.”

Gabrielle beamed. “Well, as we all know, it’s not casting. Yet. But
Arpeggio
is a lot of fun. Lexie’s one of my favorite choreographers. I can’t wait to bite into this!”

Courtney approached, smiling, happy as well, and Lana told herself to focus on the positive. She was still on the list. Gabrielle and Courtney were being friendly, chatting with Lana as the three of them walked down the hall at the same time. When Gabrielle saw Javier, she cut off her talk with a quick “see ya!” and bounded over to him. Courtney chuckled as they continued walking. “She’s psyched,” she said to Lana.

“She is.”

“Hey, great job last night, by the way.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Courtney seemed to understand that the morning’s class, not to mention the new rehearsal list, had troubled Lana. “Hey,” she said in a softer voice. “Don’t sweat the other stuff. Anders blowing up at you, Katrina getting mad. Dancing in the corps last night and not as a soloist. And, well, that you’re not under early consideration for one of the big roles in
Nutcracker
.”

So Lana hadn’t been the only one to notice. But Courtney was being warm, cordial to her, so she tried to respond in kind.

“Thanks. I appreciate your saying that.”

Courtney returned her smile. “No worries. Honest, none of it means a thing.”

After grabbing lunch, Lana called Mom, which she’d been trying to do regularly since the frightening incident. Annabel had assured her that Mom was fine now, snappish and irritable, but fine. Conversations with Mom herself were tricky, though. Lana couldn’t bring up the Baby John relapse, because to do so might trigger another relapse. Another family game of theirs. Ignore the skeleton that got pushed back into the closet, never mind that you were leaning against the door to keep it in there. Lana chose her words carefully, trying to read into each response Mom made, guess what mood she was in.

Today Mom was complaining about her bad back, about the way the younger boys were arguing so much of the time, and how Annabel and Scott were no help at all.

“It was opening night last night,” Lana offered.

“Oh. That’s nice. How did it go?”

It bothered her that Mom sounded distracted, unimpressed. “It was okay,” she said, allowing a note of injury to creep into her tone.

“I wish we could be there to see you.”

“I wish you could be too.” A lump rose in her throat. No family in the audience, ever. What a depressing thought.

“And how are those fancy new friends of yours?” Mom asked.

In the previous conversation, she’d asked about Coop, to which Lana had evasively replied that she didn’t get back to the old neighborhood much. “Some friend you are,” Mom had said, to which Lana had held her tongue.

Today Mom tried to weasel new information out of Lana about Gil. Lana, forewarned, knew how to say the right things now, focusing on the truth, that Gil and Alice were close, so sometimes Lana saw Gil at Alice’s but he had a girlfriend he was living with. And how Gil was friends with almost everyone at the WCBT, besides.

A snort from Mom. “Your type wouldn’t hold that kind of guy’s interest anyway.”

More holding of the tongue.

She targeted her attack next on Alice, searching for issues of possible contention, trying to drum up points to illustrate why Lana shouldn’t be trusting Alice. When Lana produced no complaints, Mom muttered that Alice sounded just as slick as that Gil character. What was Lana’s backup plan? Surely she didn’t think this Alice woman would continue to be nice to a nobody like her. Not when she had friends like Lana described, the celebrity musicians and the billionaire.

“I need to go,” Lana finally said, exhausted from not being able to blurt out what she was truly thinking and feeling.

“All right. You have a good day. And a good performance tonight.”

Mom sounded cheerful now, downright happy. Which was a good thing. A cheerful Mom was a safer one.

If only it didn’t have to be at the expense of Lana’s own energy.

Her fatigue and diminished spirits seemed to be reflected in her performance of
Serenade
that night. She didn’t make any big mistakes, but her timing seemed off at one point during a quick-moving passage. Here, even the tenth of a second mattered. She got back on track quickly, but the gaffe seemed to taint the rest of her efforts. Once offstage, Dena Lindgren gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, which told Lana that her uneven dancing hadn’t gone unnoticed. The other performance and the dress rehearsals had been impeccable; she supposed it was no surprise that one night didn’t measure up to the others. It was not a big deal, she told herself as she stood in the downstage wings awaiting their next cue. It was all part of the live performing game.

Gil, meeting her after the show, took note of her subdued spirits. “I know what you need,” he told her. “A taste of something completely different. A singer I know is performing late tonight, at a low-key club that serves food till midnight.”

Lana didn’t want to go to a club. What she wanted was a shower, her fuzzy bathrobe and a quiet meal, but Gil seemed so eager about his idea that she couldn’t bring herself to say no.

The place was, as he promised, low-key. In fact, it was downright dingy, dimly lit, redolent of old beer and wine. But the seats were comfortable, Gil found them a table in a quiet corner, and she was able to order food.

The singer, Lana had to admit, was worth watching. She had a low, husky voice, deep-set eyes and prominent cheekbones, her face framed by a haze of tangled blonde curls. Her sequined dress revealed a modest cleavage and a thin frame not unlike that of a dancer. Her movements were sinuous, mesmerizing. There was a mysterious allure to her that Lana couldn’t put her finger to. She noted the others, almost exclusively men, maintained equal rapt attention on the singer.

When the set was over and the woman had taken her last bow, she spied Gil and smiled. She stopped first to speak with a table of men near the stage, but afterward came to Gil and Lana’s table.

Lana’s heart sank. Gil looked thrilled. His face was bright with something akin to mischief as he introduced the two women. They shook hands, exchanged polite greetings, and promptly ignored each other. Gil and Jewel chatted for five minutes, Gil’s arm slung over Lana’s shoulders, fingers caressing her arm.

Gil asked Jewel if she’d consider showing Lana her room upstairs.

Both Jewel and Lana rose in their seats at the same time. “No thanks, Gil,” Lana said, followed by an emphatic bob of agreement from Jewel.

“No, no,” Gil protested. “Lana, this is something you’ve really got to see. As a performer, you’ll be so impressed. You can’t imagine some of the pictures Jewel’s got on her walls.”

“No, Gil.” Jewel wagged her finger at Gil, a gesture that came off as half-scolding, half-flirting. “Not a chance I’m taking you up there. Not after what you did last time.”

They both laughed.

Lana tensed. How, she wondered, did this new development fit into Gil’s idea of doing “something special” for her tonight?

“Aww, come on,” Gil was saying to Jewel in a coy tone. “Lana needs to see this.”

Lana touched Gil’s thigh. “You know, I’m tired, Gil. And I’m sure Jewel is too.”

Jewel gestured to Lana and nodded.

“I won’t take no for an answer.” Gil pulled out his wallet and extracted a twenty, setting it on the table next to Jewel.

Jewel didn’t pick up the bill. “This isn’t about the money, Gil.”

“What about that time I saved you from Butch? Have you already forgotten that?”

Jewel’s nostrils flared. She regarded Gil solemnly and shook her head. “You know, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d hate you.”

“I know that. And that’s why you’re going to do me this favor. I really want Lana to see a different angle of the performance world. And Jewel, you are the jewel.”

“Oh, dammit, sweet talk will get you everywhere.” Jewel grabbed at the twenty and tucked it into the cleavage of her dress.

“Five minutes,” she said to Gil. She turned to Lana, motioning for her to follow.

Lana knew the easiest way out of the whole irritating scenario was simply to do what Gil was acting so insistent about. Gil looked at her unhappy face and squeezed her hand.

“I’m sorry. You’re ready to go home, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“I’ll pay up and we’ll leave once you get back.”

Jewel was looking impatient, so Lana rose and followed her through the club, past the back curtains, down a hall and up a flight of narrow stairs, miserably aware of the sexy side-to-side sway of Jewel’s hips.

On the second level, Jewel opened a door at the end of the hall and beckoned Lana inside. The room was small, decorated like a living room, a smell of stale cigarette smoke in the air. Jewel flipped on a set of track lights that highlighted one of the walls. Lana turned and stared.

The entire surface was crowded with performance pictures, publicity shots, black-and-white portraits, half of which featured the beautiful Jewel. They were sensational. There were other framed photos as well, featuring men, one man in particular. Theatrical poses, spontaneous ones, the man in formal attire, the man standing with flashy celebrity types, arms around each other. Jewel and the man must be a team, Lana decided. And yet they were never together. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jewel standing there by the door, smoking a cigarette, watching Lana.

“You look beautiful in these,” Lana said, which Jewel acknowledged with a bob of her head. “And he’s gorgeous. Who is he?”

Jewel leaned over to retrieve an ashtray from a nearby table. She tapped her cigarette ash into it before replying. “’He’ is Joel.”

“You two look alike. In fact, your names sound alike.”

“You’re a quick one.”

Lana finally caught on. She understood why Gil was so entertained by Jewel, why he’d wanted Lana to see the pictures. Jewel was Joel. She turned to look back at the beautiful woman and there was no mistaking it. Jewel had an Adam’s apple.

Jewel was a man.

Which threw the situation downstairs into confusion as well. Gil hadn’t been flirting with a woman down there at all. He’d been flirting with a man. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. She could only stand there and stare at Jewel, jaw agape, trying to process it all.

Jewel chuckled. “I’m good, huh?”

“You are,” Lana managed. “You’re incredible.”

Jewel reached up with her free hand, removed a few hairpins and yanked the golden curls off her head. And like that, Jewel became Joel, a beautiful man in makeup, wig in hand. She—or rather, he—took another drag of his cigarette and scrutinized Lana again. The smoke drizzled out of his nose, like a dragon. “You don’t look like Gil’s type,” he said.

First Mom and now this Jewel. What did either of them know of the Chicago boy, the Gil who held her close at night, who’d told her he loved her, that she’d changed him, that this was Something Special for him?

“Oh yeah?” she finally said, crossing her arms and affecting a similar pose. “Neither do you.”

Jewel—or Joel, Lana reminded herself—looked taken aback. Then he began to laugh.

“
Touché
,” he said.

“I’m ready to get back to Gil,” Lana said.

“Honey, I’ll bet you are.”

She was quiet on the drive home, pondering the way Gil had been beaming, having offered this “gift” that, in truth, had made her queasy. Seeing the affection Joel had displayed for Gil, leaning closer to accept Gil’s kiss on his cheek, the girlish goodbye hug, a long one, and at the end, Joel squeezed Gil’s ass. Gil had laughed, but hadn’t look horrified or uneasy. All Lana, watching, could think of was that carefully tucked-away Andy Redgrave memory, the moment just before Alice had pulled her away, and how comfortable Gil had looked next to this man who’d been clearly coming on to him. A warning arose within her, Mom’s lecturing voice all the way.

You do not know this guy. You think you do, but you don’t.

And this, even bigger, in a voice neither Mom nor herself, or at least not the suggestible, compliant Lana. This was the Lana who’d sent Anders the tape, the one who’d told him “yes.”

This is
not
why you sacrificed your security and came out here.

Watch yourself.

When Alice entered the house late the following Wednesday afternoon, a sweet, buttery aroma greeted her. She inhaled deeply, smiled and made her way into the kitchen, where Lana stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She looked up in surprise at the sight of Alice. “Uh, oh,” she said, “Am I late or are you early?”

“I’m early. Yum, what do I smell?”

Lana looked sheepish. “It’s melting butter and marshmallows. I’m making some Rice Krispies treats to bring in for Dena Lindgren tonight.”

“Who’s that?”

“One of the corps dancers who’s helped me acclimate in
Serenade.
She’s stepping in for Katrina tonight.”

“Oh, no, did Katrina get hurt?”

“Her tendonitis was flaring up and Anders didn’t want her to risk aggravating it, not on a closing night. He’d rather she rest up for Program II.”

“That’s wise. So, what’s the understudy’s name again?”

“Dena Lindgren.”

“Hmm. I’ve met a Rebecca Lindgren at a social function. Any relation?”

“Sisters. Dena’s three years younger.”