Wallflower In Bloom (24 page)

“That’s it,” Ilya said as he circled me around from the waist. “You got it, baby. Now give me some more.”

I gave him some more. I gave him more than I even thought I had.

Side by side, we went into a series of kicks. Flick-flick-chachacha starting with the right foot. Flick-flick-chachacha starting with the left. More of the same facing all four walls. Then some slide-slide-turnturnturns, walk-walk-runrunruns, reach-reach-bumpbumpbumps, straddle-straddle-chugchugchugs. We finished the sequence, and then Ilya scooped me into his arms again and danced me around the room.

Our flirty finale involved my partner miming
hey, you, come here
,
and me spinning around three times by myself—on three-inch heels, no less—and right into his waiting arms. Ilya didn’t wear a catcher’s mitt, but I’d noticed that he gauged my trajectory like a baseball player and somehow managed to casually and gracefully position himself just where he needed to be to catch me. For which I was seriously grateful.

“Outstanding,” he said after the third full run-through.

“Really?” I said.

He raised his eyebrow. “It’s an expression. But we’re getting there.”

I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out through my mouth. “It would be a lot easier if this stupid room would stop spinning.” Ilya was still holding me, which was probably the only reason I was still on my feet.

He let go and ran a hand through his hair. I was starting to know all his gestures now—hand through hair, one eyebrow up, twirl of the iPod remote, automatic reach for his cell anytime we took a break. We were already like an old married couple in some ways.

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you work on your spotting last night like I told you to?”

“Right. In my two-foot-by-two-foot apartment. Where the biggest open space is the bathtub.”

“Okay, five times, all the way down to that wall and back, no stopping, tight turns the whole way.”

“You’re such a slave driver,” I said, but I did it anyway. If you’ve never tried spotting, what you do is focus on a nonmoving point in the distance. When you turn, you let everything else become a blur, and then when you come around again you find that same point as soon as you can. Theoretically, the dizzy stuff that makes the room appear to be spinning instead of you slips away because your focus is on that nonmoving point. It actually worked pretty well when I was doing it in a drill. But I knew that once I started dancing again, spotting and remembering the steps would seem a lot like patting my
head and rubbing my stomach at the same time. While running on a treadmill.

When I turned in one direction, I focused on a rectangle of blue paint between two white-trimmed windows. When I turned in the other direction, I focused on the center of the closed door. Five big step-turn-steps would take me across the length of the room if I stretched out my legs, six or seven if I made the circles tighter.

“Crisper, sharper,” Ilya said after the first pass. “Looooook-turn-looooook.

“Better,” he added after the second.

After the fifth set, I dropped my head and rested my hands on my thighs. “I think I’m getting the hang of it,” I said between breaths. “I hardly feel like puking at all anymore. Okay, your turn.”

Ilya laughed. I didn’t think he’d really do it, but he stepped into the center of the room, turned his head toward the far wall, and extended his arms. Then,
boom
, it was like an explosion of grace as he spun the length of the room and back so quickly I couldn’t even count the turns.

When he stopped, I heard clapping behind me.

I turned. Tag was leaning back against my spotting spot on the door, his legs crossed at the ankles, the Land Rover keys dangling from one hand.

“Wow,” Tag said. “Impressive.”

“What—” I said.

“Not you. Him.” My brother flashed his million-dollar smile at my dance partner.

Ilya cat-walked over and held out his hand.

“Ilya,” I said politely. “This is my brother, Tag. He was just leaving.”

Dancers are the athletes of God, but is God the athlete of dancers?

I
’m a big fan,” my dance partner said to my brother.

“Yeah, who isn’t,” I said.

“Ditto,” Tag said. “It’s like watching poetry in motion. I’m humbled.”

“That’s a first,” I said.

Tag ignored me. “You know, Einstein said that dancers are the athletes of God.”

“But is God the athlete of dancers?” I said. Nobody laughed.

“So what do you do in the off-season?” Tag asked, as if Ilya really was an athlete, maybe a hockey or football player. I rolled my eyes at his cluelessness.

“My brother and I run a small chain of dance studios,” Ilya said. “And my three kids are all competing now, so that keeps my wife and me pretty busy.”

“All dancers?” Tag asked.

Ilya grinned. “Two dancers and one fencer. Whatever floats their boats, you know?”

Tag nodded. “One of my four is talking culinary school. One wants
to be a firefighter and one the president. The one in preschool is uncommitted.”

I was still looking at Ilya. Even though I’d been spending most of my waking hours with him, I had no idea he was married, let alone that he had three kids. I’d never even once thought about him having a life outside of
Dancing With the Stars
. It was like being in kindergarten and running into your teacher at the grocery store and being totally blown away that
Mrs. Forest eats
.

“Basically, then,” Tag said, “you’re a brand. So, what, you have a website and some dance videos?”

Ilya nodded. “Yeah. Nothing too fancy yet, but we’re working on it.”

Tag nodded. “Make sure you strike while the iron is hot. I have to tell you, my videos are our bread and butter. And once you make them, they’re the gift that keeps on giving. You just mail them out and put the money in the bank.”

I swiveled my aching neck so Tag couldn’t miss the astonished look on my face. I mean, like my brother had mailed a package in the last decade. Or set foot in a bank, for that matter. He probably couldn’t identify an ATM.

“And no need to hire a big production company.” Tag raised his palms to the heavens, a sure sign that he was getting into this. “Just buy your own camera and have at it. People want
you
, not all the bells and whistles.”

Ilya was nodding away.

“What about social media?” Tag asked. “Facebook, Twitter—”

I couldn’t believe it. Like my brother would know Facebook from a library book, Twitter from glitter.

“Oh, we’re tweetin’ fools around here,” Ilya said. “All the professional dancers have Twitter accounts, plus most of the celebs. Great way to get the vote out, plus it really helps raise our own visibility. Everybody’s starting to amp things up right about now—some of the teams have even brought in social media gurus.”

I swiveled my achy neck around to Ilya. “Seriously?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The stakes are high.”

Okay, so I’d just have to up my game, too. Tag was my piece of celebrity, so maybe I’d have to plant him in the audience after all. But the thought of needing Tag made me absolutely crazy. Like the old saying goes, I couldn’t live with him, but I couldn’t live without him either.

“Well, let me know if you need any tips on strategy,” Tag said.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t go downhill any faster, a guy poked his head in. “Props,” he said. “I’m checking in to see if you need anything for Monday night.”

Tag grinned at Ilya, then held his arms out in front of him and took a few doddering steps. “Just a walker for my sister.”

My face burned while everybody yukked it up. It was like we were kids again, and Tag was telling all his friends what a porker I was.

Still laughing, the prop guy finally turned and left.

“Leave,” I said to Tag.

“What? We were just starting to have some fun.”

“Now.”

“I mean, face it, you’re a bit outclassed in the dance department, but come on, you know I was only kidding.” Tag turned to Ilya. “The only problem with my sister is that she can’t take a joke.”

I turned to Ilya, too. “And the only problem with my brother is that he’s a self-absorbed . . . self-centered . . . egotistical . . . insensitive . . . vain . . . narcissistic. . .”—I took a deep breath—“. . . jerkface.”

Tag shook his head. “That’s more than one problem.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I said.

Then I stomped out the door.

“Half an hour,” Ilya called after me.

The tears I’d been fighting won out.

I knew better. But I found an empty practice studio and called Mitchell anyway.

He answered on the fourth ring. “Hey,” he whispered. “I can’t really talk right now. Can I call you back later?”

I closed my eyes. “You’re still with her.”

“Well, I mean, it all kind of just happened. She’s still pretty upset, so I’m not really sure what’s going on right now.”

My mouth filled with the taste of disgust. It was grainy and metallic. Mitchell was an idiot, but what was my excuse?

“Hey,” Mitchell whispered, “I was just thinking. Maybe you can get me the contact info for the bandleader on the show. You know, just in case they happen to need a backup drummer? That
Dancing With the Stars
band kicks some serious butt.”

I heard a woman’s voice say, “
Who
are you talking to?”

“No one,” Mitchell said. And then he hung up.

My first thought was to get out of Dodge. I’d push open the heavy wooden door to the practice studios, then make my way through the tall iron gate and past the security guard. I’d walk the two blocks to that barbeque place Tag had pointed out, and I’d sit in a dark corner at the back of the restaurant, preferably in a booth for even more camouflage. Then I’d order up every disgustingly fattening thing on the menu. A heaping pile of barbequed pork on a big fat white roll. Coleslaw dripping with mayo. Chips, chips, and more chips.

But unfortunately I was wearing a skintight black minidress, which probably wouldn’t stand out all that much in this neck of the woods, but I knew I’d feel funny eating barbeque in it, and I’d probably have to ask for a bib. And then there was the shoe issue. Nancy Sinatra’s boots might have been made for walkin’ back in the ’70s, but my thin-soled dance shoes weren’t meant to encounter the rough surface of a sidewalk.

I could change back into my baggy T-shirt and yoga pants and flip-flops, but then I’d have to face Anthony again, and maybe even
Gina and Lila from hair and makeup. One
Are you okay?
and I was afraid I’d burst into tears again. Even a kind look might put me over the edge. I was hurt and angry and humiliated, and I couldn’t tell how much was about Tag and how much was about Mitchell and how much was simply about how it sucked being me.

So I headed for craft services. I pushed the door open carefully. If someone was in there, I’d just grab a bottle of water from the fridge and keep moving.

The room was empty. A refrigerator stood guard on the far wall and long counters edged the adjacent walls. I scanned past a coffeemaker, a microwave, napkins, and plastic utensils to a platter of fresh fruit covered with plastic wrap, a bowl of raw almonds, a box of reduced-fat, reduced-salt crackers. A package of dry-roasted wasabi peas.

I crossed the space and opened the refrigerator. A big Tupperware container of baby carrots. String cheese. A tray of portobello mushrooms stuffed with fresh spinach and tomatoes and topped with a minuscule sprinkle of mozzarella. Carrot juice, iced green tea, bottled water.

I opened the freezer. Ice cubes. Lemon-flavored Italian ice. A stack of Lean Cuisine single-serving entrees. A stack of Healthy Choice single-serving entrees.

I slid the two stacks apart and reached behind them, my fingers grazing the icy back wall of the freezer.

I’d almost given up hope when I found it: an entire unopened package of Lindor dark chocolate truffles. I wanted to sink right down to the floor with it, maybe even crawl under the table, the way I used to when I was a kid and needed to protect my stash of chocolate chip cookies from my siblings.