Wallflower In Bloom (33 page)

When Ilya and I came out of the makeup trailer, Karen the producer led us to a little bench set into a nook of midnight blue satin curtains for our preshow interview. The female host sat in the center with a microphone and a guy holding a camera stood across from her surrounded by camera lights. Karen wanted us to sit on either side of the female host, so I had to let go of Ilya’s hand.

When the camera started rolling, the female host turned to me.
“So, Tag’s sister Deirdre, just moments before twenty-three million people will watch you dance live for the first time, how are you feeling?”

“Can’t complain,” I said.

Under the hot glare of the camera lights, her teeth sparkled against her spray tan. I was mesmerized. I wondered if mine were doing the same thing. I took a quick peek at my arms through the illusion mesh. I’d spent decades slathered in sunscreen. Now I had some serious tan going on. I liked it.

The female host cleared her throat. “Word is out that your famous brother Tag is in the audience. What will you say to him when you see him?”

“Hello?” I said.

Her teeth disappeared behind pouty lips and about three tons of lipstick. She leaned a little bit closer. “How successful do you think you’ll be in this competition?”

“It depends on your definition of success,” I said. I turned and faced the camera. I gave it my most sparkly smile. “Success is getting what you want, but happiness is wanting what you get.”

The female host let out a little gasp. “Did Tag give you that line?” she whispered.

I kept looking at the camera. “Actually, it’s mine. Or I should say I found it on the Internet. That’s what I do—I’m a social-networking guru. Tag is one of my clients, but I also raise visibility for a whole range of other clients via Facebook and Twitter and a variety of Internet strategies.” I leaned forward to look over at Ilya. “My dance partner, Ilya, is one of my newest clients. In case you don’t know it, he owns a renowned and fast-growing chain of ballroom dance studios that offer training for amateurs of all ages as well as those with professional aspirations.”

Ilya smiled at the camera, his white teeth sparkling against his spray tan. “Just go to Facebook and search for Dance With Ilya.”

“So, getting back to your question,” I said when he finished, “the truth is we’re in it to win it, but however it goes, we’re planning to enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts, and also to take advantage of every opportunity
Dancing With the Stars
brings our way.”

The female host didn’t seem to have heard me. “Are you dedicating tonight’s dance to Tag?” she asked.

My eyes filled. “Actually, we’re dedicating it to Fred and Ginger.”

Ilya and I high-fived each other after the interview. “Whoa, baby,” he said, his Ukrainian accent slipping in the way it always did when he used American slang. “You just bought yourself about twenty-three million new clients.”

“Me?” I said. “How about you? You and your brother aren’t going to be able to build those dance studios fast enough.”

I leaned against a wall while Ilya roughed up the soles of my dance shoes with a sheet of fine-grade sandpaper to keep me from slipping. Before we knew it we were lined up with the other ten couples behind a wall that traversed the space behind the staircase.

The male and female hosts took turns introducing each couple and waited while they descended the staircase together to thunderous applause.

The staircase had a steep scary pitch. The steps flashed distractingly with strobe lights that changed color and reminded me of my brother’s disco ball spotlight of long ago. They spilled each couple out onto the ballroom dance floor facing the judges and the audience. Right now my entire focus was on not landing on my butt on the way down.

Ilya held my hand as we faced the staircase. My heart did a funny little hip-hop thing, threatening to dance right out of my chest. Hopefully, illusion mesh held hearts in place as well as flesh. I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out through my mouth.

“Tag’s sister, Deirdre Griffin, and her professional partner, Ilya Balanchuk,” the male host boomed.

I didn’t sashay or strut or glide or wiggle my way seductively down the stairs, but I didn’t fall either. It was enough.

Ilya and I joined the other couples standing in a semicircle on the ballroom floor, bouncing either awkwardly or rhythmically to the
DWTS
theme song. Ilya put his hands on my shoulders and I matched my movements to his. I smiled at the big black blur of the audience. Then they cut to commercial and we were herded back to the camera-studded greenroom like so many glittery, spray-tanned sheep.

Ashleyjanedobbs patted the chair beside her as if we were in elementary school and she’d saved me a seat in the cafeteria. I sat down and waited for my legs to stop shaking.

She leaned over to whisper, “Guess what? Some Broadway producers are here to see me. I’ve been trying to get a show for like
ever
.”

“That’s great,” I whispered. “Good for you.”

She leaned closer. “Just don’t tell Tag, okay? It’s not like I’m dumping him—I just need to focus on my career.” She closed her cornflower blue eyes and then opened them again. “Actually, I
am
dumping him, but I’m really good at it so he won’t even notice.”

“Be gentle with him,” I whispered. “He’s pretty fragile.”

I clapped and smiled while the first few couples performed and got their scores from the judges, but I didn’t hear or see a thing. Ilya came over and stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders. I took deep breaths.

A guy dressed all in black led Ilya and me to opposite wings of the stage, and we stood there waiting for a while, maybe seconds, maybe centuries. I was too numb to tell. The male host introduced us again and we inched forward to our respective edges of the stage. It was like a bad board game. I just wanted one good throw of the dice, maybe double sixes, so I could get all the way home.

A tape began to play on huge flat-screen monitors scattered around the ballroom.

A close-up of me filled them all—messy hair, no makeup, a terrified look on my face. The camera pulled away to reveal my baggy T-shirt, which made my upper body look like a square box on top of the black legs of my yoga pants. I took a tottering step on my flesh-colored dancing shoes, as if I were learning to walk for the first time.

Ilya crossed the space between us with a wiry feline grace. He still looked like Felix the Cat with his white T-shirt, black jeans, vest, and sneakers, but mostly he looked like my friend Ilya.

Video Ilya held out his arms.

“Oh, please don’t make me do this,” Video Me said. I’d forgotten all about the audience until they burst into laughter.

The camera cut to Ilya putting his hand on my waist and me giggling, to the two of us attempting to waltz around and around our practice studio as I stepped on his toes repeatedly. Then it showed me with my arms up over my head, playing air tambourine and rocking out to an imaginary Grateful Dead song, and finally my last-ditch effort to dig into my intro to tap repertoire and Shuffle Off to Buffalo.

While everybody applauded, I made eye contact with Ilya across the vast expanse of stage between us. He raised one eyebrow. You could look at it that twenty-three million people had just watched a clip of me at my lowest point, on one of the most embarrassing, overwhelming days of my life. Or you could look at it that I’d come a long way, baby.

The
Dancing With the Stars
orchestra filled the room with a big, bouncy rendition of “Smooth.”

The real Ilya and I crossed the space between us.

And we danced. We did our front-back-chachachas, our turn-turnchachachas, then we circled around and around the stage, covering every inch of it. We did our bumps and our grinds and we launched into our series of kicks. I hit every beat, sometimes a little bit too hard, sometimes not quite hard enough, but hey, I hit ’em. My adrenaline was pumping so intensely that I almost forgot and started singing
along at the top of my lungs, just so all that energy had somewhere to go. Instead, I sent it back out into the universe through my arms and my legs and my hips.

There was a Martha Graham quote taped to our practice studio door. The famous one about how there is a life force that is translated through you into action, and because you’re the only you in all time, this expression is unique. I got it now. I really, really got it. There was only one Deirdre Griffin and she was pretty spectacular. Maybe I’d spent most of my life as the family wallflower, but now I was a wallflower in
bloom
.

I’d never felt so alive.

Ilya scooped me up again and cha-cha-chaed me around the stage. He let go and danced away and before I knew it he was miming,
Hey, you, come here
. I launched into my three turns, and Ilya caught me without even having to dive for me.

“Outstanding,” he whispered as the audience burst into applause.

You can spend all your time fishing, or you can put it all into one big fish
.

I
saw my parents first. They were standing in front of their first-row seats wearing matching tie-dyed T-shirts that proclaimed
DEIRDRE!

“That’s my daughter,” my father boomed, his voice breaking through the applause.

“Way to go, sweetie!” my mother yelled.

When Tag took a step forward, I knew without even looking up at the huge flat-screen monitors that every camera was on him. He held out a big bouquet of flowers.

Ilya gave me a little push. “Go,” he whispered.

I crossed the stage as gracefully as I could. Tag met me halfway. He handed me the flowers and then pulled me in for a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The applause had started up again, thunderous this time, and everyone in the audience was on their feet.

“You’d better be,” I whispered.

“I got you a new fish to make it up to you.”

My eyes teared up. “I don’t want new fish. Even if you bought me the New England Aquarium, I want you to return it right now.”

“You can spend all your time fishing,” Tag whispered, “or you can put it all into one big fish.”

He turned his head. I followed his gaze to the audience.

And then I saw Steve Moretti sitting next to my parents, smiling at me.

“Don’t forget to write that one down, okay?” Tag whispered. “I can definitely use it.”

Everybody waited while Ilya and I changed out of our costumes and into our street clothes after the show. I was starving, but it was a good hungry, a hungry that I’d earned.

We walked down the street together, stopping to talk to the line of reporters and paparazzi. Most of the questions were for Tag, but Ilya and I got a few good plugs in, too.

“Do you think your mother and I got on camera?” my father said as we continued down the street. “Not that I care, but it would mean a lot to our bowling team. They took the night off to watch.”

“We’ll have a family meeting as soon as we get back,” my mother said. “To figure out who gets to come to the show next week.”

“Your sisters,” my father said, “are champing at the bit.”

“For the record,” Steve whispered as he held out my chair at the barbeque place, “those were my flowers.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tag said. “Who went to all that trouble to track you down? Who got you a front-row seat at the season premiere of
Dancing With the Stars
?”

I smiled at Steve. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

I unwrapped the florist paper and Steve asked the waiter to bring a pitcher of water.

He pointed. “That’s blue star; it’s actually an
Amsonia
. And that’s an anemone called Pink Star. And these flashy ones are stargazer lilies. There’s a bit of a theme, in case you didn’t notice.”

I smiled at him. “You’re pretty amazing, Azalea Guy.”

“You’re pretty amazing yourself, Twinkle Toes. I had no idea you could dance like that.”

“Ha,” I said. “I couldn’t. My dance partner gets all the credit.”

Ilya beamed and looked up from checking his Facebook page on his laptop.