“Your character heels have seen better days, huh?” one of the other dancers said to me while we were on break.
It was a dig. Character shoes aren’t like pointe shoes. They aren’t supposed to look like crap. But mine did. Four years of dancing in college had basically destroyed them. The bottoms were worn thin and they were covered in scuffs. But character shoes are expensive. At least until my first paycheck cleared, I was going to have to make do with what I had.
I’d shrugged my shoulders like I was oblivious to the attitude. “I dance a lot, what can I say? It feels like I’m always buying new ones and they just never last.”
“Hmm,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Well, it’s probably time to get some new ones.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” I said sweetly. But my eyes said, keep your rudeness to yourself. The girl shuffled off, presumably to bully somebody else.
I shook my head to clear the annoyance out. I had to shine today because we were getting our groups assigned and unless I wanted to be in the back, I had to impress the indomitable Mia. I was in group three right now. I needed to fix that. On the next round, I plastered a big smile to my face and held my chin up high. The steps were easy for a trained dancer. It was the attitude that was really important. I needed it to look effortless, and my reflection in the mirror looked like she was having the time of her life.
“Ariel!” the choreographer said, grabbing me by the elbow as I turned to get a drink of water, “get up to group one. Laurie, go join group three.”
Thank goodness. Laurie, a girl with deep-set dark eyes and a huge frown gave me the stink eye as we passed. Or maybe that was just her face. Either way, I tried not to let it get me down. We were all here for one reason. And it wasn’t to become very best-est friends and braid each other’s hair.
Dancing is an extraordinarily cutthroat business, even by show business standards. Depending on what group you were placed in during the first few weeks of rehearsals, you might spend the entire routine in the back. Or dancing behind a bush. Or not making it in the number at all if there were too many girls to fit on stage, or in this case, camera. I refused to be in the back. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, right?
Dancing and singing my way through college had meant a lot of long nights, early rehearsals, herbal teas, and blisters on my heels. It had not allowed a ton of time for dating. I’d had a couple of brief relationships but nothing lasting or particularly interesting. I hadn’t developed any particular skill for having crushes. So, when I saw Derek when I came into the studio this morning and he recognized me, it had been like middle school all over again. I blushed. I froze. And then, right when I thought he might come over to say hello, I bolted.
Yeah, it wasn’t my finest moment. I ran away like a scared little girl. Put Derek in the room right now and I’d be demoted to group five in an instant. But, at least for the moment, I was totally in my element. Next door Ursula and Derek were rehearsing their portion of this number and we’d be combining our groups after lunch, but I would deal with that after I made it through learning this routine. I was starting to feel it now.
Despite the competitiveness, cattiness, and physical exertion, dancing makes you feel like virtually nothing else. It’s freeing; turning your body into an instrument and then surrendering to music is a lot like flying. Even when it hurts, and sometimes it hurts badly, it’s wonderful. Transcendent.
It was easy to imagine the finished product when I was dancing. They’d shown us the costumes earlier, and the set. We’d be nightclub girls in the movie, dancing in a floor show at a criminal-run casino and hotel. The fact that I’d be performing this routine for audiences around the country on the silver screen was enough to make me forget the throbbing in my toes.
Besides, these shoes were just for rehearsal. Our actual performance shoes would be much more uncomfortable, since they’d be period. Our outfits for this number were emerald green, low cut, bedazzled little flapper dresses with skirts about an inch long. We’d be all leg and glitter, except for our ridiculous headdresses, which had enormous feathers coming out of them. I couldn’t wait. I loved a good crazy peacock costume. The space we’d be shooting in was an incredibly preserved 1930’s ballroom, too. It was like something out of a much more glamorous, sparkling time in history. It was all so ridiculously Gatsby that I could just cry.
“Did you hear that Derek Prince and Ursula Jones are dating in real life?” one of the girls asked me during one of our breaks.
I shook my head.
“That’s the rumor,” she continued. “I know this girl, Meg Butler, who said she’d pay five hundred dollars if one of us could get a picture of them kissing.”
I frowned. Derek was dating Ursula? I didn’t know how I felt about that. Oh, who was I kidding? I felt horrible about that. I hated the idea. In my greedy little fan girl heart, I didn’t think that he should be with anyone but me.
“Five hundred dollars for a picture?” I asked, feeling like I had to say something or reveal my hopeless, ridiculous crush on Derek. “That seems like a lot.”
She nodded seriously. “I know, right?! I’m going to keep my eyes peeled.”
Mia clapped her hands to get our attention. “Okay, all groups once more across the floor in order and then we’ll all break for lunch,” Mia told us. “I’m sure you girls are hungry.” She didn’t really sound like she cared that much about our well-being. Mia reminded me of a sexy, younger, dancing Professor McGonagall from Harry Potter. “Now smile big girls! Fix, six, seven, eight…”
I finished my steps confidently, feeling like maybe I was finally getting the hang of this. It wasn’t that different from college when we were here in this rehearsal space. It was just another dance class, and I’d been to an awful lot of dance classes in my time. I ought to have it down by now.
“You’re Ariel, right?” one of my fellow dancers asked me as we filed out to the assembled salad bar that craft services had laid out for us.
I nodded at her, piling my plate high with as many carbs as I could find. I needed fuel for this afternoon, plus I was nervous. “Yes, I am,” I replied, smiling over my shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Flo,” she answered, tossing her blonde hair back. She’d taken it out of her dancer’s bun already and it inexplicably fell in perfect waves around her pretty face. “And this is Jess.”
A nearly identical platinum blonde nodded. “Hi Ariel.”
They were both in group one with me. I had been impressed with them both during the morning workshop. “It’s nice to meet you both,” I said, glad to be meeting them even if just to know my competition. There’s a delicate balance to be had in the dance world. It’s competitive, yes, but being a total raging bitch was really only a strategy if you were a thousand times better than everyone else. Otherwise you needed your fellow dancers as much as you were destined to compete with them. I hoped Flo and Jess would prove worthy allies as well as adversaries.
“Where are you from?” Flo asked me as we ate.
“Sacramento. What about you two?”
“I’m from Kansas,” Jess chimed in. Her midwestern accent pretty much gave that away. “The land of cows, bland food, and fat people.” Yikes. I didn’t think Jess liked her home state very much. She poked at her salad like it was personally offensive to her. “I’m never going back.”
“I’m from Washington,” Flo replied. “The land of rain, salmon, and white people with dreadlocks. But obviously we’re all here for the same thing now, aren’t we? Get famous no matter what.”
I laughed. “I guess so.”
“So,” Jess asked, “are you going to bleach your hair or wear a wig?”
I blinked. “What?”
Jess and Flo exchanged a look and then looked back at me like I was an idiot. “Your bright red hair,” Jess repeated, more slowly this time. “What are you going to do with it?”
I was still confused. “What?” Did my hair look bad?
Jess’s expression turned pitying. “
Look around,” she said. “What color hair does everyone else have on this production?”
I looked around myself at my fellow dancers. Blonde, blonde, dirty blonde, platinum blonde… oh wait. “Well, I mean, we are in LA. It’s not that unusual to be in a room full of skinny white women with blonde hair,” I argued.
“But we’re supposed to have blonde hair,” Flo said, pulling out the packet they gave us this morning. I hadn’t read it yet. “It’s on page eight. See, it’s right here. It’s required.”
I leaned over and read the passage that Flo’s red acrylic nail was pointing to. She was completely correct. ‘Blonde hair, between level seven and twelve, no reddish or pink tones.’ There were also guidelines about our makeup, stockings, underwear, and other personal topics. I guess it all made sense, but I’d need to read that damn packet sooner rather than later.
“Really?” I asked, shaking my head and feeling like my hair had just suddenly become three shades brighter and could now be seen from space. No wonder people had been staring at me this morning. My hair was wrong. “Well, I guess I’ll have to think about that then.”
I’d had nearly every color hair under the sun between high school and now, but it had taken almost three years to grow my natural dark red color back out. I didn’t really fancy having to bleach it again. Besides, I really liked my natural hair color. There aren’t that many natural redheads out there. We gingers are a dying breed and need to be preserved.
“Well, you better take care of it quick,” Jess said. “We were supposed to have our hair done today. I bleached my roots last night.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I stuttered. They were both looking at me like I was dumb. I guess I should have read the packet! This was my first time on a film. I hadn’t expected this.
“I mean, you want to be famous, right?” Flo asked, nibbling on a celery stick. “You might as well just take the plunge and bleach it. Like you said, this is LA. Blondes rule here.”
I frowned back at her. “Amy Adams has red hair and she’s a big star.”
Flo shook her head at me like I was being very dim. “Sure. But Amy Adams didn’t get famous until her thirties. Do you really want to wait that long?” The way Flo said ‘thirties’ you would have thought that was ancient.
I picked up a baby carrot. “What about, um, Isla Fisher?” I asked, taking a bite.
“Isn’t she just the less famous version of Amy Adams?” Flo responded. “Like, the same face with half the talent?”
“Okay, fine. Jessica Chastain?”
“She’s in her forties,” Jess retorted. “Same with Christina Hendricks. You have to admit it, redheads don’t get famous young.”
I shook my head. “Nuh-uh. What about Emma Stone? She’s redheaded, young, and famous.”
“She’s not a redhead,” Flo said adamantly. “That was a dye job.”
“Isn’t she?” I asked. I was pretty sure she was a redhead. She seemed like ginger if I’d ever seen one. And I saw one every morning in the mirror.
“No, she’s a blonde,” Flo said.
Jess was poking at her phone. “Actually, she’s a brunette.”
She showed us a picture. Huh. Apparently, Flo and I were both wrong.
“Well, considering the number of redheads in the world, there are actually a lot of us getting famous,” I said finally. “I’ll dye my hair for this job, but then I’m going right back to red.”
“Your funeral,” Jess said, shrugging her shoulders. “Also, you might want to lay off the carrot sticks. They’re full of carbs and you’re already not the slimmest.”
I rolled my eyes. Dancers. Always so catty. But I put the carrot stick down.
I finished my salad, wondering if they were right. Should I lay off the carbs? I had put on a few pounds since college ended. Nothing major, but I was not a size two anymore. Should I start dyeing my hair? Did blondes have a better shot in Hollywood?
Ugh, I wished I was tougher. It was hard to keep track of my own priorities when other people had so many opinions. Not having control of my own voice was one thing. But it didn’t look like I’d have control of much at all on this production. I thumbed through my booklet to see that my weight, makeup, hair, and nails were going to be carefully controlled once we started filming. Even my manners would be scrutinized. And I was just in the background. All that freedom I’d felt when I was dancing evaporated. I was so tied up in my own worries that I almost bumped into Derek Prince.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, putting my hands on his chest to avoid running straight into him in the hallway. “Sorry!”
He put his hands over mine, steadying me. I gazed up at him, utterly entranced.
“Hello Ariel,” he said, smiling down at me. “It’s nice to see you again. I still owe you a proper dinner, if memory serves.”
10
Derek
Ariel looked like every horny teenage boy’s ballerina fantasy in her skin-tight black leotard. I’d known she was attractive, that was patently obvious even in her jeans and T-shirt from our first meeting, but wearing a dancer’s leotard and some sheer dancer’s tights? Jesus.
She was tiny, maybe five foot three, but with long, gorgeous legs, round hips, a tiny waist… my pulse was racing just looking at her. I imagined those round, full tits of hers looked fantastic when she was dancing around, and her cute butt could make me do things. The black played off her milky pale skin and her freckles stood out, just begging to be counted. Her red hair was piled atop her head in the classic ballerina bun and I wanted to pull it down, run my fingers through it, and mess it up. A thorough, rough, visceral fantasy of doing just exactly that, and more, shot through me like a drug. I could see the details now. We’d just go out to my trailer…
“Hi Derek,” she stuttered, taking me back to the present and twisting me around her little finger. Her voice was soft and the way she looked at me made my heart pound. But I obviously wasn’t going to be taking her to my trailer. One, that was trashy. Two, I barely knew her. And three, I shouldn’t be fraternizing. The studio wanted me to go out with Ursula for ‘publicity.’ Yuck.
“What are you up to?” I asked, and then cringed. She was eating lunch. Obviously. We were all on lunch break. One hot redhead and I was suddenly reduced to a gameless, slobbering fool again. I suppose I should have practiced what I was going to say to her.
She didn’t seem to notice my mistake. “Oh,” she mumbled, “nothing.”
“You got the part!” I said, happy to see her again. She was just as pretty as I remembered. And she wasn’t screaming at me this time at all. Progress!
She nodded shyly at me. “Yes, I did. And just in the nick of time.”
“What do you mean?” I asked her.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I was down to the dregs of my bank account. Getting this job means I’ll get to stay around a little bit longer and not move home.”
I didn’t know what to say to her. That was the reality for most struggling performers in LA. It had never been my reality though. I’d been born with a silver spoon in my mouth and then when I decided I wanted to go into acting, I’d had a very famous uncle who could help me and a father who could finance me forever. I’d never seriously considered for a second that I wouldn’t succeed.
“I’m glad you got the part,” I said. “I wanted to see you again.”
She blinked her big blue eyes. “Why?”
“Why do you think?”
Ariel turned bright pink again. “My incredible stunt driving?”
“Yeah, that was it.” I laughed at her and she smiled shyly back at me. “What were you thinking about earlier?” I asked, wanting to change the subject before I stuck my foot so far down my own throat I couldn’t recover. “You looked so serious.”
Ariel shook her head. “Oh. Just, um, geopolitics and world economics.”
“Really?” I asked. If we had to discuss those subjects, then I was probably doomed. I stayed reasonably apprised of world events, but I was no expert. I knew just
enough to probably sound like a perfect idiot. I’d only gone to college for one year and had never been a strong student at all. That was more my twin’s thing. I was president of my pledge class though. That was something.
She giggled at me. “No. Not really. I don’t know anything about geopolitics. I was just considering what color blonde to go tonight. An equally important and serious subject, obviously.” She winked.
I laughed, glad she was loosening up a bit, although horrified by the prospect she raised. “Ariel, don’t dye your hair.” Why would she dye it? It was beautiful. How many women naturally have hair that color? I’d never seen one.
I’d also never had a thing for redheads before. I had a serious thing for them now, though. Well, for one of them anyway.
“I have to,” she explained, pulling out a booklet the studio must have given her. “We’re required to have blonde hair. It’s in the chorus girl rulebook. Right there next to the acceptable lipstick colors.”
I frowned at her. “You could just wear a wig. You only need to be a blonde for the days we’re filming.”
“Dancing in a wig is no fun.”
I nodded reluctantly. She was right, of course. I’d been forced to do it myself a few times. Wigs are hot, itchy, and depending on how much you are dancing, smelly. Wigs can be washed, but it is a lot of work. Plus, the studio wouldn’t spring for a nice one. Ariel was just a chorus girl, so she’d be forced to buy her own. I could understand why she was considering the peroxide, even if it broke my heart.
“I like your hair, for what it’s worth,” I told her. I resisted the urge to try and touch it. It wouldn’t be welcome. I barely knew her.
Her soft-looking, full lips parted in surprise and I stared hungrily at them. At least those lips would stay the same when she dyed her hair.
“That’s nice of you to say,” she mumbled. Her pale skin was flushed again.
The Little Barmaid Page 5