The Cuddler

by Liv Kingstown

  The only thing a dancer should ever be thinking about is dance. That’s how you rise to the top—become the cream of the crop. It’s why I’ve already fulfilled my family’s legacy and become a legend in my own right.

  Every day I die—kill—myself and for that, I’m the best, known the world over.

  But I don’t hurt myself every day because I want to be known.

  I do it because that’s what’s expected of me.

  Dirk tugs on my bare arm, the one supporting a bundle of fresh roses, and points to a man in overalls hanging halfway out of the ceiling. “Speaking of your grandmother, I’m not comfortable with this, Taylor. I don’t think we should be adding video cameras at every corner of the studio.”

  Continuing to tread through the sea of dancers in the hall, I slip from Dirk’s grip. The halls are extra crowded this afternoon. They are not just filled with students but also an electrician crew armed with tool guns, ladders, and rolls of heavy wire. They’ve been contracted to install video cameras, which includes sound so people can hear the music along with the drama over the Internet when we’re rehearsing.

  When I see one of the cameras aimed at the janitor’s closet, I realize why Dirk has a problem with this.

  “You’re just going to have to find another place to make out with Jesse when no one is around.”

  Dirk sighs, continuing to follow from behind. “That’s not the reason I’m wary of the cameras.”

  “Sure, it is.”

  “Jesse and I are over,” Dirk says. “I’ve already met someone else.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. “But you’ve been after Jesse since he moved here six months ago.”

  Dirk rakes his hands through his blond hair, letting his green eyes wander as he thinks. Whimpers of ogling teenagers sound off in admiration around us.

  “I don’t think Jesse’s ever going to come fully out of the closet.” Dirk shrugs. “Everything we do is always in the closet. You know we can’t expect people to be...” Dirk eyeballs me, his eyes get glossy as they graze over my wavy brown hair, cropped at the back, and practically naked body, “be what they’re not.”

  “Shit, man,” I stomp away. “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m sorry.” He follows.

  “Dirk, I’m serious. You can’t freakin’ look at me like that.”

  “I know, I know.” He catches up. “Taylor, it’s just really hard to be around you, you know?”

  Ugh. “And don’t use the word ‘hard’ around me ever again.”

  “Ah,” his voice is sour. “I didn’t mean it like that. You just confuse people sometimes. I mean, nobody knows your preference.”

  Da-fuh?

  I stop again, turning to him. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not gay. Clearly, you saw the pictures Diamond took and posted. I’ve slept with a lot of women since that night.”

  “But I’ve never seen you...” He hesitates, scratching his head. “You only hang out with me and my friends. My. Gay. Friends. And I’ve never seen you hook up with anyone seriously. It’s like you’re either overcompensating or you’re afraid to fall in love. Diamond was a perfect match and not just in beauty but a prima. The two of you are so beautiful together, on and off the stage.”

  Love? Is he serious? What kind of stupid bullshit is that?

  I step up to Dirk. “You’re talking about a relationship that lasted one night.” And it was with a woman who is a total bitch! I should know. I’m her dance partner that has to cater to her every whim when I’d really just like to drop her on her ass.

  “Diamond said you were gay. Said it was the worse sex she ever had in her life. She posted it everywhere online yesterday. Why didn’t you ever say anything in response?”

  Again, because she’s a conniving brat.

  “She’s desperate, man. She’s trying to get me to convince people otherwise by trying to get me to sleep with her again. But I don’t give a damn about what people think. And besides, I don’t manage my social media, someone else does. It’s why I went to the marketing agency, so I don’t have to worry about this crap. The marketing person, whoever that is, manages all my stuff. It’s the same person who suggested we model for a few fashion designers months ago to increase the school’s social media presence. And it’s the same person who suggested to Penny we add video cameras in all the rooms and down the halls, so our sponsors can watch us twenty-four seven. According to my marketer, our sponsors are more obliged to pour more money into the school and the company when they feel connected to us. It’s the same person who even arranged this private meeting this morning.”

  “Private meeting?” Dirk scratches his smooth jaw. “I thought this was an exhibition.”

  I flail my free hand up and down between us, so he takes note of what we’re both wearing, which is...

  Nothing.

  Tight, nude-colored, briefs that barely cover our crotch and show every contour of our chiseled asses. That’s all we have on.

  “This is an exhibition, Dirk, and we are the exhibit.”

  Dirk clasps his own cheeks with two hands. “Why do I feel so dirty all of a sudden? Like I’m being used. Dancing has never made me feel dirty except when we’re at Club Max. Actually, I think I like this.” He winks.

  I flick Dirk across the shoulder with a backhand. “Dude, you cannot do that to me either?”

  “What are you talking about?” He flicks me back.

  “You winked.”

  “I wasn’t winking at you.” He winks repeatedly with exaggeration. “I was winking for emphasis.” He winks again. “Why are you behaving like such a homophobe?”

  My voice tips low. “How can I be a homophobe when my best friend is a homosexual?”

  “I don’t know, but now it’s your tone that just sounds... rude,” he scowls.

  I fire back. “I’m not being rude.”

  “An ass then.”

  What?

  “You’re not an ass, Taylor” interrupts Jesse. “But Dirk most certainly wants to get in there.”

  Jesse ruffles the top of Dirk’s head as he flies in to stand between us fully dressed in Adidas like he thinks he’s a basketball star rather than a dancer.

  “Why do you think Dirk couldn’t commit to me, Taylor?” Jesse taps my cheek and puckers his lips as if he’s about to kiss me. I whack his hand away. “Dirkland will always be in love with you. Too bad you’re straight.” He also winks as he walks away.

  My heart breaks. It’s really strange how sorry I feel for Dirk right now. The guy, with both his hands planted over his reddening face, has been my best friend since we were eight. I think the fact he came out when he was ten made it easy for us to remain friends for the last thirteen years. We both had dark secrets we were hiding. Secrets deep down we were ashamed to confess to anyone but each other: He’s gay. I’m a murderer who murdered his own mother with a single kick to the heart at the age of three.

  Dirk peels his fingers from his face. “Don’t listen to Jesse. He’s deflecting.”

  “You mean projecting?”

  “Sheesh, I don’t know. I’m a dancer, not a psychotherapist.”

  We both laugh.

  The sound of typical warm-up music—Chopin, Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2—resonates through emptying halls as dancers, like soldiers, shuttle single file into their classes.

  I turn towards the heavy double doors where Dirk and I need to go. “You ready to dance dirty?”

  “You think these ladies can handle it?” He smiles slyly. “I mean the two of us? Together?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m sure they’ve already filled out their checks. We just need to make sure they sign and hand the money over.”

  Dirk purses his lips to the side. “You don’t think this is odd? Giving an ‘exhibition’ to gain funds?”

  “You like the apartment the school puts you up in?”

  “Yeah,” he chortles.

  He should. Dirk’s apartment is bigger than the average size bachelor pad in this bustling metropol
is, and it includes parking.

  “The world’s a stage, man, and we’re dancers,” I chortle. “It doesn’t matter where we are as long as we’re in the center of it with all eyes on us.”

  “That sounds like something your marketer told you. Tried to sell you on.”

  “Actually,” I rub my chin. “I think it was. In an email.”

  “You mean you still haven’t met this person?”

  “Hell, no. Penny deals with all that shit.”

  “Have you seen any of your social media posts recently?”

  “Nope.”

  “You should. You’ve got a million followers and you look great. The images are themed and colored in coordinating colors and effects—a retro meets contemporary theme. Whoever is designing the campaigns really knows what he’s doing.”

  “He must. We’ve seen a serious increase in enrollment and sponsorship, so hiring a marketer was a good idea.”

  “Your idea?”

  “Of course.” I nod.

  Somebody needs to save my family’s school before it goes extinct.

  “But this,” Dirk points his thumb at the doors. “This isn’t your idea, is it?”

  “No. Like I said, this one belongs to the marketer.”

  “And you’re just going to trust this person you’ve never spoken to except through a few emails?”

  “I do as I’m expected.” I stretch my arms to loosen up. “I dance. That’s why I’m alive.”

  “Right.” Dirk nods. “I’m curious. If you had to pick between the two, which would you choose? Women or dancing?”

  I’m Taylor Rose.

  I don’t have to choose.

  I have fans.

  So, I get both.

  Sex, dance, the school—it’s all one thing to me. Doesn’t matter if I like or loathe any of it because no matter what I do, whether I want it or not, I get more love than I know what to do with.

  There’s only one thing I’ve ever loved, and I can’t care to love anything else again. Not dance. Not even the school. And most certainly not another human being. I refuse to love. Period.

  I’m only doing what is expected of me because that’s what she would’ve loved. That’s what would’ve made her happy. If I had listened and done what I was told, my mother would still be here today.

  Putting the bundle of rosebuds to my nose, I take a whiff. “We shouldn’t talk about this anymore,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I grin. “It’s showtime.”

  Pushing the doors open to enter the grand ballroom, both Dirk and I sing, “Ladies!”

  We each front our best fake, well rehearsed smile. With our shoulders down, chest out, arms open but relaxed, Dirk and I walk into the room that has a ceiling three-stories high. Windows span the full length of the longest wall, from one deco column to another. The restored neoclassical building built in the 1920s is the most eloquent of all the rooms with a bright but soft glow.

  I prefer to dance in this room. It’s reminiscent of a time when cigarettes and garments adorned with fur and feathers were something of prestige and at one point this room used to be a nightclub.

  Immediately, we are greeted by a woman dressed sleekly in a short black business casual dress and in the company of a younger girl, her daughter, also in black but dressed more plainly.

  Fourteen, I believe the girl is (if I remember the email correctly—I usually only skim the first line). I give the teeny bopper the flowers.

  “Roses?” the young lady smiles brightly. “For me?”

  “Yes.” I smile back.

  Her mother interrupts with a shaky voice, putting out her nervous hand. “It’s so wonderful to meet you in person. We are big fans of yours, Mr. Rose.”

  I take her hand. A woman of her stature and wealth shouldn’t be trembling so easily, but then again, she’s in the company of young stallions. “Please, call me Taylor and this is—”

  “Dirk!” shouts the teenager. “I watch all your online videos. I’m your biggest fan.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say.” Dirk blushes. “Thank you.”

  I immediately cut to the chase. “Penny says you weren’t sure about the future of the conservatory and that—”

  “You mean your grandmother?” The shakiness in the woman’s voice is gone.

  I grin. “Yes, Penny. I can assure you—”

  “I used to dance here,” the mother interrupts. “I attended this school.” The woman looks up to the ceiling allowing her eyes to wander. They glow with the room.

  “Yes, I know Ms. Peters. I’ve seen pictures of you in the library. You were prima until you broke your foot.”

  Shame. Sorry, not sorry. That’s the life of a dancer.

  “You’ve seen pictures of me?” Her eyes twinkle.

  “Of course,” I assure her. “There are twenty-two pictures of you in the prima album. One-hundred and sixteen pictures of you in the Nutcracker album for the year you danced as prima and—”

  “That’s enough,” she blushes. “They weren’t lying about you, Taylor. You really do love dance, don’t you?”

  “No, I love this school,” I lie with a glint of you’re-totally-buying-my-bullshit in my eye, which I’m sure she sees as stars. “Would you like to see the performance we’ve prepared for you and your daughter today?” I ask. “Perhaps if you see how hard we are working here...”

  Then you’ll give us a portion of your friggin’ trust fund.

  I stretch out my arm and on cue, Dirk walks to the corner, bringing two folding chairs, which he opens for each lady.

  “Please, sit,” I say.

  “Oh, okay,” says the mother, watching her daughter delighted to be assisted by Dirk.

  Without delay, I head over to the stereo system, turn up the classical music, and do what I always do...

  Exactly. What. Is. Expected. Of. Me.

  The expectation here, however, is not to leap, flip, jump, spin, split, create art using body movement, or perform acrobatics that only I can do, but it’s to ensure the survival of my family’s legacy—a conservatory started by a family of dancers nearly a century ago, along with a great fortune.

  Within the first introduction, the mother and daughter are in awe. They should be. From morning to sunset and sometimes into the wee hours of the night, except for nights Dirk and I go to Club Max, I train for this.

  It only takes two songs before I see the mother fumbling at her purse and I decide to make my move. As Dirk continues to show off his jumps in time with the music, keeping the daughter’s attention and distracted, I kneel beside her mother to seal the deal.

  Ms. Peters is sweating. She’s even panting, with her hands lingering at her neckline, wanting to shake the top of her dress to fan herself.

  I put my hand on her knee. “What do you think? As an alumnus your opinion matters. Do you think we need to get more creative? Dirk and I have been working on these routines tirelessly. Do you think it’s enough to impress the upcoming season’s audience?”

  “Oh, it’s wo-wonderful,” she stutters, admiring my hair, indigo blue bedroom eyes, smooth square jaw, as well as my ripped shoulders. “Very impressive.”

  “Hmm,” I hum, squeezing her knee just slightly so the gesture seems friendly but also intriguing. “I just don’t ever feel like we’re good enough, you know? And we just want to dance, but it costs so much to make a living off those dreams.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” she wraps her hand over mine and taps lightly. “I’ll take care of it. You’re wonderfully talented, Taylor. I see why my daughter has been obsessed with the two of you—a couple of celebrities.” The woman looks directly into my eyes and then at my pouty-shaped mouth but her eyes don’t stay there long. “We’re also very thankful that you’re adding cameras, so we can see behind the scenes of all that goes on here.” Her eyes wander to my chiseled chest, my cut abs, and then down to my...

  “Mom!” interrupts her daughter. “Can I try dancing? I want to dance here.�
�

  “Oh no, Melissa,” her mother says calmly. “You’re a much better fiddler than you are a dancer.”

  I don’t mean to scowl but I do. Who tells someone they can’t dance? Her own daughter, the daughter of a prima, no less!

  “What do you mean? Have you ever tried dancing?” I ask the girl.

  Melissa frowns, bowing her head. “My mother won’t let me.”

  That doesn’t make sense. “Why not?”

  Ms. Peters looks me directly in the eye again. “I died to be prima. Gave up everything and died again when I broke my foot. But it’s worth the stress if you love what you do. Melissa loves her violin. It’s as if the instrument was made just for her.”

  “Is that true?” I ask Melissa.

  The girl smiles brilliantly. “Yes. I love music. It’s...” Melissa inhales deeply, her lungs expanding so wide it’s as if she intends to suck in every last breath of air covering the planet because she owns it. “It’s my true love.”

  “I can tell you love dancing, Taylor.” Ms. Peters says, eyes blazing. “Watching you brings me back to a time when dance was the only thing that mattered to me.” She sighs, suddenly looking forlorn as we lock eyes. “You do love dancing, don’t you?”

  My throat suddenly feels swollen. Is it possible she can see the emptiness? “I lo—” I swallow. “I do lo—”

  Dirk interrupts. “You can’t ask him a question like that. He gets choked up, he loves dancing so much.”

  Ms. Peters nods, appeased. “Thank you for doing this demonstration for us, gentlemen. How much do you need? One?”

  “Wha... one?” I stutter.

  “One million?”

  I clear my throat. “Uh... yeah... yes! That will be very generous of you.”

  “We’ll make it two million,” she corrects with a tap on my nose. “But I’m not making a donation because I was once prima at this school. My generosity I give to the world because the world deserves the gift of watching you dance.”

  Scum. I feel like such a scumbag. The school, me, Penny! We don’t even need that money. If I was allowed to do with the school what I really wanted, we wouldn’t need to solicit sponsors or donors.