Wallflower In Bloom

by Claire Cook

  I stopped by Ilya’s and my TAG TEAM Facebook page. Hundreds of messages had been posted on the wall. There were some crazy ones and a few nasty ones, but most were messages of support and encouragement.

  I skimmed past the crazy/nasty messages, but I read all the rest, one by one. I took the time to acknowledge them with a quick thank-you or a click of the Like button.

  Dance, Deirdre, Dance! one of the messages said.

  You give hope to midlife women everywhere! another one said.

  Midlife. I took a moment to think about that one. How could I possibly have reached midlife already? You’d think I should be able to get some sort of rebate for wasting so many years not really having a life. But if midlife was the middle point, then even though there was a lot of water under the bridge, there was still plenty up ahead. And I had to admit midlife was a helluva lot better than endlife. I had a lot of living left to do.

  Midlife Rocks! still another message said. I liked it. Maybe when things slowed down I’d get a bumper sticker made out of that one. Or even a tattoo.

  I kept reading.

  I am so sick of this celebrity culture where you’re either famous or you’re nothing, you’re either 22 or you’re old.

  Seeing you out there is almost as good as seeing me.

  You’re dancing for all of us, Deirdre!

  I finished reading and thanking everyone for their support. I put the laptop away and turned out the light.

  And then I stared into the darkness until I figured it out.

  I was okay with dancing for all of us.

  But first and foremost I had to dance for me.

  Once you get past the rocky parts, midlife really can rock.

  I had to admit I was a little bit nervous about losing my spray tan virginity.

  “Relax,” Lila said.

  “Easy for you to say,” I said. “It’s not your first time.”

  She fired up the air compressor. “You won’t feel a thing.”

  I closed my eyes. “Why do people always say that right before they hurt you?”

  I was standing in a corner of the makeup room that had been covered with clear plastic shower curtain liners. I was wearing only a strapless bra and a pair of itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bikini underpants from my DWTS stash. Even though I’d had to goop it on thick last night, I’d been told not to use moisturizer today because it might block the absorption of DHA, the active ingredient in spray tan. Lila had helped me apply a barrier cream, a heavy petroleum jelly–based cream, just a little bit to extradry parts like my elbows and knees, and a thick layer on all the parts she didn’t want to tan. Who knew that tanning the palms of your hands or the soles of your feet, or even the webs of your fingers or toes, or your cuticles, is a sure giveaway that you’ve been spray-tanned by an amateur?

  She tucked my hair into a hairnet and gave me a plastic eye cover.

  “Wow,” I said when she started spraying me. “Now I know what a houseplant feels like when it gets misted.” The compressor had a tube that connected it to a little sprayer that Lila was sweeping back and forth in front of my body in long, even passes. It was cool and refreshing, and it smelled a little bit like a vanilla milk shake.

  “Just wait,” Lila said. “The tan will help you get into character. As soon as the color deepens, you’ll feel all sexy and exotic.”

  “Any chance you can put the leftovers in a take-out container for me?”

  Lila laughed. “St. Tropez created a special signature shade for us that’s actually called DWTS. It’s the darkest one they make, and you can’t get it anywhere else. But their other shades are probably better for real life anyway, and you can buy them on the St. Tropez website.”

  “Wow,” I said. “It’s a whole new world out there.”

  “Okay, hon, turn around and face the wall. Do you want a tan line or not?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Some people like a tan line across their back so that the tan looks more natural.”

  I thought about it. “No thanks. I think I’d like to look like I had the nerve to go topless.”

  “Do you want a full-frontal tan then?” Lila asked, as if she were asking if I wanted cream with my coffee.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think I just want to look brave from the back.”

  Lila undid the rear hooks for me. I held the bra over my breasts.

  Then I thought it through while she sprayed my back.

  I threw my bra across the room like a Frisbee and turned around.

  “What the hell?” I said. “You only go around once, so you might as well go around tan.”

  Next came the panicure that Lila had promised—long fake fingernails and a French manicure on my fingers, and bright coral polish on my toes. My fingers looked long and elegant, and my toes looked positively sexy, even to me.

  From that point on, it was all a blur. Time sped up, like one of those clocks in an old movie with the big hands that start spinning around and around, faster and faster, to show the hours passing.

  Ilya and I danced, careful not to sweat off our spray tans before they finished curing. We ate healthy food. We posted on Facebook and Twitter. I worked on one of the slide shows for Ilya’s website.

  “Really,” he said, “you don’t have to do it now. This can wait.”

  “I want to. And anyway, it relaxes me.” I added another picture of Ilya, in classic ballroom hold with his wife, Kateryna, his unbuttoned shirt matching her glittery champagne-colored costume. She was gorgeous. They both were.

  “How did you two meet?” I asked.

  Ilya ran a hand through his hair. “Our families were friends in Ukraine. When we met again at a competition in the U.S., there was an immediate connection. We both knew what it was like to try to fit into a strange new world.”

  “How old were you when you came over here?”

  “Thirteen. With almost no English.”

  “Wow. I can’t even imagine. Kids are so mean at that age.”

  Ilya picked up the iPod remote and twirled it between two fingers. “You can’t get bogged down in what happened. You have to move past it and learn to be thankful for it.”

  “Huh?” I said. “I mean, I get the first part, but what do you mean, learn to be thankful for it?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever comes at you, it’s all energy. You have to take it and make it work for you. My best dances come from that place.”

  Maybe my best dances could come from that place, too.

  We headed over to the DWTS ballroom for another practice run. This time we took our steps right out to the very edges of the stage, and when I finished my final three spins and landed in Ilya’s arms, the judges’ table hardly appeared to be moving at all.

  I flashed the three empty judges’ chairs my biggest smile.

  “That’s it,” Ilya said. “Give it to ’em. Knock ’em dead.”

  We jumped in the Land Rover and headed back to the practice studio. We went over the trickiest steps again. And again. We drank some more water and ate another snack.

  I went to my wardrobe appointment. Finally, Anthony let me see my costume.

  It was amazing. Truly amazing. It was a tight sheath like my practice costume, but the color was a deep, rich purple, almost an eggplant. The whole thing was covered with tiny black beads threaded through clear translucent sequins, with ultralong black fringe layered over that. Anthony held the hanger up high and swished it around. The fringe danced back and forth elegantly, gracefully. Even if I froze, at least my dress would keep dancing.

  But most amazing of all, the dress part was attached to what looked like a see-through long-sleeved flesh-colored T-shirt dotted randomly with the tiniest semitransparent glittery sequins.

  Anthony slipped it over my head and helped me work my arms gently through the sleeves.

  “Illusion mesh,” he said. “It’s a beautiful thing.”

  It really was a beautiful thing. There was almost nothing to it. It was lighter than air. But it had str
etch, heavy-duty stretch, and plenty of it. It was like being naked but with reinforcement.

  The teardrop cutout in the front showed some serious cleavage through an almost-invisible illusion mesh safety net. I turned around and looked over my shoulder in the mirror. The dress dipped low and looked almost completely backless, but I was fully locked in without a trace of back fat. I turned around again and lifted my arms out to my sides. I watched my upper arms while I shimmied. Not even a hint of a wiggle.

  “Ohmigod,” I said. “This stuff is amazing. If you could make me a full-body suit, I’d probably walk around naked for the rest of my life.”

  Gina and Lila came out of the other side of the room.

  “Hot,” Gina said. “Totally hot.” She pinned my hair up off my neck to get the full effect.

  “Smokin’,” Lila said. “And guess what? I have forty-two new likes on my Facebook page.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Gina said.

  I’d forgotten all about Anthony’s Facebook page, so I put one together quickly and promised to give him a tutorial later. Then he let me take my costume to the practice studio for a test drive.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Deirdre Griffin,” Ilya said when he saw me.

  I checked myself out again in the wall of mirrors. “Thank you,” I said. “Who knew.”

  A chiasmus appeared like a rainbow: Once you get past the rocky parts, midlife really can rock.

  Suddenly, as if we’d been transported by magic, we were standing in the parking lot and Ilya was saying, “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  I bit my lower lip. “But, I don’t think—”

  Ilya put his hands on my shoulders. “Exactly,” he said. “From now on you don’t think. Get out of your head. Your legs are our moneymakers now.”

  “Ha,” I said. “If that’s the case, I’m thinking we’d both better keep our day jobs.”

  Success is getting what you want, but happiness is wanting what you get.

  Liiiiive from Hollywood,” the male host said. “This is the season premiere of Dancing With the Stars.”

  The ballroom was big. The state-of-the-art entrance staircase that moved on a rising platform was steep. The camera lights were hot and bright. Lights, lights, and more lights—one enormous glowing chandelier and a series of smaller ones, strands of twinkling lights, waterfalls of undulating lights, crisscrossing trippy strobe lights—made everything feel like a mirage.

  I’d made it down the stairs in one piece during this morning’s dress rehearsal. Our cha-cha had gone well, too, and we’d even hit all the marks we’d worked out during our camera-blocking session. But could lightning strike twice, and if so, could it happen for me?

  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.