by JJ Knight
I can see he’s had enough. I kneel down in front of him and slip my fingers around the back of his neck. His muscles are in knots. “We’ll get through this,” I say. “It seems big, but it’s not in your heart, you know? It’s just business and career.” I press my hand against his chest. “It’s not going to affect what’s in here.”
He lifts his head and presses his palm on top of my hand. “You’re right. How can we even worry about something as silly as a TV show when we have wheelchair ballerinas to train, and a little girl to watch grow up?”
“Their class is on Valentine’s Day,” I say. “I thought we could buy them all red sparkle sticks to dance with and take home.”
He kisses my hand. “That sounds perfect.” His eyes meet mine, dark and expressive. I can picture the camera close-ups from his show, how millions of women swooned over this very look. But it’s real now. It’s mine.
His mouth shifts into a mischievous grin. “Are you still going to love me when I’m sued into poverty and can’t afford sparkle sticks for dancers?”
“Of course,” I say. “I think when I showed up here in LA for that finale I had nothing but a backpack with a change of clothes.”
“It’s true,” he says, pulling me to him so that our foreheads touch. “Not even a toothbrush.”
“Also true,” I say. “Just don’t ask me to live with your parents.”
He laughs. “Hell, no,” he says. “I’ll teach dance lessons to Weeza before I resort to that.”
God, Weeza. She was a dancer from San Antonio who had called Blitz a sellout.
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “We better go or we’ll miss that plane.”
“Find your sunglasses,” Blitz says. “We had a very public day and we’re about to get on a commercial flight with the good citizens of California. We’re bound to be spotted.”
I pull a pair from my bag and slip them on. “I’m all over the incognito,” I say.
Blitz pulls me onto his lap. “I could not get through all this without you,” he says.
I kiss his ear. “You wouldn’t be in all this mess without me,” I say. “You’d just do the show.”
“No way,” he says. Then, “Well, okay, maybe. I guess I’d be pretending to plan a wedding with Mariah right now.”
“I knew it!” I squeal. “She was the one!”
“You didn’t think I would pick Giselle, did you?” he asks.
“I’m glad you didn’t pick anybody.”
“I’m supremely glad you chose me,” he says.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Here for our bags,” Blitz says ruefully, looking over the unpacked disaster from all the activity that morning with wardrobe and makeup.
He sets me down and goes to the door. “Tell housekeeping to send some people up to pack all this and have it shipped,” he tells the man outside. “We’re traveling light.”
Blitz turns to me and waves me over. I grab my purse and shift the sunglasses on my head. At the last minute, I grab a scarf from a box on the wardrobe rack.
“Good call,” Blitz says, and rummages through a plastic bin. He produces a newsboy cap and sticks it jauntily on his head. “Very not me,” he says.
“Adorable,” I tell him.
We pass by the man, who nods at us, and head downstairs to find our driver and move on to the airport. I can’t wait to put LA behind us.
When we get downstairs, though, it’s a different car.
“Well, hell,” Blitz says when he sees the dusky blue Jaguar. “I guess that answers one question.”
I hang on to his arm as a man in a cowboy hat gets out and walks around to open the back door.
“I’ve seen this car before,” I say, right as I remember where. It’s in all the pictures on all the dates of Blitz and the contestants. It’s his car.
“Come on, now, don’t waste any more time,” the man says in a deep Texas drawl. “You gotta flight to catch.”
Blitz hesitates, then lets me loose so he can shake the man’s hand. They thump each other heartily on the back.
I don’t recognize him. But Blitz turns around and gestures to him. “It’s probably about high time you met my best friend and bodyguard. Livia, this is Duke.”
“Nice to finally see you in person,” Duke says, extending a hand.
“You actually exist,” I say. “I’ve heard about you.”
“All bad, I’m sure,” Duke says.
“What are you doing here?” Blitz asks.
Duke grins. “Hannah’s stooges checked up on me, figuring I was selling your half-used bars of soap on the black market.”
“Were you?”
“Hell, no, you ain’t worth a plugged nickel now that you’re practically hitched.” He winks at me. “Anyway, they said I better resume my duties or I was fired. I came on down to see what’s what with you.”
“Holed up in the hometown,” Blitz says. “Trying to get away from a pissed-off public.”
“I saw you kissed a pig at a rodeo,” Duke says with a laugh. Behind the blue Jaguar, a limo pulls up and honks. “Assholes,” Duke says, then he calls out, “Your celebrity ain’t any bigger than my celebrity!”
“It’s all right,” Blitz says. He leads me to the door and I duck inside.
As I slide across the seat, I remember what Blitz told me early on about all the cameras installed inside. He’d bought a new car to drive to Texas to avoid unauthorized footage of him.
I look around anxiously. I don’t spot anything obvious.
Blitz closes his door. He also glances at the ceiling, floor, and doors.
“Would we know if we’re being recorded?” I ask.
“Nope,” Blitz says. “Although I know there was one here.” He pushes a button on a rectangle of metal in the ceiling and a screen pops down. Loose wires spring out.
Duke gets in the car and slams his door. He glances back as he buckles up and says, “Oh, I scrubbed the car. No cameras.”
“You just jerked them out?” Blitz asks, stuffing the wires back against the screen to close the lid.
“Pretty much,” Duke says. “I didn’t do your place, though. That’s wired so hot you’ll probably have to level it to get them all.”
Blitz sits back. “I’ll just sell it,” he says. “I’ll need the money anyhow.”
Duke pulls away from the hotel. “That Giselle chick sue your ass into oblivion or what?”
“Nah, she dropped her suit for a new tactic. I quit the show.”
Duke doesn’t respond to that, merging into traffic.
Twilight is starting to fall, and streetlights pop on ahead.
“So what’s your next step?” Duke asks. “Should I ride this wave until it crashes or find another line of work?”
“It’s not settled yet,” Blitz says. “They’ll keep you on the payroll until I say.”
Duke catches my eye in the rearview mirror. The car isn’t terribly big. “So what’s your story, Livia? You grow up in San Antone?”
“I moved there four years ago,” I say. “From Houston.”
“That’s one hell of a city,” Duke says. “Couldn’t pay me to live there. All the traffic of LA but none of the eye candy.” We stop at a light and a girl in a bikini top and jeans saunters in front. He honks at her. She doesn’t look.
“Not with me in the car, Duke,” Blitz says. “I’ve got enough attention right now.”
“Now that’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Duke says. “You check out Twitter today?”
“Been avoiding it,” Blitz says.
Duke messes with his phone, and when the light turns green, he tosses it back to us. “Check out what’s trending.”
The phone lands on the seat between us. Blitz ignores it, but I pick it up. “Did you post that picture of the girls in blue from the signing?” I ask him.
“No,” he says. “I can do that.” He pulls his own phone out of his pocket.
But as I look at all the Tweets about Blitz since the images of
the finalists hit the media this morning, I hold out my arm. “I wouldn’t say a word right now,” I tell him.
“Why?”
I don’t want to tell him. It’s not as bad as the #BurnBlitzBurn that trended when he was in trouble. But it’s close.
There are pages and pages, as far as I can scroll, all saying the same thing.
#DanceBlitzRematch
Chapter 8
When we land in Texas and turn our phones back on, Blitz’s notifications go berserk. Everybody wants to talk to him about the Twitter trend, the possibility of letting me and the three finalists do a dance-off. All the entertainment shows, the big websites, several newspapers, and at least three network news reporters have inquired.
Blitz quits looking at them after we get off the plane, but I take his phone and continue to scroll through as we walk through the airport. Two girls notice him as we head toward the exit, but they are quiet and easily placated with a quick signature on their arms. I’m grateful there isn’t a mob and a thousand questions about the rematch.
Ted picks us up, and I’m glad to see him. Duke was nice, but I’m not sure I trust him. Blitz is subdued, and nobody talks as we drive back to the hotel.
Blitz’s bad mood doesn’t lift even when we’re inside our suite, the city lights of San Antonio twinkling outside the huge windows. I’m not sure what to do to help him.
He sits on the floor by the windows, looking out. I curl up next to him, my head on his shoulder.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a while, then finally says, “I’m worried about what the show will do to you.”
I sit up. “Me? Why are you worried about me?”
“Taya already talked about your dance skills. It’s brutal out there, Livia. People are damn cruel. They’ll pick apart your hair, your body, your dance, what you eat, what you say, where you come from. And they wonder why Hollywood is notorious for its addicts and suicides.”
I lean my head on his shoulder again. I’m not sure what to say. I’d like to think that after years of feeling nothing but shame and self-misery, inflicted by my own father, I would hold up to any fire.
But maybe I’m not strong. Maybe years of solitude and guilt would only make me more vulnerable than most. My wounds might open easily, and I don’t have a big support network to catch me. My family isn’t speaking to me. I was homeschooled throughout high school, so I don’t have a friend network. My best friend’s family blocked my number so I can’t reach her.
But I do have Bennett in my corner. And his wife Juliet. And Dreamcatcher Dance Academy. Danika. Betsy. Aurora. Suze.
“I’ll just have to get better,” I say. “Maybe double up. Dreamcatcher and Jenica’s.” My voice almost falters, just saying it out loud. Our one experience at Jenica’s Dancery was intense and scared the crap out of me. But I’d do it. For Blitz.
Blitz slides his arm around me. “You amaze me every day, Livia. There is nothing you won’t try.”
“For us,” I say. “I wouldn’t do jack diddly for Hannah.”
He laughs. “You might need your own manager in the end.”
The room is quiet, although from across the room I can hear the new notification I set up on my phone for #DanceBlitzRematch. Every few seconds, there’s another soft ping, another person agreeing that this is what they want to see. Another piece of evidence to the producers about the way the show should go.
~*´`*~
The next day we take Blitz’s red Ferrari out to a dance shop in a quiet part of town to pick up red sparkle sticks for the wheelchair ballerinas.
It’s Sunday, and the city is already preparing for spring, because Texas doesn’t have much of a winter. Along the streets, piñata vendors hang their oversized Tweety Birds and princesses out on porches. Men push metal freezer carts full of ice cream and cups of frozen fruit.
I love these parts of San Antonio because I never saw them before Blitz. He knows all the mercados, big and small, the tiny taquerias with the best tamales, and where to find flamboyant tights you can’t find in normal shops.
We generally don’t have to worry about fan sightings or getting mobbed by crazy girls in these places. Everyone is friendly, and even if they recognize Blitz, nobody asks for more than a handshake and a smile.
In general, the car attracts more attention than we do. Several men line up to run their hands along the Ferrari’s hood as we park on the street in front of a low-key dance store that doubles as a place to buy dresses and accessories for a girl’s quinceañera.
Blitz gives the men a nod and leads me up the wood steps to the shop, which is a converted house nestled in the middle of a neighborhood.
Dresses with miles of ruffles hang over the porch. Inside the door are glass cases full of lacy accessories and guest books and pillows.
“I guess there isn’t an equivalent of a quinceañera for boys?” I ask, fingering another dress that is an explosion of tulle and netting, like a wedding dress, only in pink.
“Fifteen-year-old boys do not want a fancy party,” Blitz says, scanning the place. “It’s bad enough having to go to the girls’. Dance stuff over here.”
I linger on the dresses. Gabriella doesn’t have any sort of Mexican heritage, but I picture her in one of the dresses anyway, her long black hair flowing down.
Then I realize in my image of her, she is standing up, and I shake it from my thoughts. I’ve never known exactly what happened during the car accident that killed her adopted father and injured her, but I know it was bad. I saw pictures of her in the hospital on Facebook. They were dark days, ones I could not see her through.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks. She is tall and elegant in a sheath dress, dressed very chic for a shopkeeper. She must do well with her quinceañera dresses, or else feels she must look a certain way to sell them.
Blitz speaks to her a moment in Spanish, and I turn to the racks of dance outfits. Most of them are for little girls, tutus and leotards in every bright color. Gwen, Gabriella’s mother, must shop at a place like this, as all the stores I’ve ever been to seem to only have variations of pink, white, and black.
The woman leads Blitz to another room and I drift slowly that direction. Every place I look, I see more beautiful objects. I want to take them all in. I feel exceptionally lucky in that moment. I could buy any of these things if I wanted. Blitz has been very generous. But I have no income of my own. I do nothing at all to help.
We live in a hotel, eating room service or the specific foods sent by Blitz’s trainer to stay in dance shape. I don’t clean or do laundry or even pick up around the suite. That is all handled by the staff.
I do teach the wheelchair ballerina class, but that is a volunteer position. I’m not qualified for anything.
I never even applied for college, because I left the SAT site without completing all the tests I signed up for, which disqualifies your results. At least that’s what the website says. But even if they sent me results, my father signed me up and therefore had the scores sent to him. I’ll never see them.
Who am I without Blitz? What would I do if something happened to him? To us?
My throat tightens.
I really should figure out something of my own.
Blitz reappears from the side room holding up a clear stick filled with glitter and stars. On one end is a heart, on the other, a trail of red ribbons.
“Is it perfect or what?” he asks.
My chest swells just looking at him, one of the most famous people in this town, picking out toys for young girls. What does he want? Could it really be to live a quiet life with only me? No show, no fame, no publicity?
“It is,” I manage to say. “Do they have enough of them?”
“She’s checking,” he says. He twirls the stick through his fingers and tosses it in the air. But he doesn’t consider the low ceiling and smacks it, showering popcorn paint bits into his hair.
“Oops.” He steps quickly to the side to catch the errant stick be
fore it hits the hardwood floor.
I laugh and step forward, brushing the ceiling bits out of his hair. “At least we know it’s a tough prop.”
“True. They’ll probably hit the floor more often than not.” He smacks the stick against his hand and checks the toughness of the attached heart.
The woman takes a long time. We wander around. No one else is inside. I peek out the door and see several more men gathered around Blitz’s car. This would unnerve me, as I generally don’t like to attract attention, but Blitz is always laid back about it. I guess you don’t buy a car like that without expecting people to look at it.
“I’m going to go find her,” Blitz says.
I look down the street a bit and notice a gathering of young women with their phones. They are all talking excitedly and showing each other their screens.
I never had a big group of friends like that, although in middle school, when I still got to go to public school, two or three of us hung out together. My family couldn’t afford a cell phone for me, but my friend Laura had one. She was always texting a boy named Erik, who was obviously sexy because his name had a “k.”
The thought makes me smile.
Another car pulls up to the shop. And another. The girls on their phones look over at the door near where I’m standing.
Why would so many people be arriving here at the same time?
The new girls jump out of their car and wave their arms excitedly toward the shop. One of them has on a Blitz shirt.
Oh, no.
I jerk my own phone out of my pocket. I hurry to Twitter and check the #BlitzSighting hashtag.
It’s insane. Everyone is sharing and retweeting the address of the dance store.
We’ve been found.
I hurry through the shop. Blitz is not in the next room. There’s a door in the back wall. I don’t really want to go through it. What if the back part of this house is where they live?
I pause to knock. “Blitz?” I ask and wait. No answer. Was there another way back? I glance around.
Then I realize — phone. I text him a quick note.
We’ve been sighted. Mob descending.