by JJ Knight
Man. I’ve gotten totally dependent on that lifestyle. And there’s no kitchen here. I can’t cook for myself.
I figure I might as well see what is nearby. Maybe a health food store or an all-natural cafe or deli. I pick up my purse and prepare to head down alone.
The hall is quiet. I wonder where Dmitri and Dominika and the others are. Maybe they’ve gone to dinner without me, assuming that if I was going to ditch them for the corps, I would continue to do so.
Dang.
I wait for the elevator. When it arrives, an elderly woman gives me a small smile as she exits to the hall.
I get in alone and press the button for the lobby. My body vibrates with jitters. I’m completely unfamiliar with Chicago, but I have Google Maps, and I can always just call a taxi if I get too lost.
The elevator stops on the sixth floor and slides open.
I’m surprised to see Weeza standing there. She’s changed into jeans and a denim jacket, ragged on the bottom, the hem cut out.
“Hello, Weeza,” I say as she gets on. She gives a little grunt in reply.
She pushes the button, but just as I’m contemplating the awkwardness of a ride down with her, someone shouts, “Hold the elevator!”
And just like that, we’re crowded inside, a dozen dancers squeezing into the small space. There’s laughter and whoops and “No way am I eating crab cakes” and general arguments about whether it would be unwise to go out clubbing with rehearsals in the morning.
I don’t expect to get swept into it, but one of the girls I met on the plane slides her arm around mine and drags me through the lobby and out into the chilly evening.
“Chicago!” somebody shouts, and the others take up the cry.
Then one girl says, “Roxie!”
And just like they had all planned it, like this was a show everyone had rehearsed, they all line up around her, singing, “The name on everybody’s lips is gonna be…”
And the whole rest of them shout, “Roxie!”
And it goes on.
I’ve never seen or heard what they are singing, but it’s amazing. I glance around and see Weeza shaking her head and taking off alone down the sidewalk.
The boys pair up with a girl, and the leftover girls link up, and they are doing sultry spontaneous moves. I take a step back, not sure what to do, then I’m grabbed and bent over the arm of someone I can’t even see. My vision blurs, but I’m held in a perfect position while everyone once again says, “Roxie!”
Then we’re swirled again and I’m passed to another dancer, another girl, and this time I have to hold on to her as she wraps a leg around me and strikes a dramatic pose while the girl sings another line. Then it’s another “Roxie!”
This goes on, the couples mixing and switching out. I get to a boy and he immediately takes me into a lift, and there’s another “Roxie!”
People have stopped on the street to video us and I guess that’s when everyone decides to break up, running down the street and laughing, and I am swept along with it.
We pile into some little cafe with a dozen tiny round tables, all pushed together in a jigsaw puzzle that doesn’t quite connect.
And I’m here.
“That was so nuts!” one girl says, and everyone shrieks with laughter and giggles and astonishment.
“We are gonna do this every single night,” another says.
I can’t remember any of their names. Andrew and Carla and Fiona aren’t here.
But everyone knows me. A phone gets passed around with pictures and video of our dance.
“Tag Livia!” someone says.
There’s a chorus of YES and I’m shown a phone with me in the air and all the dancers around. So I type in my Twitter handle and it’s out into the world.
“Do you think Blitz will retweet it?” someone asks.
“Just ask her!” another voice insists.
I feel the slight separation now, the person who is different from the rest. They turn to look at me. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll forward it to him.” And I take out my phone.
There’s another big YES! And high fives. I tell Blitz to go find the tagged photo and how crazy and fun it’s been. But then I have to let it go because people are ordering food and talking and finally someone tells me about the Broadway show Chicago and that we were singing one of the famous songs from it.
I’m not the only one who hasn’t seen it, thankfully, and we go over the words and decide to do the whole thing again after dinner.
When we get our sandwiches and soups and salads, I look around at everyone and think — is this how regular people live?
Then I realize, no, no it’s not. We’re dancers. Some of the best. And we’re about to embark on something big together. So we’re high. Exuberant. Unstoppable.
And it’s the best feeling in the world.
Chapter 18
We stay out way later than we should, wandering the streets and jumping on the train that everyone calls the “El.”
I only talk to Blitz for a couple minutes before I’m crashing, and he laughs and tells me to get some sleep. He’s retweeted my image plus how to see our show, and our spontaneous Chicago number is already causing the ticket sales to go wild for the ballet. People are complaining that New York is sold out. Maybe they could have gotten bigger venues after all.
In what seems like minutes after I hit the pillow, my phone buzzes with the alarm I set to get ready for the first rehearsal. We’re having a group breakfast downstairs then walking together to the studio, which is only a few blocks away.
I braid my hair up and slip on a pale blue leotard and skirt. It’s Blitz’s favorite, and my signature color from the show. I want to feel as comfortable as I can going into what will surely be a nerve-racking day.
My purple Dreamcatcher dance bag on my shoulder and my favorite Crocs on my feet help give me confidence and a feeling of connectedness to my history as I head to the elevator.
Ivana and Evangeline are already walking down the hall a ways ahead of me. They don’t notice I’ve come out of my room.
“So how long do you give the TV diva?” Evangeline asks Ivana.
“Three days,” she answers. “And that’s only if I’m nice today.”
They laugh, and my stomach burns. So this is what they think of me.
“At least we didn’t have to suffer through dinner with her,” Ivana says.
“You didn’t see what they were up to?” Evangeline asks. “It’s all over Twitter.” She pulls out her phone.
I slow down, looking side to side to see if there is anywhere I can hide. It’s a long hall with nothing but hotel room doors. I think about sneaking back into my room. It’s just that they might turn around and see me.
So I straighten my back and keep going.
They make it to the elevator, but they are so engrossed in looking at the phone, I am able to approach unnoticed.
“They’re all dancing in the street,” Ivana says with a sneer.
Evangeline doesn’t respond to that, but I get the sense that maybe she is a little jealous that she wasn’t involved.
“Dmitri will no doubt be thrilled with the publicity,” Ivana says, pushing the phone away. “He’s practically drooling over her.”
Then they see me.
“Good morning,” I say.
They have the good sense to look at the floor, embarrassed to be caught talking about me.
I stare up at the number above the elevator. This feels like an important moment. The way I handle it sets the tone for how the next few days will go.
“Three days,” I say. “That seems like a reasonable bet.” I still don’t look at them. “Can I put my money on four?”
Ivana and Evangeline glance at each other, color rising in their faces. I can’t see their exact expressions, as I’m still focused on the elevator display. Just the redness in their cheeks from the corner of my vision. Serves them right.
Mercifully, the doors open. There’s a burst of laughter. Several cor
ps dancers in leotards are inside, including Carla and Fiona.
“It’s Livia!” Carla says when she sees me. “We thought it was going down!”
Carla and Fiona embrace me in a hug. “You ready for the first day?” Fiona asks.
“Like it’s my last!” I say cheerfully and cut my eyes for a second at Ivana and Evangeline.
The dancers see their bosses and hush their giggles. “Good morning,” Carla says. She tucks a loose brown curl behind her ear self-consciously.
Ivana and Evangeline ignore the dancers and step inside, frowning. They are probably annoyed that the so-called riffraff have made it up to the secure floor, albeit accidentally since they were already on it when we called the elevator up.
I stay on the side with the dancers. “You missed the craziness last night,” I say to Carla. “We danced the Roxie number from Chicago all over town.”
“We saw it this morning!” Fiona gushes. “We were so jelly!”
“You have to text us next time something like that happens,” Carla says. “What is your number?” She pulls out her phone.
Fiona elbows her. “She’s a celebrity. She’s not going to just give it out.”
I want to say that’s not true, but she is probably right that I should be careful.
“Let’s do group chat,” Carla says. “I’ll send you the link via a DM on Twitter.”
I nod. That’s a good compromise.
“You have to follow me so I can DM you.” She lists her Twitter handle.
I pull out my phone to locate her and follow her back. Technically, my official Livia Mays account, the one Carla is using, doesn’t follow people. But I do it anyway.
She types frantically while the elevator goes down. We stop on the sixth floor again, more dancers pushing their way inside, laughing.
They don’t even notice Ivana and Evangeline in the back, or don’t care, as they carry on with loud greetings and excitement all the way down to the lobby.
We flow out of the elevator like clowns coming out of a tiny car, and I follow the group toward a private room where breakfast is supposedly set up.
“Are all our meals going to be like this?” Fiona asks as we stand in line for a buffet. Dmitri greets everyone by the door, shaking hands and smiling.
“Beats me,” Carla says, bent over her phone. She elbows me. “Invite sent.”
I’ll look at it later. I notice Ivana and Evangeline peeling off in a different direction. They must have their own breakfast area.
Dmitri sees me and points down the hall.
I shake my head, so he simply says, “Good morning. Eat well! It’s a long time until lunch.”
“Will we do this every morning?” Fiona asks.
“Monday through Friday,” Dmitri says. “We’ll distribute schedules here and make sure everyone knows where to go. You have lunch and dinner on your own.”
“Cool,” Carla says.
We make our way inside the room.
The girl who checked us in during auditions asks our names and hands us a printed schedule. Carla and Fiona are corps dancers and have the same hours.
“I don’t have yours,” the girl says.
I nod. I figure mine is in some other room, wherever Dmitri was trying to get me to go.
We’re handed a cup of Greek yogurt and a plate of fruit, then a slice of ham and scrambled egg whites. A girl at the end asks if we would like a piece of toast.
“I’m going to be starving by lunch,” Andrew says behind us. We turn to see him about three people back.
“Time to find a Micky D’s,” Carla says.
This makes me think of Blitz.
“I would never pollute my body with that trash,” Andrew says in front of the woman handing him a double portion of egg whites.
But when we’re past the serving table, he whispers, “Please tell me there is fast food within walking distance.”
The girls laugh and the four of us sit together at a round table. We’re joined by two more girls I remember from last night.
I make sure I eat. I’m feeling better about my ability to manage the storm that will surely rain down when I’m alone with Ivana or Evangeline. I have friends already. No doubt if those two are cruel to me, they will be tough on the others too. We can commiserate together.
The clipboard girl comes up to our table and hands me a half sheet of paper. “Your schedule,” she says, then takes off.
Carla turns it around so she can see it. “Oh, wow, you’re already working with Dominika today,” she says. “We just have random trainers.”
“I had to practice with her back in San Antonio,” I tell them. “They wanted to make sure I would be a good Carabosse to her Aurora.”
“You’re the evil fairy?” one of the girls asks. “That is awesome.”
“It’s what I asked for,” I say, then realize it’s the wrong thing when the others stop eating.
“You didn’t audition?” Carla asks.
“Yes and no,” I say, my face hot. “Dmitri wanted to bring me on. I had to pass a rehearsal with Dominika, Ivana, and Evangeline.”
“That must have sucked,” Fiona says. “One of my friends is a fairy, and she says the choreographer is a total bitch.”
I’m not sure what to say exactly. “It wasn’t easy,” I say. “I almost walked out.”
This placates them. “You’ll have to dish later,” Carla says. She glances at the clock. “Time to get out of here.”
We scarf the rest of our breakfast and quickly follow the other dancers out the door.
The morning is cool, so different from the San Antonio summer days that start hot and stay hot.
“It feels great out here!” Andrew says. “SO glad to be out of Texas.”
The girls dig jackets out of their bags. I’ve tied mine around my waist but take it off to wear properly.
The studio is immense. We enter a foyer with a towering ceiling and fancy glass sculptures of ballerinas hanging by wire. There are hallways in three directions. Everyone consults their schedules.
“I’m that way,” Andrew says, pointing off to the left.
“We’re the opposite,” Carla and Fiona say.
“Do we all have lunch at twelve-thirty?” I ask.
“I do,” Andrew says.
“We’re eleven-thirty,” Carla says with a pout.
“I’ll join the group chat,” I say. “We’ll catch up.”
“Group chat?” Andrew asks.
“Check your Twitter,” Carla says. “We gotta go!”
Dancers peel off in all directions. I review my own schedule and glance up at the sign that lists the studio rooms. I’m straight ahead.
My hall is quiet. The walls are almost all solid windows looking into dance spaces, some small, others larger. Dancers are assembling in most of them. I keep going until I am near the end of the corridor.
A friendly-looking man is inside. He is not in dance gear, but cargo pants and a T-shirt. He has sandy hair and looks to be a little older than Blitz.
“Livia?” he asks when I open the door.
“Yes,” I say.
He extends a hand. “I’m Franco, the acting coach.”
“Oh!”
He laughs. “I work with all the roles who will have to convey the story through gestures and expressions.”
This is unexpected.
“I expect you had coaches like me on the TV show,” he says.
“Not really,” I say. “We were mostly told to be ourselves. But I did have a dance teacher who tried to help me get my sexy on.”
Franco laughs. “Was that hard?”
“With thirty cast and crew watching me crawl across the floor? Yes!”
He laughs again. “Well, today you get to be the bad guy.”
We work on posture and framing and remembering to stay positioned toward the audience, even when a character is beside you. We laugh a lot, and when our session is over and it’s time for me to move on, I look forward to meeting with him again later in the
week.
For a first morning that started out sort of sketchy, it’s shaping up to be a good day.
But as I glance at my schedule to see where I go next, I see what Carla did when she read my page at breakfast. Next up: Dominika.
Chapter 19
My happy vibes from working with Franco quickly disappear as I head down the hall to where Dominika will be waiting for me.
I want to make a quick call to Blitz and get a little boost, but there isn’t time and all the studios can see perfectly into the hall. I don’t want to look like some cell phone diva as I approach.
So I straighten my spine and steel myself as I come in range of Studio 12.
I’m surprised when I get there to see Dominika warming up alone.
I push open the glass door.
“Hello,” she says pleasantly before moving deeper into a stretch. “I’m not prepped yet.”
“Me neither,” I say, setting down my bag. “I was with Franco getting my evil fairy on.”
She looks at me curiously. “What does this mean, ‘getting my evil fairy on’? Did you wear a costume?”
I forget sometimes she is Russian. Her English sounds good. “It’s an expression. It’s like putting on a personality.”
She nods and her tiny arched brows knit together as she considers this oddity.
I kick off my Crocs and sit on a bench to slide on my toe shoes.
“Is Ivana coming to this rehearsal?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. She is working with the Prince this morning,” Dominika says.
I stand up and do a few hops to get my muscles warm. Dominika is like an ice princess in a white leotard and tights. Her hair is a blond color so close to ash as to almost match her outfit, especially in the harsh overhead light.
She is bony, her muscles stretched taught over her birdlike frame. When she bends over, it seems perfectly possible that she can fold up into a tiny package that would fit in the shoe cubbies.
She could make anyone feel fleshy, and I grimace at the lack of definition in my thighs as I reach for the floor. True career ballerinas have blocks of visible leg muscles. Even though no one would ever call me overweight by any measure, it’s clear I haven’t done enough dance to burn away all the fat.