Tremor

by Tonya Plank

  “Ooh, wow,” she said, her expression indicating it was finally sinking in just how hard this trick was.

  “It’s a lovely trick, though. If you really want to do it, you can. You’re a good dancer, Judy. You just have to practice these arches. Do them every day. Build up the strength and flexibility in your back. Your legs are important too, but your back is the most important in terms of this move. Hold yourself up for two seconds, then five seconds, then ten, not letting your back down at all. Once you have that down, we can move on. I mean, you can move on,” I quickly corrected myself. She wasn’t my student. I wasn’t Jett’s assistant. What was wrong with me?

  “Okay, I’ll do it! I will!” she chirped. “Thank you so much, Arabelle!”

  “You’re very welcome.” I nodded, then looked back at Drew and Greta. They were still immersed in the routine. For a split second, and I mean one tiny fraction of a second, I wanted to stay with Jett and teach Judy and Paolo no hands fish dives and other tricks, and leave Drew to Greta. But then reality returned to me, thankfully. And I brushed off the silly thought. I turned and went back to my Latin people, not looking again at Jett.

  “Thanks, Belle.” I heard him call out behind me, annoying me all over again with use of my nickname. I didn’t turn back.

  The second I took over Greta’s place in our rumba, my shaky hand returned. I then realized I hadn’t shaken while demonstrating the fish dive. Well, that was about a five-second period of time. Of course I didn’t shake. It meant nothing.

  “I’ll get this under control,” I whispered to Drew. “I will. I promise.” Judy’s determination inspired me. She was so adamant about learning to do something for a student competition. I desperately needed to get rid of a problem for Blackpool that could very well keep my partner and me from winning the gold. And I would, dammit. Whatever it took.

  We finished our coaching at the same time as Jett finished his private with Judy and Paolo. The room was still fairly unoccupied, so after I said goodbye to Drew and Greta, I sat on a bench and changed into my street shoes. I needed to go out and get an early dinner before starting my evening set of group classes.

  “Hey, I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that.” Ugh, really? Jett sat down beside me. Without my invitation, of course. I’d managed to escape him yesterday, but it didn’t look like I was going to be so lucky today. “That was seriously so helpful, and so amazing of you. I totally owe you.”

  “No, you really don’t,” I said immediately.

  “No, come on. Let me treat you to a little dinner.”

  Eating was my time to relax before evening classes.

  “You going out to get something now?” he asked.

  I tried quickly to make something up. I was raised not to be rude. Or to lie. Even telling white lies could come back to bite you in the ass. I was on my way to get a bite to eat. If I told him otherwise, he might see me at Tender Greens, where I often went. I’d have to think of another place to go, and then he might see me there. And I had to be fairly quick so I could be back for classes in time. Looked like I wasn’t going to be escaping this.

  “Come on,” he insisted. “Tell me your favorite. Let me treat.” Like the big fancy dinner in Vegas, I thought. The pomposity. I didn’t need his money. “Come on, please bestow on me the pleasure of your company,” he said reading my mind and changing tacks. “I’m new here, you know.” I looked at him, at his boyish dimples and those soft dark eyes.

  I sighed. “Okay, but I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Awesome. Where to?”

  “I usually go to Tender Greens.” I immediately regretted telling him where he could almost always find me between classes.

  “What a coincidence. My favorite!”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve been here for all of two minutes. How can you have a favorite?”

  “More like two weeks.” He laughed.

  * * *

  He held the restaurant’s door open as I passed under his arm. He smelled of oak and musk. He just smelled expensive. How do some people do that? We walked to the counter, where I ordered the vegan salad and an iced green tea, and he a falafel plate, with a Red Bull. “I gotta have energy. I’m performing tonight,” he said, showing those boyish dimples again, which were killing me.

  He let me choose the table. I walked to one with a window view. It somehow felt more open, like I could escape him if he really made me mad.

  “So, how’s the show going?” I asked once we were seated.

  “It’s going very well. Thank you.” This one had all the confidence in the world. And he had that natural charm, as always. I would not be conned into being nice to him. Not after the stunt he pulled at the party—imitating us, copying us.

  “Good,” I replied brusquely.

  “Yeah, theater’s great, crowds are great, critics are great. The critics are awesome, as a matter of fact,” he said with a cocky laugh and a sly raise of his eyebrows that sent an electric volt straight down my spine. That again? I sat up in my chair, so he couldn’t see me squirming.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying my city so much,” I said, emphasis on the possessive. I looked down at my salad, and gathered a forkful. When I glanced back up he was looking me straight on.

  “It was really last minute, when Veronique asked me to come. I wasn’t supposed to. I definitely would have told you in Vegas if I’d known then,” he said, giving me an explanation I didn’t really ask for, though I guess I did hint at. I lowered my eyes again, not really knowing what to say. If I made it obvious I was annoyed with him for not telling me, it would look like I wanted him to, like I was interested in him. So, I focused on my fork.

  When I looked up, I saw he was focusing on my fork too. He made eye contact with me, a look in his eyes that was somehow concerned, relieved, and curious all at the same time. I blinked, not sure what to make of his gaze. Did he not approve of the way I ate?

  He cleared his throat and diverted his attention, seeming embarrassed for having gotten caught at something. “Anyway,” he began. “So you and your partner are getting ready for Blackpool?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh. Well, you guys look…like you’re working hard.”

  I almost wanted to laugh. From the way he hesitated, it was obvious he couldn’t tell me we looked good together and be honest about it. If I was being honest with myself, I knew we didn’t. I should have admired him for his genuineness. But I was pissed. Because I suddenly felt like he’d violated some kind of privacy.

  “How did you find my studio anyway?” I said, somewhat snappishly. “I mean, I would think a general dance studio would suit you better.”

  He shook his head. “Believe it or not, there really aren’t any studios that want to offer trapeze lessons,” he said, sticking an entire falafel ball in his mouth. I must have glared because as soon as he swallowed, he said, “that was supposed to be funny.”

  I forced myself to nod, though I didn’t join in his laughter.

  “Okay, after I met you, I just thought about what a ballroom studio must be like. You intrigued me. So, I came and observed a few classes, and I really thought it looked fun. I thought maybe I could get a part time gig teaching—”

  “But I thought you’ve never danced ballroom,” I said.

  “I haven’t. But I noticed that a lot of the students like to compete and perform and I definitely know theater dance, so I thought I could teach, you know, some lifts and dips and tricks and just general performance quality dance.”

  “That’s showdance,” I said. “You just described showdance.”

  “I guess I did,” he said with a cocky smile and seductive raise of the eyebrows that would have looked sexy if his attitude didn’t make me want to kill him.

  “That’s what I do,” I said before realizing it wasn’t what I did—not anymore.

  The cockiness in his smile disappeared and his grin spread across his face, creating the cute boyish dimple thing again. “It is what you do.”

 
; “No, it’s not,” I snapped.

  “Ah…” He shot me a bemused look. “I believe you just said—”

  “It’s what I did. Not now. Not anymore.” My last performance with Willem flashed through my mind and for a brief second, I felt like I might cry. I looked down at my salad and took a bite, swallowing it along with the tears. When I looked up, I caught Jett glancing at my fork again. What? I wasn’t shaking at all? Unless I was doing so unconsciously. I followed his gaze. Nope, the fork was still.

  “Understood,” he said, now looking at me. “You’re a Latin dancer now.”

  “I am.”

  “I know you don’t dance showdance anymore. But why don’t you teach it anymore?”

  I shook my head. “Because it just wouldn’t make sense. And most of my old students either went to another studio or switched to Latin with me.” It suddenly occurred to me he may want to steal my old students. He seemed to be into stealing. Well, it wouldn’t be stealing if I wasn’t teaching them anymore. But what if I wanted them back? I didn’t though. That was my world with Willem, over now. Who was this guy making me so internally confused?

  “Okay. ‘Cause I was just thinking...” His voice edged up at the end as if he wanted me to consider something but was being hesitant. “I mean, you were really helpful today with Judy and Paolo, and…ah…I was going to maybe ask them if they’d like to take a lesson once in a while with both of us. We could co-teach.”

  What was he on? I used to do that with Willem. Who did this guy think he was? I felt my heart start to flutter, and then the shaking began. Oh, great.

  I shook my head rapidly, my heart rate speeding up even more.

  “It’s okay, you can just think about it. No need to give me an answer now. Just putting it out there.” He put his hands up, seeming to know my blood pressure was rising. “You’re just…I mean, you’re a brilliant dancer. Showdancer. Were, I mean. And the students all seem to…know you and really like you.”

  I looked at him straight on. Was he making fun of me? But one look in his eyes made me realize he wasn’t. He seemed truly nervous and babbling, unable to get his words out right.

  “How would you know I was a brilliant show dancer?” I asked, though I full-well knew. He’d filched steps straight from our routines for his studio party performance, so he’d obviously watched our dancing.

  “Well, I actually…there’s a little ballroom store in Vegas and I went there and just bought a couple of DVDs of you dancing.”

  I swallowed, then took a breath. I’d assumed he just looked some videos up on YouTube. Had he really gone to a store and bought whole DVDs?

  “Which ones?”

  “Ah, Blackpool for, ah, the last two years, and okay, maybe it was three. Four?” He shrugged his shoulders and those dimples returned, though the full grin didn’t. He looked like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  I glared at him, not sure whether to be flattered he’d watched so many videos of me, or scared he was exhibiting somewhat stalker-ish behavior. I still felt a bit violated that he’d taken from our routines. “I knew you watched some of them,” I said after a long pause. “Because you borrowed liberally from the choreography in them for your party performance.”

  Now his full, dimpled grin returned, his cheeks reddening a bit. “What can I say? You deeply impressed me. You totally wowed me. You…you took my breath away.” That was a reference to one of the songs Willem and I had danced to, that he’d stolen for his routine Saturday night.

  “Yes, you stole our song, you stole several of our moves, you practically stole our entire routine. I could sue you, you know.” I spit out.

  He laughed. “Oh come on. That was Jessica Simpson’s song. And we borrowed, as you said. And it was just for a showcase at a school, not a professional performance we charged people money to see. There was hardly a copyright violation.”

  Now he was turning into a lawyer, dismissing my supposedly ridiculous claim with the wave of his hand. It was our song, our routine, our lifts, our choreography. It was ours together—Willem’s and mine. I took a breath and gathered my thoughts. “I know you weren’t making money off of our choreography. But it was ours. We created it together. It’s my…memory.” My voice was very close to breaking.

  “Oh come on, Belle,” he said, now reaching across the table and placing his hands over mine. “I didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry if I upset you. It’s just that you’re such a breathtaking dancer. You…inspire me to dance as well as I can, to dance as well as you do. And, I guess I just wanted you to see that I could.”

  I caught my breath. His arrogance kept my tears over my memories at bay. He wanted to show me he could watch our routines once and then do them as well as we did, with no practice?

  “I mean, not that I could do as well as you. That came out wrong.” He corrected himself. “You own the world of showdance. Obviously. The judges have spoken on that many times. I mean, I wanted you to see, I guess, that I could be a good partner too. I mean, if you ever—”

  Suddenly I felt sick. I’d only eaten half of my dinner, but I was done. I freed my hands from his clutching palms, and scooted out my chair.

  “Oh no, don’t leave. I totally didn’t mean to offend you, Belle.” He reached out to me.

  I shook my head. “No, you didn’t. I just don’t feel well. I’m sorry, I just have to go.” And I was off. I picked up my bag and jacket, and walked out, not looking back.

  I made my way back to the studio on unsteady legs. As much of an ass as he could be, I didn’t like leaving him all there alone at the table. But the thought of someone ever replacing Willem made me so sick to my stomach I felt like I may need to lie down for a moment, especially if I was going to be teaching a full load of classes tonight.

  I made it to the studio, ran into the ladies lounge, found a bench, and lay down. Fortunately it wasn’t too crowded yet, and I still had over an hour until my first group class of the night. I set the alarm on my cell phone to give myself plenty of time to get up and get ready, then tried to sleep. But all I could think about was Jett dancing at the studio party, and about how good a dancer he really was. And how thinking of him sent a tingle down my spine, and ache in my belly. A good ache, not a stomach ache.

  Chapter 11

  Jett

  Shit. I totally made her mad at dinner. She said she didn’t feel well, but I know it was me. I came on too strong. I shouldn’t have hinted that I wanted to partner with her.

  Or was it that she felt she was so far above me, she couldn’t deign to dance with me? I couldn’t figure out what was going on in this girl’s head.

  I don’t know what I was thinking anyway, wanting so badly to dance with her. My life was in theater dance, in aerials, in performing on a proscenium stage for a large Vegas audience, not on a ballroom dance floor for a ballroom competition crowd. That was her world.

  Yet something inside of me made me so badly want to perform with her, to take her back to all that, to all that she excelled at, where it was so obvious her passions lay. I don’t know what the hell I wanted. I just wanted her. I wanted to lift her high above my head. I wanted to kiss her beautiful lips. And I wanted to do more—a lot more.

  The truth is, regarding my private lesson with Judy and Paolo, I knew that a no hands fish would look killer in their routine. And I knew it was damn hard, but I really thought they could do it. And I knew Arabelle could help us. We both had high-level dance skills obviously, but she had way more experience teaching, and I knew she could figure out better how to show them the lift. So when I saw Arabelle and Drew rehearsing, I knew it was wrong of me to take up her time, but I knew she’d see us and help. I wouldn’t let that happen again. I could—and would—teach my own lessons. If she did think herself superior to me dance-wise, I didn’t need her thinking the same of herself as an instructor.

  The next day, I had a lesson with Kendra and Josie. Drew and Arabelle were practicing in the main room. And I knew they would be, because they were
always practicing during the day in the main room since they were training so hard for competition. It would be nearly impossible to book a day lesson without running into them. I took pains to pay them no mind.

  Kendra turned out to be quite a hoot, as I knew from class she would be. She was a skilled dancer, as was Josie, and, as she’d indicated in class, they were determined to do every lift every male/female partnership did. Kendra insisted she could lift Josie in every way possible, and I believed her.

  But what Kendra told me that I hadn’t known was that Sasha, the star dancer here, was the subject of some kind of dance documentary and the star of an upcoming movie. There would be film crews all over the studio in a couple weeks. Josie, an actress, was also in the movie. She and Kendra were to do a dance routine for it. And it needed to look very sophisticated, very theatrical, and full of crazy-ass stunts. I was to put this together for them. They were also planning to use this routine to compete in showdance, if the championship competitions would allow same sex couples. They were going to be the first same sex pair for showdance, which was very cool in my opinion.

  “After watching you perform, sir, we feel there’s no one who could ever do this better than you.” Kendra cracked me up with the “sir’s.”

  I realized very soon that this studio was like a quintessential small town. Though it only happened yesterday afternoon, Kendra already knew that I was teaching Judy and Paolo the hands-free fish dive. Now, of course, she and Josie just had to do it as well.

  “Everyone’s saying it’s the coolest thing ever, sir. Bring it on!” She bent over like a quarterback and waved her arms toward her.

  I laughed, trying to remember who all was in the room during Judy and Paolo’s lesson. Probably about ten people other than Arabelle and her crew, and she certainly wouldn’t have been the one to talk. The walls apparently had eyes.

  “Well,” I began, hesitantly. This was a crazy hard lift. Josie needed strength and Kendra needed more. “Each of you needs a great deal of strength in your own center and back, and Kendra, you need substantial upper body strength to lift Josie into the waist-high fish first. Waist lifts are hard. Even if they don’t seem as difficult as over the head, they are.”