"No pressure there."
"If you can't think of one, I can suggest several that'll work."
I get to my feet. "No way. You get to control everything."
Dominic laughs. "Yeah, well, my decisions have been working well so far."
"You call us ending up in the bottom three every week working? Pfft."
"One other thing. This is family week."
His back is to me so he doesn't see me freeze up. Suddenly the air in the room is suffocating.
Dominic turns back around. "The producers want to show clips of the families cheering on their celebrity. We've never talked about your family before, but I'd love to meet them."
I glance at the camera with its constant little light recording my every move. Do I really have to address this now? Dominic is waiting for my response. I swallow.
"Is that a problem?" he asks, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
Turning my back to the camera, I say as softly, "I don't have any family."
He's taken back. "No one?"
I give a slight shake of my head. "No parents, no siblings, not even a grandparent."
"Oh, God. I'm sorry."
"We're in L.A. Maybe we can hire some actors to play the part," I joke, but maybe it’s an option.
"Don't worry about it." He shrugs it off but clearly feels sorry for me and wonders why I'm alone. But he doesn't ask. "Let's get started."
I nod.
As usual, the beginning of learning any number is the hardest. This week it's the cha cha, a quick-paced Latin dance. Dominic speeds through the steps.
"Dude, please slow down. My brain doesn't move that fast," I complain.
"We have to get this down, so we can start polishing sooner. The only way we have a chance is to deliver a perfect dance."
So I grumble on the inside and do my best to keep up. After a twenty-minute lunch break at two p.m., we're back at it, this time marking it with music. On our third try, I confuse which foot to use, then quick correct. My heel catches, my ankle turns, and slides out from under me.
I crumble to the floor with a painful screech, landing on my hip with an unladylike umph.
"Shit, are you okay?" Dominic's at my side in an instant, and I realize the camera guy is too.
Cringing with pain, between clenched teeth I say, "Not sure yet."
He frowns and stares at my foot. I blow out my breath and the immediate pain seems to wane. "May I?" he asks, his hand poised to touch my injury.
"Sure."
He gently presses different areas of my ankle.
I wince. "Right there. It's tender, but better than a minute ago."
"Let me grab you some ice."
He leaves me alone with the producer and cameraman. I want to lie back, close my eyes, and calm myself down, but the cameraman will record my weakest moment, so I lean back on my hands and watch my ankle swell. What will this mean to our rehearsals? What if I can't compete?
Dominic comes back with Hank and Sonya on his heels.
"What happened?" Hank leans over with his hands on his knees and peers at my ankle. The strap of my shoe is getting tight. I reach forward to loosen it, but Dominic brushes my hands away and deftly unbuckles and removes the torturous shoe.
"You know me, tripping on air."
Hank nods as if that makes total sense.
"Oh my God, girl. What happened to your feet?" Dominic frowns at my bruised feet with the missing toenails. Sonya and Hank lean over the camera guy's shoulder for a closer look.
"I told you my feet hurt."
Dominic rubs his forehead and looks away.
"I've been bitchin' about my bunions," Hank says. "I don't know how you dance with those mangled feet."
Sonya pushes closer. "Oh, honey. You need to tape your feet. I'll show you how."
"First can we deal with her ankle?" Dominic interrupts. "How does it feel now?" He slides an ice pack under my ankle and carefully lays another on top.
"It doesn't hurt like before." I slowly point my foot and then carefully rotate it. "Should I try to walk on it?"
"No!" Dominic glances over my head at the producer then shakes his head. "We better have a doctor take a look."
With a groan I close my eyes. I'm finally having a good time and now I might be out because of a stupid injury.
"You'll be good as gold and hoofing it again before you know it," Hank predicts. "If it were bad, you'd be begging for Percocet and a stiff drink."
I shoot him a smile and hope he's right.
Sonya pats my shoulder. "Hank is right. It's probably just a mild sprain. Don't sweat it."
"Thanks." This is the first time one of the pros has gone out of their way to be nice to me.
Together they help me to Dominic's car, and he drives me to an urgent care clinic. After a whole lot of waiting around, some poking, and images captured of my ankle; it's deemed a mild sprain. With my ankle wrapped and iced, Dominic delivers me home with take-out tacos and a bottle of high-powered meds to keep the inflammation down.
"I can stay, it's no trouble," he offers again, setting down a glass of ice water.
"Dominic, I'm fine. I'm allowed to put weight on it." All I want is to be alone and wallow in my uncoordinated misery.
"But don't!" He puts his hand out.
"Relax. You set me up with everything I need. I'll only get off the couch to go to bed. I promise. Go home to your girlfriend." There are meds, ice packs, and my laptop all within an arm's reach.
"All right. Call me in the morning and let me know how it feels."
"The doctor said I'll be okay to dance if I take it super easy for the next day or so."
"Be sure to follow the directions on icing and meds. Promise?"
I grin. "Promise."
"I'll see if I can get you out of heels for a while."
After he leaves, I imagine all the other contestants being showered with the love of their families at next week's show. I polish off three beef tacos before calling Anna to whine about my bad luck. After her pep talk, I decide to be positive and believe Dominic and I still have a chance.
I start wracking my brain for a song to use as my celebrity choice. With my ankle cradled by a bag of frozen peas, I scroll through the play lists on my phone and Youtube videos on my laptop.
And then I find my song. It's obscure. Likely no one will have heard of it, but I watch the video over and over like I did when my college roommate showed me TV shows from her semester abroad in England. The British guy singing performs with so much angst and emotional pain that I'm mesmerized all over again. If ever there were an anthem of my life, this is it. Dominic will probably hate the song and fight me to pick something else. But I love it. When I hop my way to bed that night, I dream of the haunting melody and lyrics.
Dominic lets me sleep in and picks me up around eleven for a short rehearsal. My ankle is sore, but doesn't hurt if I walk slowly. Still, I don't want to do anything to jar it and make it worse, nor does he. I've brought my laptop to show him the video of my song choice. I wanted him to see it before our producer and camera guy showed up, but they're already here and ready to go.
Dominic and I sit on the floor and lean against the wall as I cue up the video. "It's probably a lot different than what anyone else will have," I say.
"That's usually a good thing. Who's it by?"
"His name is Thomas Evan Oliver."
Dominic's brow furrows. "Never heard of him."
I laugh nervously, because I really want Dominic to like my choice. "He's from England. This video's a few years old. I looked him up last night and found out he went to New York after that to perform on Broadway." I don't mention that I spent hours watching videos of him, including one of him performing solo on the Tony awards earlier this year.
I click play and slide my laptop between us. The song begins with the actor singing to his stern-faced father in an empty theatre.
Dominic glances at me with doubt.
"Please, just give it a chance."
/> He turns up the volume and watches. I keep quiet, praying he doesn't hate it. When the song ends he glances at me and hits replay. This time he closes his eyes and listens to the music, like he's imagining the choreography. I watch the singer lose himself in the emotion of the melody and lyrics, just as Dominic keeps trying to get me to lose myself in our dances. For me, this song is the heart-wrenching story of my life, and even though I've watched it dozens of times, it's hard to peel my eyes away from the screen.
Dominic looks up. "This is a powerful song and I think I could do something interesting with the choreography, but I'll have to get it past the producer. He usually wants something more mainstream and recognizable. What's your second choice?"
I grip the laptop and hold my breath. "There is no second choice. I want this song."
He chuckles. "You like the hot singer."
I huff. "I'm serious. Listen, I know I'm low man on the totem pole here. I'm living in a dingy long-term apartment in a questionable neighborhood instead of some fancy hotel like the big celebs. I don't have a car service carting me around, or a dog, or an entourage the producers have to deal with. I've never asked for anything. I think I deserve this."
Dominic considers me. "Why does this song mean so much to you?"
I shift and grab my water bottle, not wanting to discuss it, but his steely gaze is fixed on me. "Chelsea, you have to help me out here. If I'm to go to bat for you, I need a good reason."
My heart squeezes with that old familiar pain. I don't talk about my past. But he's waiting for an answer. I breathe a heavy sigh. "It reminds me of my dad."
"I see." He focuses on the screen of my laptop as if trying to respect my privacy. "What's the title of the song?"
"Stay," I say softly, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
He nods with sensitivity in his eyes. "Want to tell me about that?"
"I'd rather not."
But then I do anyway.
7
Monday rolls around and my ankle is still tender but well enough to dance on as long as I have it taped. I'm shocked when I discover Anna and her fiancé, Will, have flown in to surprise me.
"Who needs family when you have us?" Anna gushes, giving me a tight hug.
"You guys are the best."
"Thank Will. It was his idea."
"I take it back. Will, you're the best." I hug him too.
Anna gives me the once over from my fake eyelashes down to my taped feet. "Look at you in that dress. Can you even call that a dress?"
"I know. I hate it." It's a revealing cha cha dress with tight bodice, high cut legs, and generous layers of ruffles on my behind.
"Are you kidding? You look phenomenal, like a Vegas showgirl. You're all legs, and they shimmer," Anna says, stepping back for a better look.
"That's a makeup trick. They apply the shimmer right before the show, otherwise, every time I sit down, I slide off the chair because my legs are so slippery."
"Oh, the problems you have," Will laughs.
We're interrupted by an intern, and Anna and Will are shooed away to take their seats. I walk away grinning. They came for family night.
When it's Dominic’s and my turn to dance, I brace myself for the video package. It shows my sprained ankle injury and ugly feet, but also lots of the two of us laughing. It's the perfect way to relax me before going on.
"Let's go killer," Dominic says as we take our position. Our cha cha goes well with me shaking my ruffles to maximum effect. I have a couple small flubs, but am having such a blast that I don't care. The judges don't seem to mind either.
"It was the night of hot and cold, and you two are definitely hot," says enthusiastic judge Brice Zimmer.
Our scores are solid, middle of the pack. I'm even happier watching Hank and Sonya. She's created a dance where he's in an old folks home and she's a naughty nurse. They dance and slide around with his walker. It's hilarious. But after that, Vicky, the volleyball player, and her partner Carlos take the stage. It's evident right away that something's wrong. Vicky is sluggish with her steps. They're dancing the waltz, so it's not that complicated, but it's like Carlos is trying to push around a box of rocks. He holds her closer and literally carries her through the moves while she laughs. At one point, she pushes away from him for a simple turn, then trips and lands on the dance floor in a pool of chiffon. Carlos glances nervously at the judges' table as Vicky rearranges her dress. By the time he gets her back to her feet, the music has ended. The audience claps politely as the pair makes their way to the judges.
"Oh my God, what's wrong with her?" I ask.
Hank chuckles. "That girl is higher than a kite."
I stare at him. "On pot?"
"I'd bet my belt buckle she's been popping something a whole lot stronger."
"Poor Carlos," Dominic pipes in.
Carlos faces the judges with his jaw clenched and face red with embarrassment. Droopy-eyed Vicky leans on Marcus. She wipes her hand at a stray lock of hair, smearing lipstick across her cheek.
It's like watching a train wreck. I'm guilty of a pre-show shot of bourbon with Hank each week, but nothing more.
The judges glance at each other uncomfortably and rush through their comments saying things like. "Unfortunate fall" and "must not be feeling well."
Marcus takes the show to commercial as Carlos helps a boneless Vicky off stage. When the show comes back, Julie Mason reveals their scores, even though the dancers are nowhere to be seen. They get two fives and a four.
Dominic's eyes lock with mine and we grin like a couple of fools.
* * *
"Week five, baby!" Dominic high-fives me first thing the next morning.
"I still can't believe this."
"I love it. All we have to do is let the other teams melt down or get injured and we stay in the game."
"Best strategy I've heard so far." I drop my bag in the corner, still not fully awake after a late night hanging out with Anna and Will.
"You ready to work? Because I think you're going to like what I've come up with for your song."
I nod. I'm a little nervous about it, but more excited. It's a beautiful, poignant song.
"Because it's a contemporary number, we can do as many lifts as we want."
"As in you lifting me?" I imagine him straining to heft me up, and grimace. "I don't want to."
"Tough. You're going to."
"But I'm heavy, and I have no experience doing anything like that."
Dominic laughs. "First off, you're a light weight. Second, everything about this show has been a first for you, third, the viewers love lifts and tricks."
He walks me through the opening steps until I get a feel for the rhythm of the choreography. The first lift he teaches me, I struggle, all gawky arms and legs.
"Good first try, but you're like a monkey trying to cling to my back. Relax. I will never let you fall. Try it again."
I do, and it's better, but it's strange being so close, usually it's just our hands touching each other, but this is full-body contact. I'm wearing my practice clothes, which are black dance shorts, along with a cute, strappy top. I mess up and slide off his shoulder, accidentally kicking him in the groin.
Dominic drops to the floor like a turtle retracting into its shell.
"I am so sorry!" I cry.
"It's fine," he groans through gritted teeth.
I reach out to pat his shoulder then pull back, because I'm not sure I should touch him during a situation like this. I glance at the producer and he's cringing as if he's the one that got the pot shot. The camera is focused on Dominic curled up in a ball. I can't help myself. I burst out laughing.
"You're evil."
"It's your fault. If you didn't insist on the lifts, this wouldn't have happened."
"Ha ha," he mutters, now on his hands and knees catching his breath. "I will get you for this."
We take a short break, and when we resume, Dominic, the slave driver, has us back at the hard tricks again. By 6 p.m. I'm bruised
and sore from my gaffs and his firm grabs that save me from hitting the hardwood.
"Tomorrow will be better," he promises.
And it is. We try what we know with the music I chose, which adds an emotional backdrop for our lyrical moves. I love it so much and vow to work harder to get the lifts right. The one I'm most afraid of is where he wants me to take a running leap from the upper stage and land in his arms where he's waiting on the dance floor below.
"It's only about three feet," he says, as I bite my lip and consider the odds that he can actually hold all my body weight when I dead drop into him. "Come on, you big chicken. Do it."
"Is this the part where you get back at me?" The visual of slamming into the floor has me clammy with fear.
"No, but that's an excellent idea."
I gulp.
After a couple false starts, Dominic moves closer. I take the three-step run and leap out across the steps. Dominic catches me midair, turns smoothly, and gently sets me down where I spin away.
"Whoa! That's wild." I grin.
"You like it?"
"Sort of. It's scary. Can we do it again?"
He laughs knowingly.
We practice it several more times. Dominic must be exhausted from all the abuse of my body landing in his outstretched arms, but he never complains. I'm getting bruises from ribs to thighs from the impact.
By Sunday's camera marking, we're doing well other than the fact Dominic keeps pushing me to show more emotion. I'm trying, but exposing my heart is difficult for me. When it's time for our run though, I head out of my trailer and run into Dominic.
"You ready?" He falls into step beside me.
"I think so, but why are we scheduled so early?"
Dominic holds the sound stage door open. "I have a surprise for you, and it means we're going to need some extra time before camera blocking."
"Uh, oh." I study his face for answers, but he gives up nothing.
"Relax, you're going to love it." He grins.
My shoulders stiffen as I brace for whatever new torture Dominic has come up with. We cross backstage and onto the actual ballroom area where tech guys and cameramen are in various areas working on the new lighting and sets for tomorrow's show. Up on the raised section of the stage where I'm to make my leap into Dominic's arms, there's a grand piano and the head producer, Larry, talking to a guy with his back to us.
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