Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  I knew that was a load of very specific detail but I also knew she could take it all in.

  “As in arabesque,” I tacked on to make sure.

  She turned to look at me straight on, her eyes as wide as they would open. She nodded. Intensity uncontained. I loved her.

  “Okay, now I will watch you.” I stepped back so that I could take in her whole body.

  “Watch me? Alone?” She seemed somewhat frightened.

  I looked around. It was late on a Saturday night. All of the other pros had gone home and the back room was deserted. Was she seriously scared of me? Was it because Xenia had called me a brute and insisted I abused her? “No one will…hurt you. I promise. Do you want me to ask someone else to come back here with us—”

  “No, no, I meant, I’m going to dance alone, without you? Like, you’re just going to watch? Me?” She burst out laughing at our miscommunication, her cheeks developing a slight bit of color again. Her laugh was hearty. It seemed to help relieve her nerves. As it did mine.

  She wasn’t scared of me at all. At least not in that way. In a way I didn’t want her to be. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to dance without me for the same reason as Cheryl—out of neediness. It seemed she simply felt self-conscious. Like any normal perfectionist would. Again, how did I know the perfectionist state of mind so well? Two peas in a pod, as you say. “Yes. I need to see how you interpret what I showed you. Afterward, I will correct the problems I see,” I explained.

  I counted the beats and she moved in time to them. At first her cheeks, her entire head turned cherry red. But the more she moved, the more she calmed down and the blood stopped skyrocketing to her face. She wasn’t shifting her weight properly and settling fully into her hip, and she was too far weighted onto her toes, which gave her, not surprisingly, a ballerina look. And yet, she looked simply stunning. I couldn’t stop her and correct her. She was too captivating.

  But she stopped herself. “Um, it doesn’t really feel right.” She turned back to me.

  I raised my eyes to hers. “It’s good that you felt something was not right,” I said, managing to shake myself out of my spellbound reverie. “You are moving too much on the balls of your feet, almost your toes. You are not using your heels enough. You are too straight in the middle. There is not enough movement in your rib cage, your hips.”

  Her mouth fell open. It was a lot of criticism at once.

  “Here, watch me.”

  I did the steps halfway around the room. I could feel her eyes. Not to sound pompous, but I could feel her excitement at watching me. I was a top-level dancer. But I hoped there was more than just the thrill of watching a champion. I felt sexual tension in the air. I hoped she felt it too. Latin dance is so sensual. Professional boundaries often dissolve. Which is why I often developed romantic relationships with my pro partners. But I’d never, ever felt this way about a student before. Of course, nothing could happen. She had a boyfriend, and Alessia had her policy. Nothing could happen yet, that is.

  “Here, feel my body,” I said, returning to her, knowing well this sounded even more sexual. But seriously, she needed to feel the movement of each body part in order to understand it, to make it her own.

  Sure enough, her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. This I saw in the mirror. She wasn’t looking directly at me. No, she’d never knowingly let me see such a thing.

  I stood in front of her then turned my back toward her. I took her hands and placed one on each of my hips. Her fingers, wrapped around my hips, came a bit close to my groin. They had to. She needed to feel the muscles in that general area—the hip flexors, the hip bone. She immediately turned her hands downward, fingers pointed toward my thighs.

  “Feel. Just close your eyes and feel how my hips rotate when I brush my right leg in,” I said. “See how my left hip is curving, making a circular movement?” I looked at her in the mirror. She was doing exactly as I said, eyes closed. Good girl, I thought. Her hands were initially jittery, but she soon calmed down.

  After several minutes, I stopped and had her change positions with me. Now I stood behind her, placing my hands on her hips while counting out the beats. She wore a form-fitting dance top and yoga pants that were thin enough to feel through. Her hip muscles were lean but sinewy and flexible. She was slightly ticklish and jumped when my hands got too close to her waist. She seemed embarrassed, and closed her eyes.

  “Yes, that’s good. I was just going to suggest that,” I said. I put my hand on the small of her back and pressed down. “This is sticking out too much. It’s not good posture.”

  She immediately straightened. Good girl.

  “You’re still way too weighted on balls of your feet. It’s like you’re doing waltz.” I cleared my throat. “You look like you’re doing the waltz because you’re standing too much on your toes,” I repeated, correcting my grammar. I was getting frustrated with her and it was showing in my grammatical flubs. I didn’t want to become frustrated. I had to stop myself.

  I moved my hands up to her shoulders and gently pushed down, keeping them there while she took the next step. It worked. Immediately she was more grounded; her heels connected more with the floor.

  “Yes, good, that still works. But you need to stop relying on it. It’s worst problem I’ve seen on you.” My grammar, my raised voice. I knew she could sense my annoyance. “Okay, let’s work on arms,” I said, trying to change the subject. “You have ballet hands. Too soft. You need to bend your wrist, flex your fingers. Latin is spicy and dramatic. Think of spice, not sugar. Watch again first.” I could feel my pulse, my words rushing. I was excited. She could do this, and do it expertly. I knew she could.

  I demonstrated. She paid close attention to the details of my movement. She nodded, her eyes wide and alert. Good.

  “Okay, this is your homework,” I said. “You have to work on keeping solid connection to the ground at all times. Push down on your own shoulders when you feel yourself too much on your toes. But don’t rely on that. Try to ground yourself by envisioning. And you have problem with Latin arms. You have to get it in your muscle memory and only way you’re going to do that is to practice it over and over again. Hours a day, I mean.” I wasn’t paying any attention to my grammar now. I was far too excited over making this exquisite woman into utter perfection. I knew I could. She didn’t even seem to notice the grammar.

  She looked confused, and glanced up at the clock. Was I being too hard on her? Did she want to escape me? I just needed her to be ready. I wasn’t sure what for.

  “We have to get this down before we can move on,” I said, peering harder into her, commanding her gaze away from the stupid clock. “It’s everything in Latin.”

  She nodded, her eyes glowing with intensity.

  Chapter 12

  Cheryl showed up for my next first-level group class. She and Luna were like partners in crime as they looked Rory up and down, and bumped into her more than once, one time quite hard. Cheryl was pissed I’d given Rory her time slot, though she never addressed it with me. They were stupid and childish. I couldn’t become a kindergarten teacher, but I couldn’t have Rory feeling bullied either. For whatever reason—her asshat of a boyfriend perhaps—she was lacking in self-confidence, and I didn’t need them screwing with her. She was too important. Of course she wasn’t a weakling. She held her own and ignored them. And she had friends in the class, like Paulina, a transsexual who was very advanced in ballroom but was new to Latin. She seemed very protective of Rory, and I loved her for it.

  My Russian students strongly disliked Luna and Cheryl. They called them horrible dancers who relied too much on plastic surgery and too little on dance technique. But they spoke in Russian, with sweet faces. The whole room soon became overcome with tension and melodrama, and it wasn’t a good learning environment for anyone. Alessia had told me Arabelle would replace me as the teacher next month. I only had two more weeks of it to go.

  Feeling I’d made a mistake with Rory in the first class by showing
off with her, now, when she rotated into me, I paid her next to no attention. I neither corrected her nor commended her. That would all be saved for her privates. I didn’t even look her in the eye when we danced. I couldn’t, or the magic would take over. No one else needed to be a part of that.

  Things were progressing at a snail’s pace with Arabelle. We had the routines Greta had choreographed for us down solid but she was still too weak and slow for me. She just didn’t have my strength or zest. We looked mismatched. Greta knew too, though she wouldn’t admit it to me. Nor did Arabelle. She continuously apologized for being behind, for failing to meet my strength and maintain a solid connection. Xenia had a new partner and planned to compete against us in the O.C. and Blackpool. He didn’t have stellar credentials, but if Arabelle didn’t get up to speed they could be serious contenders for the titles. And we wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against Micaela and Jonathan at Blackpool.

  I tried hard not to show my frustration and let my drive get the better of me, but who was I kidding? That was impossible for me to avoid for too long. Especially with big competitions on the horizon. During one coaching, Arabelle just broke down and started crying. Greta tried to comfort her but I couldn’t. I knew I shouldn’t have been, but I was angry with her that we weren’t improving. It wasn’t all her fault. She just wasn’t right for me. But I couldn’t admit it. We were getting too close to Blackpool. Greta convinced me that the local competition would be a test. If we failed, I didn’t know what I would do. It was too late to rethink Blackpool.

  I regretted giving Rory a time slot immediately after Cheryl’s. She always made me late to begin Rory’s lesson. I knew she was testing my patience; wanting to see how far she could push me before I outright kicked her out.

  “Can we go to Orange County together? What should I wear there? Will there be a place to do my hair and makeup in private? I’m used to privacy, not a women’s lounge. Sorry for all the questions, I’m just nervous since it’s my first one,” she said as she slowly changed her shoes.

  Not nervous about the things you should be nervous about, like your technique, I wanted to say. “Don’t worry, it will all go smoothly.” I stood at the door. She remained seated on the bench. I looked out. Rory was practicing her rumba basic, her gaze fixed on me, waiting for me to ask her in. “I have my next student now,” I said, looking back to Cheryl.

  She looked at Rory with venom. For a moment I wondered if I would have to begin my lesson with Rory out in the main room. But finally she got up, walked toward me, and planted a long, wet kiss on my cheek. I flinched. She flew through the door, made an orgasmic-sounding moan, and shot Rory a look, which I could see in the mirror, of ecstasy, as if she’d just gotten laid. Rory did a double take at her, and again stepped back as Cheryl walked so close she practically grazed her.

  Maybe she did? Rory said something to her, looked down, and hobbled toward the room.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Rory laughed. “Oh yeah, yeah.” She sounded embarrassed, and looked down. I followed her gaze. There was a slight bit of blood pooled at the edge of her big toe.

  “Let me get a bandage. Did that just happen?”

  “Yeah, it’s totally no big deal,” she said. “I’ve had much worse injuries. Believe me!”

  I took a small Band-Aid from my bag and handed it to her. She smiled. I smiled back but I was pissed. Cheryl was a miserable beast, and Rory was far too sweet about it all.

  “Yes. I can imagine with all that ballet background, you have experienced a great deal of dancerly pain.”

  This made her blush. I could tell she liked to have her dance background acknowledged. And she should. Ballet was hard work. And she’d done well with it and gone far. It was only too obvious. And yet, she hung her head down. Why was this beautiful, accomplished girl so down on herself? I was determined to find out.

  “So,” I said. I raised my left eyebrow and shot her my cocked smile so she’d know I was kidding. Kind of. “Please tell me…” I lowered my head so as to gaze right into her eyes. “Where is Rory?”

  She raised her head and sat up straight. Finally. “Um, sorry?”

  “Ah, there you are. Yes, that’s much better.”

  She looked confused for a second then laughed. “Yeah, my posture…I know. I think it’s from sitting behind a computer for nine hours a day.”

  But I wasn’t one for excuses. I reached out to her. She licked her lips in anticipation, an action I don’t think was intentional or that she was even cognizant of. But it told me a great deal about how she felt about my touching her. Right before she took my hand, I pulled mine back. I wanted to make sure she understood how important practice was. Because I hadn’t seen much of her in the practice room this week, and something told me she hadn’t done a lot of it.

  “Ah, but before we start, please tell me how much did you practice this week? How many hours?”

  Uh-huh. As I knew, her face reddened and she swayed from foot to foot.

  “Ugh. I had a super-rough week. Really, really rough. I have this crazy-stressful trial at work and I broke up with my boyfriend and then I had to look for a new apartment, and of course that’s a nightmare so far. Everything is either totally expensive or in a scary neighborhood. And my commute to work is a friggin’ night— Well, you know, this is L.A.” she spurted out so quickly I almost didn’t catch the end of it.

  And of course my mind was focused on the second part of her first sentence. She’d broken up with her boyfriend. I made sure I didn’t show any emotion. I was good at that. But I knew they’d break up. I’d known they were horrible for each other the second I laid eyes on them. Good girl, she’d finally discovered the same. Was it through dance, through the studio, through me?

  “But anyway…” she continued on after a breath so short I don’t know how it possibly helped her to regain her speech. I guess I’d given her my sharp, “no excuses” look because she suddenly appeared very serious, and her eyes acknowledged she’d misbehaved and had to come clean. “Two hours on Sunday. And last night I stayed and practiced for two more, even though I was the only one left and everyone went home.” She had a very conflicted look on her face, as if she was proud but worried how I’d react.

  Good. I was glad to have this effect. She should be worried about lack of practice. Always. Even in emergency circumstances.

  “So, um, four…four hours total,” she said in closing.

  I raised my eyebrows and began to think of a response when she blabbered on, seeming nervous.

  “But I still went to all my classes this week, even despite the trial and breakup and apartment search. So if you include that, that’s fifteen hours. So, I’m going to say, nineteen hours in all. I mean, not all of it was rumba, of course. But it was dance. Ballroom dance. Latin dance. So, um, nineteen hours.” Now she took a lengthy breath, which she must have needed after all that.

  She was scared of me, of what I thought. I should play with this. Make sure she never gave me any excuses not to practice again. I continued to regard her with raised eyebrows and a bemused smile, then slowly began nodding, walking around the room a bit several times before finally approaching her and reaching for her hand. She laughed nervously and reached toward me. When our fingers touched, I realized she was shaking. I didn’t know whether it was because she was nervous or excited. Hopefully a bit of both.

  I placed her in closed position and began doing a basic. I had no words, and she seemed to understand she’d been bad. She closed her eyes and let it go. I felt her relax. Finally.

  I could feel her posture still wasn’t right though. I looked down her backside. Her hips were too far from me. She wasn’t comfortable enough with a close hold yet.

  To loosen her up a bit, get her to feel her body more, her bad posture and its effects, and to stop her from being so anxious about her lack of practice, I tried to make conversation. I wanted to know more about her anyway. “Did you say you have a trial?” I moved my hand from her shoulder blade down he
r spine, resting on the small of her back. I wanted to suggest subtly that she pull her rear in. I brushed the bottom of her spine lightly with my fingertips. How fun it was to correct her.

  I felt her pulse speed. She caught my innuendo and fixed her lower back immediately. I, begrudgingly, returned my hand to her shoulder blade.

  “Yeah. We had jury selection this week. It’s at the courthouse downtown. It’s my first that I’m doing all on my own. My boss thought I could handle it. And I can, but I mean, it’s stressful. Thankfully, I don’t expect it to last too long.” She was quite the fast talker.

  “Your boss?” I said. Her head and shoulders were sinking again. I removed my fingers from her back, this time moving them up and around to her front, to her chin.

  Again, her pulse quickened. This was quite fun. I gently lifted her chin with my fingers.

  “Oh, right. Posture,” she said with a squeaky laugh. I returned my hand to her back.

  “Oh, so you are the lawyer,” I said, playfully.

  “What? Yes, oh yes. Of course. No, I’m not the defendant!” She gasped.

  She began to lower her chin again, so I placed my hand right back where it had been, propping her head up. I would keep doing this until she held her head up on her own. Her gaze met mine. I could get lost in those eyes.

  “Lawyer. Fancy,” I said, lifting my eyebrows.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I mean, it’s a job.” Her eyes veered down, but her head remained upright, thanks to my hand. Hmmm, her self-effacing tendencies seemed related to her job.

  “What type of lawyer?”

  “Ugh,” she responded.