Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

“God, look, they’re right there in the middle of the floor, as plain as fucking day. Acting like nothing,” Cheryl yelled, gesticulating toward the center of the floor. She flung her arm out with such force, she hit another female student. The student winced. Cheryl gave her an evil eye.

  “Okay, be careful,” I said to Cheryl and looked at the girl apologetically.

  “Can you believe it?” Cheryl yelled, ignoring me.

  I shook my head, still having no idea what she was talking about. It was her and Luna’s behavior that I couldn’t believe.

  The music stopped and the emcee announced there would be a brief recess, as the judges had to look into a matter. Luna was at the raised platform speaking to three judges, the emcee, and the organizer of the competition. She was gesticulating madly. They seemed as flummoxed as I was. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes like golf balls. I’d never seen her look so angry. If she didn’t have so much power here, it would have been comical. I felt sorry for this lesbian who was apparently the subject of her wrath.

  The emcee placed a hand on Luna’s shoulder, then invited the audience to take the floor for a brief period of social dancing.

  “Let’s start with a sexy foxtrot,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  On came a song I’d never, ever forget. “Fever.” My thoughts went immediately to the first time I laid eyes on Rory, the first time I touched her soft, creamy skin. Suddenly the room turned warm. I sensed her presence. Her gaze.

  My eyes searched the room. They didn’t have far to travel. I spotted her easily, in the corner of the dance floor, with the Indian man. The second I fixed my gaze on her, she found me, her pupils locking with mine. She took a breath and the edges of her beautiful mouth curved up ever so slightly. The man should have had her in the center of the floor. What was he doing in the corner? Didn’t he know how to treat such a perfect woman?

  Neither of them knew much about foxtrot, but it was sweet watching them try to figure it out. I didn’t take my gaze from her and she didn’t take hers from me despite the fact that her partner was trying to talk to her. Their relationship was clearly platonic.

  It was like we were having some sort of conversation with our eyes. Who would look away first? “Fever,” Peggy Lee called out. I felt a shiver. I’m pretty sure Rory felt it too.

  “What are you so fixated on? God, you’re like a zombie all of a sudden,” Cheryl said, squeezing my hand, her voice like the proverbial nails scraping a chalkboard.

  I refused to avert my gaze. Rory’s breath caught. I could see it from afar. Cheryl squeezed harder and my hand started to ache. I let her, I let myself feel the pain of being with the wrong woman, of not being able to make the right woman mine yet, of making the wrong choice. Not that Cheryl had been wrong choice; I hadn’t picked her. She hadn’t been a choice at all. Arabelle was my wrong choice. I should be dancing with Rory. I knew that now. It was crystal clear.

  As the song ended, I mouthed something to Rory that I knew she couldn’t understand. Because it was in Russian. I said, “I ache for you.” Rory’s eyes widened and her mouth opened, as if she was receptive to my words anyway, understanding them on an unspoken level.

  “Sasha!” Cheryl screeched, and tugged.

  “Okay, they’re dealing with it. Come on.” This was from Luna.

  Back to reality.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to return to heat two…” the emcee began.

  “Sasha?” Cheryl and Luna said in unison.

  I took one long, last look at Rory. I ended our little unspoken conversation with a wink, then turned back to these women, whom I was beginning to think of as witches. I saw, in my periphery, the man escort Rory off the floor. Her head was still turned in my direction.

  “Is it all worked out?” I asked Luna, though I didn’t care in the least.

  “Yes,” she snapped.

  “Good. We’ll stand in our usual spot. Sveta and I will be on in two rounds.”

  We waited for Svetlana’s heat to be called while the finalists of the former round were announced. Rory was at our studio’s banquet table. I could see disappointment in her eyes as she hugged a young woman dressed as a man, who I recognized as a student from the studio. She was with her partner, dressed in a really snazzy purple fringed costume. I could see in Rory’s eyes that something bad had happened, beyond just that her friend hadn’t made the finals. It then dawned on me that the young woman dressed in male leader attire could be the lesbian Luna was so angry at. Poor girl. Politics. As I said, I despised them.

  The emcee announced the A-level Latin scholarship round. My number was called and I had to forcefully shake Cheryl off me to escort Svetlana out to the floor. She was a very good dancer and I wanted the judges to see her. So I took her right to the center of the floor. Others actually stood aside to make a little room for us. I often received that kind of attention at these events. Other pros and their amateur partners were very deferential to the champion, which was likely one reason I had a good deal of students. I brought them attention. But I didn’t insist every one of my students be placed in the center of the floor; only the ones I really thought deserved to be there.

  We gazed out at our audience. I spied Rory again. She was looking straight at me, her disappointment for her friend now evaporating somewhat and a little smile crossing her lips. I quickly raised my eyebrows at her, to let her know I was very aware of her presence, then returned my attention to Sveta. The cha-cha music began and we were off. Sveta was sharp and focused. She did superbly well.

  Our second dance, samba, was a traveling one. I made sure we whizzed right by Rory, who was seated at the front of the table, at the edge of the floor. I smiled devilishly, while maintaining my connection with my partner. But she knew the smile was for her.

  “Go 89!” I heard her yell. Yes, I well recognized, even through the mad din, Rory’s voice. That wasn’t my number. Then I heard her laugh. She was clearly rooting for a friend of hers. I kept an eye out for number 89, finally spotting them toward the end. It was my friend, Maks. His amateur was a young Asian woman I hadn’t seen before. A newcomer, but quite good.

  Rory’s friend didn’t make the semifinals. But the quarterfinals for a newcomer was very, very good. I was proud of her, though I didn’t know her. Sveta ended up placing third, which I was happy with. The two who placed above her were longtime competitors whom the judges knew well. In a few more competitions, I felt sure Sveta would rise to the top. I shook hands with the male pro finalists and hugged the females—as was the custom—and we took our place on the third-level podium, while the judges placed a bronze medal around Sveta’s neck.

  I looked back at Rory. She looked concerned and confused. She and Mitsi were whispering and Rory appeared to be growing angry. I made a mental note to explain pro/am politics at her next lesson, and make it clear her friend was very good.

  When we returned to the sidelines, Cheryl immediately grabbed my arm and held it for the next forty-five minutes, until her competition was called. It couldn’t be overstated how much I wanted her round to be over. She began to pull me onto the dance floor as soon as the emcee announced level B beginner Latin.

  “We have to wait till they call my number,” I said, holding her in place. She harrumphed but she was shaking. Man, was she nervous.

  When my number was called, I told her she’d do fine, not to worry, and escorted her to the floor. Or tried to. She walked so briskly, she overtook my stride. This wasn’t good. She was leading already and we hadn’t even begun. Though the crowd parted for us, making room for us in the center, I stopped about a third of the way there.

  The music began, and, as I suspected she would, Cheryl began before me. Well before. It couldn’t be more obvious.

  “Slow down,” I whispered. But she was in her own world now, chin way up, looking out and over the banquet tables as if she were queen and the audience her subjects. High as her head was, she continued to shake and to clutch my arm, so I knew she was nervous. “It’s okay. You�
��re doing well,” I whispered between closed lips.

  “I’m fine,” she practically shouted in response, completely destroying my subtlety. I was sure the judge near us heard.

  There were fewer students in this level—always were at the lower levels—so, thankfully, it didn’t last that long. She’d ended our jive by kicking me in the shin. Quite hard. Though my ankle hurt, I made sure not to show it. Short as the round was, my palm, bicep, and now shin—every part of my body she’d touched—were on fire by the end of it.

  Luna’s competition began before the winners of Cheryl’s were announced, giving me all of ten minutes to dash upstairs, change into Luna’s lovely purple fringe, and hightail it back down to the ballroom. The second I saw Luna in costume, I realized what all the fuss had been about. It was the same costume worn by the follower in the lesbian couple, Rory’s friend. The younger woman looked so much better in the dress. Luna was very thin, anorexic-looking almost. The lesbian was more curvy. So, it seemed the other woman had effectively shown Luna up. Completely unintentionally, I was sure. They must have disqualified the lesbian couple. That must have been what Rory was so upset about. I tried hard not to let my anger at my amateur partner get the best of me.

  I didn’t escort Luna to the exact center of the floor, but slightly off. I did it subconsciously, but Luna knew my modus operandi. She shot me a glare that was both horrified and bitter. During our second dance, I corrected my mistake and properly centered her. She held her head toward the ceiling the entire time, in haughtiness. This made her completely off center, off balance, and the anger stemming from her core and emanating through her pores heated my skin to an almost unbearable degree.

  “Davay, Sasha! Davay, Luna!” Cheryl screamed. She was imitating the many Russians who’d been cheering me on throughout.

  I inwardly rolled my eyes, trying to tell myself it was sweet she found our language interesting enough to try out on her tongue. But it wasn’t sweet. Not coming from Cheryl.

  Everyone in the audience knew how important Luna was at these competitions. Even though her husband was never in attendance, everyone knew how much money he contributed. And Luna danced at every single championship. There were more “davays” for us than for anyone else in any heat thus far. Phoniness supreme, as I knew from all the chatter, the gossip—much of it in Russian—that no one actually liked her. People resented her.

  I looked in Rory’s direction as we paso doble’d by the studio’s table. My heart skipped a beat when my eyes locked with Cheryl’s instead. She was in Rory’s seat. Where was Rory? I looked around. I couldn’t see her anywhere near our table. She realized what had happened too. I hoped badly she returned for the evening comp, to watch Arabelle and me.

  When the emcee announced the winners of Cheryl’s comp, she joined Luna and me on the floor, wrapping her arm around me, now digging her claws into my opposite side. I finagled my way out of her embrace and wrapped my arm around hers, in such a way that ensured her nails stayed clear of my skin.

  There were only six competitors in Cheryl’s level. I honestly thought the judges might name her sixth. Of course they didn’t. And I was, embarrassingly, relieved for her. With her nerves, she would have been mortified had she come in last. After the sixth, fifth and forth positions were announced and we remained standing, she began bouncing, and squealing. She wiggled free of my arm and outright hugged me. She was no longer jittery. Then her name was called. She’d placed third. I raised my eyebrows and nodded at her, indicating this was a very good placement. Miraculously good. But it wasn’t good enough for her. She looked like she was about to cry.

  “It’s a very good placement for first time,” I whispered, between my teeth. “Look, you did as well at Sveta, who’s been dancing much longer.” I failed to mention there were five times more contestants in Sveta’s competition. She sniffed back her tears and nodded, without smiling, lifting that blasted head and holding it high in the air as she pranced straight toward the podium, without shaking any of our fellow competitors’ hands. I mouthed “Sorry” to them and followed her, attached to her by the arm as I still was. They gave me knowing looks as if to say it wasn’t my fault my student was out of control.

  Cheryl didn’t want to let go of me when it was time for Luna’s results. The three of us waited on the floor, Cheryl now holding my hand, swinging our connected arms high enough for everyone to see. With her other hand, she clutched her medal, apparently now okay with the bronze.

  Unsurprisingly, Luna placed first. There was no way she’d outperformed the women who placed second and third, and we pros all gave each other knowing smiles as we performed our obligatory handshakes and hugs. The room was full of cheering anyway, as much for me as for her. For the first time all day, Luna flashed a wide smile. She turned away from me and out toward the crowd, and waved her entire arm—from shoulder to wrist—as if she were just crowned Miss America and was taking her final runway walk. I freed myself from Cheryl’s grip and accompanied Luna to the top podium, smiling gratefully at the judges and audience. I looked for Rory but couldn’t find her. She was pissed. She’d return for the evening. She had to.

  I congratulated all of my students on placing well, and excused myself to rest in the hotel room until the evening’s competition. Fortunately, no one balked. Once cocooned in my room, I ordered room service, enjoyed a good-sized but not overwhelmingly large meal of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables, set the alarm on my cell phone, and lay down for a nap.

  My alarm went off and I quickly showered again, gelled my hair back into a ponytail, and dressed in my competition costume. I met Arabelle downstairs in the practice room to go through our routine once more. I tried hard, oh so hard, not to notice all the mistakes, the lack of precision in her movement, the slowness of her timing, her lack of connection to me. I tried hard to tell myself it was all in my head, that I was simply a crazed perfectionist and she—we—were much better than I was giving us credit for. But she could sense my frustration, which led her to make more fumbles, which in turn increased my frustration. I knew this pattern well. I’d replicated it with so many women. And yet I couldn’t help myself. I desperately needed a partner who would stop me, stop me from this debilitating, ruinous behavior. And it wasn’t going to be Arabelle. She was far too nice, too gentle, too delicate, too hurt.

  I shrugged my shoulders after our last practice jive. “It is what it is at this point,” I said. She closed her eyes and took several deep, meditative breaths, trying desperately to calm herself.

  The emcee announced the Latin pro would begin shortly. The crowd went wild as we all entered the ballroom. As usual, the spotlights on the floor were so bright and glaring, I initially couldn’t see anyone or anything out in the crowd. There was so much noise, so much cheering. The emcee was trying to direct people not to flood the doorways and halls or the fire department would have all of our asses.

  Though there was no way I could see her, I could sense Rory’s presence. She was there. She was watching. I knew it.

  “Welcome to the evening session, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said as soon as the room settled down a bit. “We had a fun-filled day session and now we have the Professional Latin and Standard Championships tonight—the most popular event. But before that gets underway, we have a very special performance. As you all know, since last year’s competition, we’ve lost a dear friend, and a longtime champion in the Cabaret event, Willem Boxton.”

  The crowd suddenly became shock silent. I felt a bolt through my gut. Arabelle’s husband.

  “We’re now going to bring you a short film of several of his most famous dances with his beautiful wife, Arabelle.”

  I immediately felt horrible for my words to Arabelle after our practice. She’d worn her robe over her costume during our practice and I’d totally forgotten she was going to perform a balletic tribute to her deceased husband beforehand. As the lights went down, my body stilled. What was it like to lose someone? What was it like to die? So young. He was a ki
d, in his early twenties. Even younger than I was. Awful.

  After the room was dark, a screen mechanically lowered above the emcee’s podium. The film was truly beautiful. It showed clips of Willem and Arabelle performing several breathtaking show dance numbers. They were lovely together, their dancing very theatrical and stunning, with lots of gorgeously executed ballet-like lifts. Her leg lines in the air were mouthwateringly beautiful. It didn’t take a genius to tell they were in love, that she wholly trusted him in those crazy, death-defying lifts. I felt ashamed. She didn’t trust me like that at all. I felt a hole inside of me. Watching them brought home to me how much we weren’t a partnership. The hole inside my gut grew and I suddenly longed so much for Rory it ached.

  The screen faded to black and the room was completely dark for several moments. You could hear people sniffling. Then the lights came on low, and Arabelle slowly walked out onstage, wearing black ballet slippers and a simple black silk leotard with a short, translucent skirt. Plain, compared to all the rhinestone-studded women but very elegant, very beatific, very ballet. A slow, soft instrumental rumba played and Arabelle performed a beautiful dance on her own. Her willowy, feather-light body was a perfect instrument to express all that she had to say to her husband and partner, and to the audience: the love, sorrow, magic; the sublime elements of their relationship and their dancing. She ended by lowering her hands down in prayer and bending her torso down while lifting her back leg up to the sky. She was a ballerina, a show dancer through and through. Not a Latin ballroom dancer. But at this, she was splendid perfection.

  As the music ended, everyone in the auditorium stood. The applause was deafening. She took deep breaths, swallowing hard, trying hard to keep her tears at bay. She took several long, appreciative bows then clasped her hands together, raising hands and head above, looking up to the heavens. The hole inside me expanded even more. She was lost without her husband. I was lost as well, without my true partner.

  The room darkened again and when the lights came back on, the screen was raised and Arabelle was gone. The silence ended and chattering began.