Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  She shook her head, looked down. “Um, after this one, just one,” she said softly.

  “Bronislava is a very good teacher. I want you to take your final lesson with her. Actually, your two final lessons. We will not count tonight; we’re only minutes into it anyway. I will tell the front desk you have two privates left and you have decided to take them with Bronislava. Do not sign up for any more lessons with me. And do not take my group class.”

  I couldn’t look at her. I had to get out of there before I said any more. I shouldn’t allow myself to get so out of control. I felt her eyes, her tears. They stung my eyes too. I didn’t allow myself to look back.

  I watched her from the studio’s third-floor window as she walked outside, in a daze, down the block, toward the apartment I’d gotten for her. I watched her as long as I could see her, until she turned the corner.

  ***

  That night I had a nightmare. Or a memory; I didn’t know which. It was one that I’d had many times before but not since I’d met Rory. I was cold, in my small, hard bed, and something had woken me. I was a child. It was my last night in my home. I couldn’t see anything but I felt something sinister. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I began to see the figure of my father. He was standing at the door. I couldn’t see his eyes but I felt their anger. I saw he had a broken vodka bottle in his hand. I was terrified he was going to hit me with it. I called out for my mother, but I heard only laughter. I didn’t know whose. I woke up from the dream, heart pounding, as always. I didn’t know if it actually happened. If it did, he never hit me with the bottle; he’d decided against it, for whatever reason. Maybe a moment of acceptance, even happiness, that I might have a good life. Maybe he just wanted to avoid punishment for child abuse. Or maybe it didn’t happen at all; it was just me projecting onto my past.

  For the next couple days, I watched Rory from afar, peeking through the small glass windows to see her enjoying her group classes, practice parties, the mambo team. She seemed to be having a good time, particularly with the latter. It was mesmerizing watching her sweet face as she learned all the fast hand movements, dips and tricks. Pepe was good for her. He let loose and had fun with her. I wished I could be less serious. But dance was my blood passion. If I didn’t make number one, I’d never accomplish my life goal. It would make all my sacrifices—leaving my family, angering my mother and father, Tatiana’s running away from home—all meaningless. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t see dance as a fun pastime. I couldn’t. I was way too far gone for that.

  But all the while Pepe flipped her and dipped her, there was a sadness behind her eyes. I could tell though it wasn’t outwardly visible. At one point, she seemed to sense me watching her, as she looked straight at the window where I was standing. For a split second, our pupils connected, and I saw the pain. The same pain I felt.

  That night, my nightmare returned, as it did every night that week. I began to feel a strong sense of fear for the first time in a long time. Not just deep unease about Tatiana’s whereabouts, but my own sense of dread. I didn’t know about what exactly.

  I started to feel like I was stalking Rory, but I couldn’t help but seek her out every evening while she took her group classes. It took me until the end of the week to figure out why. Her glowing face, her sunny hair, her innocent eyes, her sweet, radiant American smile all took away the fear caused by my nightmares. I had to get her back. And it had to be as my permanent partner. Not a silly student.

  ***

  After my last private of the day—now with Cheryl—I walked to Rory’s apartment. I knew she’d just had her last class and there was no practice party tonight, so she’d be home soon. It was a typical L.A. night, a little cool but not too chilly. I parked around the corner from her building. Frank had let me keep a key to the outside gate, since he trusted me. I knocked, but she wasn’t home yet. So I sat in front of her door.

  It wasn’t long before I felt her, then heard her. She gasped when she saw me, and almost dropped her bag of groceries.

  “I have a prrroposition for you,” I said, rolling my r’s. Yes, I was quite a tangle of nerves. I wanted her back, needed her back. But after I’d been so mean at our last meeting, would she take me? She blushed and let out a little laugh. Those rolling r’s still melted her. I let out an immense sigh of relief. I didn’t know if she would accept my offer but she would at least hear me out.

  Chapter 16

  “Uh-huh,” she squeaked, her blush growing darker. She was simultaneously startled and excited.

  “Would you like to sit in the courtyard area to talk? Or the Coffee Bean down the street? I would prefer not to be in a very public place, though. I mean, not near the school. If you don’t mind.”

  She rocked back on forth on her feet, trying to catch her breath.

  “Would you like help with those?” I asked, pointing to her groceries.

  “Oh. Yeah.” She looked at the paper bag, which now appeared to be dripping.

  I took it from her and stepped aside so she could access her lock.

  “Oh, come in,” she said when I remained standing on the doormat as she walked across the foyer. She let escape another nervous little laugh. I wasn’t about to go in uninvited.

  I walked through the doorway and stood in the middle of the living room. Her walls were bare, save for a large sketch of the dancer Rudolf Nureyev, a few photographs of some other lesser-known ballet dancers, and a couple small abstract drawings. No photos of her growing up, of her family.

  She’d turned what was to be Tatiana’s apartment into a wonderful little home. Minimalist in furniture and decoration but clean and neat, with well-arranged books and artwork that said a great deal about her. A white corner bookcase held lots of novels, and a few biographies. One of Tchaikovsky stood out. I spotted Dostoevsky’s entire oeuvre and Tolstoy’s “War and Peace.” She liked Russian literature. And Russian composers. I also saw Proust and some more modern novels bearing covers of photos of lovers. She was a romantic. No law books though, interestingly. I eyed her sweet red two-cushion sofa—the only real place to sit down in the apartment, aside from her small kitchen side bar.

  “Oh, have a seat, please,” she said, with another laugh and shake of her head, as if annoyed at herself for being forgetful. She extended her hand toward the sofa. It was small so we’d be sitting quite close together. Nice. “Do you want anything to drink?”

  “No, no thank you,” I said.

  After putting her groceries away, she sat next to me. I hoped her hip would graze my thigh. But it didn’t. She grabbed onto the arm of the sofa as if to ensure no part of her body would accidentally slide anywhere near mine. She still wished to keep her distance.

  “So,” I said, praying she would accept my offer.

  Her gaze met mine, her eyes wide with anticipation and confusion.

  “I think I have told you about the Blackpool Dance Festival coming up in just a few months,” I began.

  She sighed and squirmed. “Mitsi told me about it. And, as I told you before, I have no intention of doing any competitions. I simply can’t afford—”

  “I know, I know, I know,” I said. I held my finger to her lips, to shush her. Her breath was hot and fresh and sugary sweet.

  I quickly moved my hand to her forearm. What was I thinking touching her lips? Too much, too soon. The skin of her arm was soft and creamy with lotion.

  “Just listen, okay?” I said.

  She blinked and nodded.

  “I know the studio is expensive. Don’t worry; you won’t have to pay for lessons with me anymore. You’re no longer my student.”

  She shook her head and squinted. “I don’t understand. How would I do pro/ams with you if I didn’t take lessons? Oh, you want me to compete with someone else?”

  “No, no, no. Definitely not that.”

  She looked relieved. But still confused.

  “There are no pro/am competitions at Blackpool, or in Europe at all. That I know of. Those are an American thing.” I chuckled
to myself thinking of how Luna and Cheryl would be viewed in Europe. With the utmost disdain. That’s for sure.

  “Okay. So?”

  “Rory.” I turned my whole body toward her, inched a little closer, looked straight into her pupils. “Arabelle and I were set to compete at Blackpool together, in the regular pro Latin. But she and I are…how do you say it…not seeing eye to eye.”

  “I kind of noticed,” she said.

  “So, I was wondering if…you would like to take her place. Be my partner.” In a way, I couldn’t believe I was actually saying this. Deep in my heart I wanted it for so long, and believed, like Greta, that it could happen.

  The room grew very still. Her eyes widened and darted all around the room. When they finally returned to me, she shook her head. My heart dropped. “I’m sorry. What?”

  Did she not understand, or was she in disbelief? Or was she worried about affording it? “You would be taking coaching with me,” I said. “I will pay for that. The comp fees are already paid for. The sponsors pay for the costumes and hotel and airfare and all. There wouldn’t be any charges for you. You don’t have to worry about money.” I smiled and raised my eyebrows, hopefully. She had to say yes; she had to.

  She sank into the love seat cushion. Now her hips met mine. But I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Her eyes remained wide open.

  I reached out to her, began brushing my thumb over her forearm. I couldn’t help it. I had to touch her, feel that soft skin against mine again. “The only thing I need from you is commitment to learning and practicing and working hard. As much of a time commitment as you can give.” I said this last part with hesitation. I knew her work schedule was tight. I was just hoping it wasn’t too much so. She was, as Greta noticed, in the studio every night.

  She finally looked me straight in the eye. “Your real partner?” she said, emphasis on the middle word.

  I laughed. Good, her confusion stemmed from disbelief. “Yes. My real partner. It will of course be a great deal of work,” I quickly added. “A lot of work, Rory.” I had to warn her. I needed to make sure she was up to it.

  She took a deep breath and her eyes shifted about again as if she were processing her thoughts. “I can’t believe you think I’m that good!” she shouted, suddenly full of excitement.

  I knew I’d won. She was going to say yes.

  “But, I mean, I know from the O.C. competition how hard it is for a newcomer to get anywhere very fast. And I have so little experience.” Now she was back to speed-talking.

  I flashed her a smooth smile. “Are you questioning my choices, neglecting to trust my expertise in this matter, Ms. Laudner?” I asked with as much cocky flirtatiousness as I could muster.

  “Of course not, Mr. Zakharov.” She giggled.

  “Good. Don’t you ever do that.” I was semi-joking. “But seriously. The American pro/am competitions are totally different from the professional international ones. A different set of judging standards entirely. I think you will be…refreshing to the judges. And since you are new, you haven’t developed any bad habits yet. And you’d better not.” I said this with a raise of my eyebrows.

  Her eyes and mouth remained wide open. She looked like she was about to rocket off her cushion. But then her horrid lack of self-confidence overcame her elation. I could read it on her face.

  “Rory, you obviously have potential,” I said. “Please stop doubting yourself, and me.” I drilled my pupils into hers. I was serious, dammit. I wanted so badly to rid her of this ridiculous self-effacement. “You have the talent. I promise you. With hard work—very hard work—you can do it. I know you can.”

  “I know,” she said after a pause, tears lining her bottom eyelids. She hated her lack of self-confidence too. “But why don’t you want me to take your group class?” she said sniffing, changing the topic. Aren’t they good for practice?”

  I’d forgotten I’d made that demand. I’d said that when I was angry.

  “Rory, when you implied that I encourage women to compete with me just for money, it really…it really angered me. I don’t make most of my money that way. I make it through choreographing for live shows and television and film, and by performing all over the world and winning major competitions—my own professional comps. We are paid by our sponsors for wearing their costumes and accessories. And we are paid, quite well, by the people who put on the shows. I just…” I felt my lips pursing again and my jaw clenching as it had before the last time I saw her. I was getting worked up and didn’t want to right now.

  “Let’s not rehash that,” she said, placing her arm on mine. “I understand. I’m sorry if I insulted you. I was confused and upset and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  I smiled. My sweet, sweet Rory. With Xenia the fight would have escalated until it was far out of control. Neither of us ever apologized to the other. I turned my hand over so my palm was facing hers, and I gently rubbed her arm. “Thank you,” I said.

  But now that I thought about it, I didn’t want her in my class. I wanted to keep her away from Luna and Cheryl and the melodrama that threatened Rory’s self-esteem. And from Alessia and her insistence that I “monetize” my relationship with her by the next pro/am. I wanted to keep her out of that whole world and all of its political bullshit. And, yes, our new partnership would free us from Alessia’s non-fraternizing policies.

  “You will learn so much better privately, with me. With all the melodrama some of the other students create, they’re really not necessary,” I added, realizing I hadn’t answered her question.

  She rolled her eyes in understanding. “Yeah, it’s more than enough melodrama just to have to see them in the private lesson room.”

  “No, no, no,” I unintentionally shouted, making her jump. “I mean, we’ll train in my house,” I said, lowering my voice. I didn’t want anyone knowing, for now at least, that we were training together. I couldn’t imagine all the beady little eyes constantly on us.

  “You have a studio in your house?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes. I have a big ballroom.”

  She giggled. I thought I detected a sly undertone to that little laugh. “Wow. This is…um, kind of surreal. I mean…hmmm.” She cleared her throat and looked away. Her eyes were gleaming. She was dazed, in a good way.

  ***

  I picked her up at her apartment the following night for our first coaching.

  “You’re so prompt!” she gushed.

  “I am always on time. Almost always, anyway.”

  I led her to my black Porsche parked on a side street, and opened the passenger door.

  “This is your car?” she said with an audible gasp.

  “Yes, it is. Do you like it?” I knew the answer.

  “Of course! It’s gorgeous!”

  I drove fast but not too fast so as to scare her. The Hollywood Hills were a tangled maze of twisting, turning streets, some ending with dangerous cliffs. Xenia used to freak out when I’d whip around them. I’d mastered the gears and knew what I was doing of course, but tonight was an important starting point for us and I didn’t need Rory’s nerves tied up in a bundle of knots from the get-go. I pulled up to my house, which was partially hidden by a line of tall bushes, and opened the gate via the remote at the roof of my car. She seemed impressed as she took it all in. I pulled into my horseshoe-shaped driveway, and parked right at the front door.

  “Oh my gosh, it’s made of rock. It’s like Frank Lloyd Wright,” she said, as if I’d taken her to Disneyland for a private tour.

  “That’s what I loved too when I first saw it. It’s organic, blends into the surroundings.”

  I got out and came around for her. When I opened her door, she was still sitting there gazing out in awe.

  We walked up the marble steps, and I opened the door to the living room.

  “Oh wow. You have so much…stuff.” Her eyes scanned the room: the black leather L-shaped sofa, the plasma TV, the surround speakers, the marbled fireplace. Her eyes widened even more as th
ey followed the winding staircase that led to the second floor.

  “That’s what happens when you get settled into a place,” I said, wondering if she felt insecure for being so minimalist.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Four years.”

  “Yeah, you do seem settled. You really like L.A.” she said, more as a statement than a question.

  “I do,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I moved here because it was James’s home and he had a job here and all. I liked San Francisco, but…I’m still deciding.”

  “Is that where you’re from?” I knew she was from a small town but wanted her to tell me that.

  “No, no, I’m from a really small town in North Carolina that you’ve never heard of. Trust me,” she added, with a laugh. “What about you?”

  I hated talking about my past. Too much damage. Too many still-open wounds, especially with Tatiana out there, lost. “Russia,” I said simply.

  “No, really?” she said with a sarcastic laugh.

  I knew she meant what city in Russia, but I didn’t feel like going there. We had work to do anyway. “You can put your things down on the chairs, or anywhere you like. Then come back here,” I said, walking through the living room, then through the kitchen, toward the back studio.

  She followed me, dropping the subject, as I’d hoped she would. She stopped in the kitchen, and looked at the bay windows framing the eating nook. The black velvet curtains were pulled slightly apart and she peered out. It was dark and you couldn’t see much.

  “There are lots of little lights. What’s out there?”

  “Probably lights from houses down in the canyon. Or stars,” I said.

  “You’re kidding!” She laughed. “We’re that far up?”

  She was impressed. I felt my chest swell. “Yep,” I said.

  I walked past the nook to the marbled kitchen bar, which opened out into the ballroom studio.

  “Oh my gosh!” she squealed, toeing the polished hardwood floor. “You even have ballet barres! What’s behind those curtains?” she asked, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling window that opened onto the backyard pool, hot tub, and patio, and behind them, a gorgeous view of the canyon.