Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  “But it can’t be all about me doing whatever you want me to,” she continued, “trying to keep up with you. If I keep trying to resist and push back or whatever, and it’s all about you laying the standard and me trying to adhere to it, you’re not allowing me to be myself—”

  “But you are still a beginner. You…you need instruction.”

  “Sasha, I need you to listen to me. Please. The whole time you were gone I watched a bunch of Blackpool DVDs. A ton. I saw all the top couples and especially Greta and Dean and how they moved together, how they worked together. How they respected each other and how their love and respect for each other showed in competition. The man was always faster and more precise, but he gave the woman the freedom to do her own thing and show her artistry. So it worked even if he had greater athletic ability than she did.”

  “This is not about athletic ability, Rory. I don’t expect you to be as fast as I am.” I threw my arms up. She needed to listen to me. I was not trying to make her into a replica of myself. I was trying to work with her, get her to understand the physics of the dance, of our partnership.

  “Sasha, we need to work together.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I laughed.

  “You need to not fight me.”

  “I don’t know what that means. I am trying to teach you to dance, Rory.” I paced the room, shaking my head. I was getting so heated, I felt beads of sweat spraying off me as I tossed my head about. She was making no sense.

  “Okay, look. Can we just go back to that thing we did at the studio that one day where I leaned on you and you felt my weight? Except this time it needs to be reversed and I need to feel yours.”

  “You’re not ever going to be lifting me, Rory. That makes no sense.” I stopped pacing and looked at her dead-on.

  “I need to get used to your strength. Seriously, come here and hold my hands. Come on.”

  “This is a waste—” But I walked toward her anyway. I didn’t know what we were doing but I would try to placate her. “Now what?” I said, taking her hands into mine, trying to soften my tone and let her play her game, see where it went.

  “Just push and pull me.”

  “Rory, this is ridic—”

  “Just humor me and do it. Please.”

  “Okay?” I tugged on her. She went flying toward me.

  “Sasha, not as hard as you can. I mean, as if we were dancing.”

  “That’s what I did,” I said, laughing.

  “No, it’s not. Do it again.”

  I did, this time making a conscious effort to use less force. This time she was ready and she pulled back. But my pull was apparently still too strong and she had to step forward quickly lest she lose her balance.

  “See, that’s too strong.”

  “You said you wanted to know my strength. Now you know. You will get used to it.”

  “No, that’s the problem. Sasha, I’m pulling and pushing as hard as I can and you’re still overwhelming me. This is not a partnership, it’s a fight. We’re not ballroom dancing, we’re wrestling.”

  I laughed, even though it really wasn’t funny. It was an amusing image.

  “We can’t have it look like that to the judges or we have no chance,” she continued. “It’s not just me who needs to adjust to you. You need to adjust to me and my strength too. Or lack thereof, okay. We need to work together.”

  It became clearer to me than ever she didn’t understand the first thing about Latin. If I adjusted to her strength, or lack thereof, as she said, we’d be dancing a waltz. It would be all softness and syrup, not passion. It wouldn’t be rumba. She’d been doing this a tiny fraction of the time I had. She couldn’t possibly propel herself to teacher status or we’d be beyond doomed. I was the teacher.

  “I’m serious, Sasha,” she continued. “I watched those DVDs so many times. What distinguished the couples who won from the ones who were only finalists was that the winners were a team. They each respected the other and let each other shine. It wasn’t like they were good separately and were trying to outdo each other, or keep up with each other.”

  Her voice lost steam. She knew it was an insult. Xenia and I were the losing couple.

  “I’m talking about Greta and Dean as the couple who were taking care of each other on the floor,” she added, apparently hoping to alter the focus and deflect her criticism.

  I nodded and took a deep breath before speaking. “So now you are an authority? You know more about ballroom dancing than I do because you watched a few videos? You think you should be teacher?” I put my hands on my hips and rocked back on my heels. She was fighting me. Just like everyone else, albeit without screaming and smacking and name-calling. I couldn’t seem to stop this from happening.

  She sighed and looked around the room. “Greta knows better than anyone what it takes to be a champion. So let’s abide by her dictates and just let her coach. She was right. I was wrong to say anything. We…we both were. Let’s just keep to our agreement with her.”

  “Rory, she can’t be here all the time. And we are running very short of that—time.” But I knew she was right. They both were.

  “When she’s not here, we’ll practice the routines on our own, without criticizing each other. Practice makes perfect, remember?”

  “No. It doesn’t. Not if we are doing it wrong.” I was nearly shouting.

  “Sasha, I’m sorry, I just can’t deal with you when you’re like this,” she said, her voice cracking. “I can’t do this until…until you change your attitude.”

  She ran outside without looking back.

  Damn, what was wrong with me? Why was I so hard on my partners? I loved this woman. I felt like slamming my fist through the wall.

  ***

  I decided to leave it be for a few days. Give us both time to cool down. I watched her from afar, in the studio. She resumed her regular classes, attended the evening parties, practiced with her mambo team. She enjoyed herself, her ballroom experience. For the most part.

  “It’s really good to see you again,” the Indian man, Rajiv, said, hugging her, outside one of their social classes. “You’re…okay, right?” He frowned. Her back was toward me, but I could tell she wasn’t. I ducked away before Rajiv spotted me.

  She resumed Bronislava’s intermediate samba. Now that she knew the syllabus, she was brilliant. She killed everyone else in the class, including the teacher. I could tell Bronislava thought the same.

  “Oh my lord, he has done wonders with you, honey! Wonders, wonders, wonders!” Paulina said, wrapping her construction-worker-sized arms around little Rory. “You are like a pro, girlfriend! Well, not like. You are! Damn!”

  Damn right, I thought as I watched Rory’s beautiful face light up. I had done wonders! I found myself relieved and even proud that people knew we were together. But then Rory’s smile dissipated and her face dropped, as she buried her face into Paulina’s immense shoulder.

  “Honey, what’s wrong? Oh, what has that man gone and done to you? Honey,” Paulina continued, “that man, he is brilliant. He is a damn genius. But you know what they say about geniuses?”

  “Mumh muhm,” Rory mumbled, head still buried in Paulina’s chest.

  “They can be the truest assholes in the universe.” At that, Paulina caught my eye. She raised one brow and, looking down at Rory’s beautiful blonde head, tapped her stiletto on the floor, as if reprimanding me for harming such a beautiful soul.

  I nodded. Paulina was right. I was a true asshole.

  That night I had the same dream of my father standing in my room glaring at me I’d had the last time I’d fought badly with Rory. I woke up with hot chills over the fear of him hitting me with the heavy bottle of vodka, even though I knew the nightmare wasn’t real. My fight with Rory was real though. I needed her back. Her warmth, her love kept my demons at bay.

  Chapter 24

  After my last private of the day, I passed the party room. Tonight’s dance was hustle. I peeked in to see Rory being flung around the ro
om by a very amateur dancer. Despite his lack of skill, she was having the time of her life, laughing wildly. It warmed my whole body to see her so happy. That’s what social dancing was for.

  I knew the party would soon be over, so I walked to her apartment and sat at her doorstep, waiting, like before. It was a crisp night and there was a little chill in the air. I wrapped my jacket tightly around me and huddled. I waited. And waited. What was taking her so long, I wondered? I looked at my watch. The party had just ended. Patience definitely was not my virtue. Never had been, never would be.

  I heard the outer gate open and shut, and soon she emerged at the foot of the stairs.

  “I thought you would never get home,” I said, looking down at her with puppy dog eyes that begged for forgiveness.

  Far from being startled, like last time, her face brightened and the courtyard light behind her created a little halo effect around her head, making her appear angelic. She smiled. “I haven’t been to the studio in a long time. I stayed for the practice party. It was fun,” she said.

  I stood. “I’m glad. It is important to have fun.”

  “Yes, it definitely is.” She unlocked the door and walked in, tossing her bag on the floor and her keys on the counter. She turned around. I remained in the doorway.

  “May I?” I asked meekly.

  “Ummmmm…” she began. But I knew she was just pretending to consider it.

  “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t stay late. I will let you go to work at a decent hour,” I said with a cocked grin I hoped would show I meant to make up.

  She turned the rose-colored ceiling lights on high, to an unsexy bright, and sat down on the love seat. I began to walk toward her but she motioned to the scarlet-padded rattan chair across from the couch. It was new. It was a nice addition, but I pretended I didn’t see it, and sat down next to her, hips touching.

  “Rory, I’m so sorry,” I said before she could speak. I leaned toward her and took her hand, caressing her palm. “My lifelong shortcoming is that I am a perfectionist. I know that makes me very hard to work with. I know that. I just want to win this competition more than anything. And I guess I just freak out when there is an imperfection, however slight. I panic. I do more than that. I go crazy.” I hung my head down. I was being the most honest I’d ever been with anyone. It took a lot for me to apologize, admit I had the problem, that I was wrong. “I’ve lost a lot of partners. I know I need to change. I don’t want to lose you. You are everything to me.”

  I felt her breath on my face. It was getting heavier and closer. “Oh, Sasha.”

  “I had very strict teachers in Russia,” I continued. “They would smack me hard with a stick if something was jutting out wrong, making the line sloppy, if I wasn’t fast enough, or precise enough. They would leave marks on my body. And they demanded I win. Second is never ever good enough in Russia. Second is a failure. That’s why Russians”—I chuckled and shook my head—“why Russians are so crazy competitive. America is so different. It’s much more…casual. Second is very, very good here. Teachers correct but don’t beat you if something isn’t perfect.”

  “No! Here, that would open you up to all kinds of legal liability,” she said, laughing.

  I turned my whole body toward her, put my arm around her shoulder, and trailed kisses from her temple to her cheekbone to the hollow behind her ear. She was so warm.

  “It makes sense to me why you want to win so much,” she said. “If that’s how you were taught to think, I mean. In Russia.”

  I continued pressing my lips to her skin, now making my way around to the hollow of her neck.

  “But you were never, like, seriously injured, right?” she asked.

  With that simple little question, I saw my father’s fist in my face, felt the crack of his belt on my back. Always for reasons I didn’t know. One time it was for throwing out a can of pickles that still contained juice, because I was wasting food. I was spoiled. My mother had spoiled me, he’d shouted. Other times I didn’t even know what I’d done. He was often drunk.

  “Sasha?” Rory’s voice brought me back to reality. I knew she meant whether I was hurt in school, not by my father.

  “Not badly,” I said. She looked like she wanted to know more. But I said nothing. That was all for me. That was as far as I could go into my past right now.

  “Well, here the bronze and silver medals are really prestigious too. I mean, I’ve looked up all the pros on the TV shows, on “Dancing With the Stars,” and most of them never actually placed first at Blackpool. And it’s hardly like they’re unsuccessful. Would you ever want to do that, be on one of those shows? I mean, everyone should see you. The public. Not just the Blackpool judges. You’re too good.”

  She was talking a mile a minute, like she did when she was nervous. She’d obviously realized she’d hit a nerve. I wondered if my father had hurt Tatiana too. Maybe he saw things in her that he’d hated in me. Like a passion for more than he had, than he could provide. I wondered if he and my mother warped her thoughts of me.

  “What are you thinking? Let me in,” Rory said, wiggling my arm.

  “I wasn’t,” I said after a breath. “But maybe someone else was. I don’t know…” After I said it I realized she’d changed the subject. My words made no sense. “I just have to win, Rory. I just do. It makes everything…it makes everything okay. Maybe not okay, but…bearable.”

  “What? Who—” she began.

  Yeah, that made even less sense. I needed to redirect the conversation or shut up. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.” I shook my head, as if that would rid myself of the black cloud that had momentarily overcome me. It was all I could do to let her know I didn’t want to talk about this, think about this anymore. There was too much beauty in the world, like the woman who was currently sitting next to me, to focus on the ugly. “Besides, I just don’t want to be on those shows,” I said, remembering how Rory had changed the subject. I needed to get my father and my family out of my head. I looked into her eyes. They were so full of depth, passion, love, honesty, ingenuousness. “They are just…not enough for me. Not now,” I said, forcing myself to laugh. “But I appreciate what you are trying to do. That you are trying to lessen the pressure.” I gave her shoulder a sweet squeeze, kissed her cheek.

  She smiled weakly.

  “What made you first fall in love with dance?” she asked after a beat. “For me it was ‘The Nutcracker.’”

  I laughed. Very American!

  “I know, big surprise. I think that’s most Americans’ first experience with ballet,” she said, reading my thoughts. “I fell for that one right away when Clara dreams the Nutcracker comes alive and does all that badass sword fighting and saves her from the evil mouse king,” she said with a cute little bounce that made me love her sweet Americanness all the more.

  I kissed the crown of her head, then took a long breath before answering. It was hard to put in words how something so impassioned you it took over your entire being. “Dancing…when I was little, it was my way of taking out aggression. I didn’t talk much. I was shy and withdrawn. When it came time for dance class, I just came alive. It was like no one could constrain me. I was free.”

  She swallowed hard, seeming like she had something to say but unable to get it out. I caressed her cheek, which I now realized was wet. She seemed surprised by her tears as well.

  “I was shy too,” she said, her voice barely able to make it past the obvious lump in her throat. “When I was little it was the only thing that brought me out of myself.” She looked around and took a breath as if to force the lump down. “But that little girl with the inner fire is so absent from my adult self.” Her eyes welled more fully with tears though she didn’t cry. I placed one hand on each of her arms, and rubbed up and down, warming her. “My grown-up self only worries about what others think of her, whether she’s good enough, smart enough. Thin enough.”

  Her whole body began to quiver. I pulled her toward me, kissing the crown of her head
and rubbing her back, trying to warm her. We sat like this for a while.

  “Sasha, you are still most alive when you dance. That’s so obvious,” she finally said. “You’re on fire. You’re the definition of captivating. People literally can’t look away. Watching you that one night at the Beverly Hilton reignited my passion for dance. I knew immediately what was wrong with my life, what was missing. After seeing you I had to go back to it. I had no choice. You did that for me.”

  I reached around her body and held her hands now, rubbing her knuckles with the pads of my fingers. “You don’t know what it does to me to hear you say that,” I whispered, my lips to her earlobe.

  “Dance makes me alive too,” she said, nearly choking on her words. “That’s why…”

  I squeezed her hands tightly. “I know. You don’t have to say it. That’s why it hurts you so much when I’m so hard on you. It’s like I’m stomping out your flame. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, a little smile now gracing her face, as if to say she accepted my apology.

  “What drew you to ballroom?” she said, now opening her eyes to engage me. “I mean, there are lots of ballet dancers who dance with animalistic abandon. Carlos Acosta, Nureyev, Baryshnikov. If you’d become a ballet dancer, you wouldn’t even have to rely on a partner to be considered brilliant in your own name.”

  “Ballet was way too straitlaced for me,” I said, feeling my cocked smile naturally return. “I wanted to move my hips. I liked the rhythm of Latin, the sexiness of it, the pulsing music. But…I guess you could also say ballroom chose me.” My smile collapsed, as always when talking about my past.

  “You mean, you took a class and loved it so much you couldn’t stop?” she said, seeming to notice my darkening eyes.

  “No.” My tone was flat, my eyes cloudy. “We didn’t have ballroom in my school. We had traditional Russian dancing, which everyone did. And ballet. That was also part of the Russian soul. But traditional was mandatory. Those kicks and jumps…I had so much anger, so much energy. I went so high, I flew. The other kids would laugh, the teachers would gasp and some would even scream. I lashed out at the world, my father…” My voice trailed off.