by J. C. Long
“Sounds like I’m missing out on something,” Annabelle commented, flicking her finished cigarette aside.
“You are,” Mike and I said simultaneously.
Mike glanced at me and laughed. The sound of his laughter combined with those deep hazel eyes had my heart pounding in a rhythm as irregular as the score of the musical we were rehearsing.
I looked away before I could start to blush. I’d already embarrassed myself enough for one day.
“It’s good, then?”
I scoffed good-naturedly. “No, Kansas City barbecue is good. Memphis barbecue is the best. In the entire world,” I added for emphasis. “That’s scientific fact. Nowhere else on this planet can touch us for our barbecue.”
Annabelle laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Well, we better get back inside before Corker tracks us down and kills us,” Mike said as he too finished his cigarette. “Catch you later, Tate.”
I watched them go back inside, feeling an all-too-familiar warmth glowing in the center of my chest.
SCENE V
SATURDAY WAS a hard early call for the ensemble, but luckily we got to leave after only six hours instead of the normal eight so that the director, choreographer, and music director could work with the leads on a pretty big scene.
I took advantage of the absence of the other ensemble members and spent extra time in the dance room, practicing one of the more complex sequences I had to do for the first act’s finale, where it broke down into three individual dance sequences—two of which I was in. It was a matter of pride for me. I was the one ensemble member who was in just about every possible moment of the show. It just went to show that when someone works hard and devotes themselves to something, they can accomplish great things.
That fact had earned me my fair share of dislike, to be sure, especially from Donnie’s sheep, but I would not let their petty jealousies get me down. This was my moment, and I would own it, regardless of what other people thought. I’d come too far in my life, working for this goal, spent too many painful hours in dance practice, pushed myself to the point of exhaustion, given up any semblance of a social life to be where I was. No one was going to ruin it for me, no matter how badly they wanted to.
“You’re impressive.”
The voice startled me, and I stumbled over my next step. I was so engrossed in my thoughts and the dance, I hadn’t heard anyone come in. I looked in the mirror and saw Mike’s reflection looking back at me from the doorway, his face apologetic after my misstep.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” I took my towel and mopped the sweat from my face, feeling disgusting in front of this absolutely perfect guy. “And thanks, by the way, but I’m nothing special.”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “You earned praise from Glinnis Hall—that alone should tell you that you’re good.”
My chest swelled with pride even as my modesty had me shaking my head. “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of good dancers. I mean, what about you? You’re a Broadway star.”
Mike laughed. “Me? I’m a good singer and actor, but have you ever heard of me in a show with dancing?”
“Come to think of it, no.” I walked over to a row of foldable chairs along the wall and sat down, Mike following suit. He kept one seat in between us, though, I noticed.
“I’m not that great at dancing. It takes a lot of practice for me. Add Glinnis’s choreography and I always feel in over my head. Corker had to really talk me into taking the role, and even now I’m not sure I did the right thing.”
“I’ve watched you,” I blurted before awkwardly adding, “Dance, I mean. You shouldn’t have any problem, with practice.” I don’t know how well I’d salvaged that little moment. Hopefully I didn’t come off like some crazy obsessed stalker or something. How many times in one week could I stick my foot in my mouth?
“You think you’d be willing to help me out after rehearsal today? I’m having trouble with the dance with Annabelle.”
I stammered out some sort of reply that probably wasn’t in English and had to force myself to take a breath to make it into some sort of cogent sentence. “Sure, no problem. I mean, I am dance captain, right?” I followed that doozy of a comment up with an awkward laugh, all the while cursing my inability to function at least somewhat normally around Mike Chang.
If Mike noticed the awkwardness, he didn’t react, thank God. He just patted my shoulder gratefully. “Thanks. Rehearsal should end around six.”
“I’ll be here when it ends,” I replied faintly. At least I think that’s what I said. It might have been more incoherent gibberish for all I know. I simply could not seem to keep my head on straight around him. I was either sounding like a crazy stalker or someone’s lame uncle. Neither of those options were in the area I would have liked to be in.
Donnie chose that moment to duck his head into the room. “There you are. Corker’s ready to start. What are you doing wasting time with a dancer?”
The way he said the word dancer made it sound like some sort of swear word, something not just distasteful but abhorrent, beneath his status, not worth being conversed with. His eyes sent the same message, but about me specifically.
Mike sighed. “I’ll see you after rehearsal, Tate. Thanks.”
He gave me a small nod and left the room. Donnie paused long enough to shoot me one more dirty look before following Mike.
“Pompous douchebag,” I muttered, pitching my voice low enough for him not to be able to hear. Though I didn’t bother hiding my dislike of the arrogant actor, I was going to be smart and avoid any sort of conflict that might cause problems for the show. It was much easier to get rid of the dancer—no matter how many numbers he was in—than to recast one of the leads. If shit hit the fan and a fuss was caused, it would be me out on the street, not Donnie. Only that knowledge kept me from really telling Donnie exactly what this dancer thought of him.
I had two hours to kill before six, so I went out to get something to eat. There was a small bistro not far from the studio that the ensemble members in particular liked because the food was filling, affordable, and fast. My stomach rumbling in anticipation, I made for the bistro.
When I went in, the wonderful aromas swirled around me, reminding me that I skipped lunch. I had to be better about getting food with this busy rehearsal schedule. I wasn’t doing my body any favors missing meals. I knew better than that, as a dancer. I needed to keep up a high intake of calories, considering how many I burned off thanks to the intense dancing I did on any given day.
“Tate!” Cally called from a table in the far corner. She was standing up to get my attention, but even so she was only as tall as her companion sitting down. I waved at her. She was sitting with Tishara, a pretty black girl also in the ensemble. She motioned for me to come over, grandiose gestures that looked more appropriate to directing runway traffic. Smiling at the ridiculous girl, I made my way to their table. Cally made room for me on the bench.
“Where have you been? Are you still in your dance gear? Have you been practicing after rehearsal ended?”
“Let the boy breathe and answer your first few questions,” Tishara scolded.
“One, at the studio, two, yes I am, three, yes I have.”
“You work way too damn hard, boy,” Tishara said with a shake of her head.
Tishara was from Atlanta, Georgia, originally, and the two of us felt sort of like kindred spirits, the two Southerners in the heathen North, surrounded by Yankees who didn’t seem to know very much about the important things in life, like how to make fried chicken.
Knowing how short I really was on time, I gestured to catch the waitress’s attention. Thankfully she wasn’t busy and came right to the table. I already knew what I wanted and ordered it, and off she went, bustling to the kitchen.
“Some of us are going to check out the new Zac Efron movie after we eat, if you wanted to come,” Cally informed me around a mouthful of fries.
In the s
hort span of time I’d known her, she’d impressed me with the way she ate. The amount of food she consumed in a sitting would make an Olympian proud. Glancing at the double order of chili cheese fries in front of her, I had to shake my head. The type of foods, maybe not so much, but definitely the amount. I didn’t know how she maintained her tiny form. By all rights she should be a perfect sphere by this point, if the times I’d eaten with her were any indication of her normal daily diet.
It felt good to be invited out by my fellow cast members. It was always better working in a show if you got along well with others in the cast. That way the long, tiring hours didn’t seem as daunting.
It felt good, but unfortunately, I wasn’t able to accept.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Cally’s face fell. “Aw, why not?”
“I’ve got to go back to the studio at six.” I snuck a fry before Cally could stop me. They were slightly soggy after so much time soaked in chili but were still tasty.
Tishara narrowed her eyes suspiciously at that, like she was sniffing out an excuse. “What? Why? There’s no call that late, not this week anyway.”
“Yeah, but someone wanted my help to work on one of their numbers.”
“It must suck being dance captain,” Cally sympathized.
“Who are you helping?” Tishara asked. “If you say Donnie, I will gladly break your leg for you, to spare you that. Better yet, I’ll break his leg.”
I wasn’t the only one who’d taken a near-instant dislike to Donnie, I’d discovered quickly. Tishara’s dislike of him was almost as powerful as mine, as she’d been the subject of one of his “How dare a mere dancer talk to me like that?” rants after she’d asked him to be quiet so she could hear the music during a break in which she continued practicing to get down a particularly tricky segment.
I shuddered at the thought of spending any extra time with Donnie. Thankfully his character didn’t have any dances other than the opening number, and Glinnis was in charge of that. If I’d thought I would need to spend any extended time around Donnie, I might have just turned Glinnis down when she offered me dance captain.
“No, not Donnie. Mike.”
Tishara blinked. “Mike as in Mike Chang Mike?”
I nodded.
“Okay,” said Cally, reevaluating her earlier statement, “maybe it doesn’t suck to be dance captain.”
She gave me a knowing smirk. Ever since she’d decided I had a crush on Mike Chang, she’d taken every opportunity possible to tease me about it somehow. This private dance lesson was just going to give her heaps more ammunition, I realized.
Tishara let out a jealous groan. “I can’t believe you get to have private, one-on-one time with Mike Chang. Helping him dance, seeing him work his tight body, helping him get in position, touching him….”
“I think you need to chill out before you orgasm,” I said as the waitress arrived with my food.
The look on her face as she walked away was enough to dissolve us into a fit of laughter that did not pass for at least a full minute. Some of the diners around us looked off-put by our volume, sending us little glares, while other, regular customers, who’d grown accustomed to our boisterousness, hardly even glanced our way.
“I’m just saying you’re lucky,” Tishara said once she’d recovered her breath enough to speak. “I know 80 percent of the ensemble would kill to be in your shoes, private dance teacher for a sexy Broadway celebrity. You’re living the dream, boy.”
I chuckled. It was true that most of the heterosexual women and homosexual men seemed to have a thing for Mike Chang, judging by the way their eyes never seemed to leave him. The fact had not escaped my notice—it was, in fact, observed with some small amount of hostility toward the others. Not that I would admit that to Cally or Tishara.
I settled for a more neutral “I guess so” and dug into my bacon cheeseburger with gusto.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t have a crush on him,” said Cally, wagging a limp fry in my direction before biting it in half.
Here we go again, I thought.
“So what if I do? It’s not like I’m in his league, so it doesn’t help to think about him like that. I’m just going to help him with a complicated dance. That’s all.” I actually might have even convinced myself to believe that. Almost.
Cally reached out and stroked my hair as if I were a child in need of comforting. “It’s so sad when you put it that way. Poor Tate, unable to have his way with the beautiful star.”
“You’re such a drama queen.”
She looked at me as if I’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Uh, Tate? I’m a Broadway dancer. What did you expect?”
I could not argue with her on that one.
SCENE VI
AT SIX o’clock I was back in the dance room, warming up and stretching in front of the mirror. I had the show’s music on my iPhone, like all the cast members did, and I always carried around one of those cute dog-shaped iPod speakers in my backpack, so we wouldn’t have any trouble with the music.
Stretches complete, I stood in the center of the room, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, unable to stay still. My eyes were glued to the door, waiting for Mike to walk in. I did my best to look casual, like I wasn’t actually waiting for him with bated breath—the bated breath part was true, at least—but I was pretty sure that Mike would see right through me when he walked in and recognize the total dweeb that I was.
Five minutes after six Mike still hadn’t arrived, to my dismay. Did he blow me off? That didn’t really seem like something Mike would do, but then again, how well did I know him? Maybe after a long rehearsal he’d forgotten and just gone home or off to do whatever it was that he did after rehearsal. Something fun, I imagined. Especially on a Saturday night.
I took a deep, calming breath to slow my racing thoughts. I had a tendency to overthink things and didn’t want to let that beast out of the box. It could be difficult to wrangle it back in.
By a quarter past, I was about ready to call it quits. The irrational part of my brain was telling me to wait as long as it took—hell, wait there all night if I needed to!—in order to see Mike. The logical—sane—part of my brain was telling me I’d been forgotten and to go on and pack it in.
Surprisingly, the sane part won out.
I was actually packing up my stuff when I heard footsteps running down the hall outside. Doing my best to suppress the flutter of hope that was blossoming in my chest, I went to the door and barely avoided Mike crashing into me as he pelted into the room.
“I’m really… sorry,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Corker… wanted… to talk… about something… after… and it took forever.” He bent over, hands on his knees, eyes closed. “God, I’ve got to quit smoking.”
I smiled, earlier anxiety forgotten. “Don’t worry about it. Are you ready to get started?”
Mike nodded, taking a few more deep breaths. “I think so.”
We took up position in front of the mirror, my pale skin looking even paler next to his darker tone, my ash-blond hair looking limp and colorless next to the vibrancy of his black. My eyes, though, a vivid green, still stood out.
“What part are you having trouble with?” I asked.
He shrugged, maybe feeling embarrassed about needing help at all. “There are a few spots through the number.”
I decided to leave it at that. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? This meant that we would need to go through the entire number at least one time, which meant more time together.
The insane part of my brain was taking over again.
“Okay, well, I’ll start the music, you go through the dance, and we’ll handle the problems where they come up.”
“Sounds good.”
I thumbed through the song listing until I found the right one and started the music while Mike got into position. The song began in earnest, and Mike started through the routine. He’d been practicing, I saw. He was much more confiden
t than he’d been during his run-throughs with Glinnis after she’d taught the dance.
“Don’t overextend your arm,” I called when he stretched his left arm out until it was straight. In the dance he was reaching for Annabelle to bring her in for one of the tango-esque parts. He adjusted it slightly, letting it bend, and I nodded, satisfied. The tango part was where he hit the first rough spot.
“See,” he said, frustrated when he missed several steps. “I miss those same steps every time.”
“It’s no problem. We’ll fix that. Let’s count it out from the arm extension.” After walking through it twice I saw the problem—he’d forgotten a small step leading into the tango. We corrected that, and he transitioned into the next step fine. I grinned at him after he made it successfully three times through. “I told you we’d fix it.”
“You’re way more patient than Glinnis,” Mike observed.
I flushed happily at the compliment, as simple as it was. It wasn’t so hard to be more patient than Glinnis—but I’d take it where I could get it.
Halfway through the tango, he stopped.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. He hadn’t missed a step.
He ran a hand through his jet-black hair. “This is too hard—I can’t practice a tango with an invisible partner. You know Annabelle’s part, right?”
“Well, uh, I mean, uh. Yeah, I do,” I said, not daring to believe he was going where I thought he was going with this.
“Great. Come do the tango part with me.”
A giddy rush went through me as Mike extended his hand. I knew it was only what the dance routine called for, but a tiny part of my brain went into overtime formulating fantasies. This was my biggest Broadway crush, young and talented, handsome and, as I had discovered, kind.
I felt a kind of dizzying anticipation as the music began again and reached that point. I reached out, took his hand, and he pulled me in against his body. The feel of his strong frame against me made me weak in the knees, and for a second I forgot we were dancing. The only thing that mattered for me was the feel of his body against me, the warmth radiating off him, the beat of his heart.