Darlene
In the break room at Serenity Spa the next day, I changed out of my uniform and slipped a black leotard and spandex dance shorts on under my sundress. My stomach was twisted in knots and my arms felt heavy from the day’s massages.
This is stupid, I thought for the hundredth time as I left the spa. I was ridiculously unprepared for this dance audition, and certain to fail.
Is that why you agreed to audition in the first place? A voice in my head sounding suspiciously like Max wondered. So you can say you tried without really trying?
“Oh, hush,” I murmured, and gnawed on the cuff of my sweater the entire bus ride to the studio.
I arrived at the San Francisco Dance Academy with thirty minutes to spare. The woman at the front desk told me a space had been reserved for the audition but was open now if I wanted it. I paid $15 to jump in early and warm up.
The dance room had a mirror covering one entire wall, with a barre running along its length. Golden sunlight streamed in from the high windows, and spilled across the wooden floors. A sound system with a tangle of cords sat against the wall under the windows beside a couple of simple wooden chairs and a few wooden rifles. I picked up a rifle and gave it a spin. Maybe someone was rehearsing the finale to Chicago, one of my favorite musicals.
If I let myself envision my perfect show, it was Chicago. I wasn’t the strongest singer, but I could hold a key. I wanted to play Liz, the inmate who killed her husband because he wouldn’t stop popping his gum. “The Cell Block Tango” was my dream performance, but instead of preparing and training for a major role, I was winging an audition for a tiny, independent dance troupe that advertised on a lamppost.
You aren’t even prepared to dance for a tiny, independent dance troupe that advertises on a lamppost.
“Stupid.” I put the prop down and sat on the floor.
My eyes kept glancing at the door as I stretched. Any second now, it would open. The director I’d spoken to on the phone would walk in and I’d make a ginormous fool of myself. But I kept stretching and breathing, waking my body from its hibernation. I wanted to get up and run, but at four-fifteen, the door opened and I was still there.
Greg Spanos was a tall, dark-haired guy; early thirties, dressed all in black. He was followed by an artsy-looking gal in glasses and streaks of blue in her hair.
“I’m the director and choreographer of Iris and Ivy,” he said, shaking my hand. “This is Paula Lee, the stage manager.”
“Hi,” I said with breathy nervousness. “Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m Darlene.”
I watched them size me up, certain that the fact I was utterly unprepared was written all over my face.
“A moment, please,” Greg said.
He and Paula carried two chairs from the side of the room, and set them up on one end, their backs to the wall mirror. With no table, they rested their folders on their laps and endeavored to look professional.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
At the sound system against the wall, I plugged my phone in and hurried back to the middle of the room. I’d barely taken my position on the floor—lying on my back as I had in New York—when the music started.
“The music is the language and your body speaks the words.”
My first dance teacher told me that when I was eight years old, scowling in a pink tutu. I hated the tutu and the ballet flats on my feet. I wanted to be barefoot and raw. Even then, the something inside me that wanted to dance was a fierce energy that I loved to feed. I’d given it everything—my sweat and tears; aching muscles and sprained ligaments. It was there, that urge to sing for the world with my entire self.
Until I’d ruined it with drugs. Dirtied it. Soiled myself so that dancing while the X or the coke surged through my veins felt like a violation of that pure energy.
But I’m here now.
I closed my eyes and let the first notes of the music seep into my bones and muscles and sinew; I listened with my body. When Marian Hill sang the first lines, my back arched up off the wooden floor, and then I was gone; lifted up by the soft words and gentle piano, then sparking to life when the techno beat dropped.
I forgot everything else and lived between each note, moment to moment, feeling everything I wanted to feel without thinking or stopping myself. I let my body speak for the music and there was no shame, in these words. No loneliness.
Only myself, and I was alive.
I collapsed to my knees, arched back, and lifted one arm—grasping at air—as the last note on the last word faded away to silence.
One heartbeat. Two.
I looked through a few tendrils of hair that had come loose from my ponytail. Greg and Paula were staring at me, then bent their heads to confer. A bead of sweat slipped down my temple, and I realized the twisting feeling in my stomach was gone. My pulse pounded from the dance, not nerves, and I suddenly didn’t care if they wanted me or not.
But they did.
“You have…” Greg exchanged a look with Paula, “quite a lot of natural talent.”
“Pure, raw talent,” Paula said, nodding.
“Thank you,” I said, breathlessly. “Thanks so much for saying so.”
Somehow, I wasn’t crying.
“Have you, auditioned anywhere else?” Greg asked slowly.
“I just moved here last week,” I said. “I saw your flyer and took a shot.”
They exchanged knowing looks again, laced with relief.
“Opening night is closing in,” Paula said “We’d prefer not to have to recast so late in the game. We need full commitment to rehearsal, which is every night, six to nine p.m. and some afternoons on the weekend.”
I bobbed my head. “Of course, absolutely. But I’ll have to cut out early Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. There’s a place I have to be at nine. But it’s not far from here. Fifteen minutes?”
“I suppose,” Greg said. “If it can’t be avoided.”
“It can’t,” I said.
“Fine,” he said. “There’s no pay,” he added stiffly. “This is a labor of love. An independent piece of art, not a commercialized package of glitz and sequins.”
“It’s raw,” Paula said. I guessed she must like using that word. “Stripped down and real. No pretense.”
“Sounds great, really,” I said. “Perfect.”
“Good,” Greg said, offering his hand. “Welcome to the show, Darlene.”
Outside on the street, I sucked in air. “Holy shit.”
It had been almost four years since I’d danced in front of an audience. Four years. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t a big deal; Iris and Ivy was a far cry from a big dance company. But it was a huge fucking deal. I’d begun to wonder if the dancer version of myself was gone forever, still locked up behind bars even after the drug-addict had been released.
But it’s still there. Me. I’m still here.
I dug my phone out of my purse and stared at it, my thumb hovering over the contacts. I called up my parents at their house in Queens. The answering machine picked up but I didn’t leave a message. I needed voices. A live person. I scrolled down to my sister.
She picked up on the sixth ring, sounding harried and distracted with just one, “Hello?”
“Hey, Carla, it’s Dar.”
“Oh hey, hon. How are you? How’s Frisco treating you?”
“It’s going great here. In fact, I have the best news—”
“Are you keeping your nose clean? Staying out of trouble?”
I winced. “Yes. I’m doing really great, actually. I auditioned for a dance company—a little one—and you’ll never believe it, but they hired me. There’s going to be a show in a few weeks—”
Carla’s voice became muffled. “Sammy! Sammy, get off the couch!” She turned her mouth back to the phone. “That dumb dog, I swear…” Her breath hissed a sigh. “Sorry, what? A show? Good for you. Are they paying you?”
I hunched my shoulders, as if I could contain the excitement that was fast draining out of me. “I’m not doing it for the pay. It’s mostly for the experience. It’s been four years—”
“Uh huh. Well, just don’t go and do something crazy and quit your spa job over it.”
I frowned. “No, no, of course not.”
“Good, because you know how these things go.”
I slumped against the wall. “How do these things go, Carla?”
“Sammy! I swear to God…” She huffed a sigh. “Sorry, what?”
“Nothing. So I called Mom and Dad but no answer.”
“It’s Bridge night. They’re at the Antolini’s.”
“Oh yeah. Bridge night. I forgot.”
“So listen, hon. I’ve got a roast in the oven for tomorrow. The cousins are coming over for Aunt Lois’ birthday and I’ve got a million things left to do.”
“Oh, okay. That sounds fun.”
I imagined my sister’s house bustling with my loud family; kids bumping into adult legs as they chased each other around the living room, while Grandma Bea screeched at them to stop “rough-housing like monkeys at the zoo.”
I smiled against the phone. “I wish I could be there.”
“Listen, you got a good thing going with that spa job. Keep it up. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Bye, Carla. Love you.”
“Love you too, hon.”
The phone went quiet.
My thumb hovered over Beckett’s number but I didn’t feel like talking on the phone anymore. I thought about shooting Max a text to ask him to meet me somewhere, but he was working a double shift at UCSF Medical Center and wouldn’t be home until dawn. People passed me on the street and I had a crazy urge to reach out and grab one by the sleeve and tell them I was going to dance again.
The faces were all strangers.
I went home.
At the Victorian, Elena’s place was bustling with muffled talk and laughter. It was six o’clock; they were probably getting ready to sit down to dinner. On the second floor, Sawyer’s place was quiet. He was probably heating up some crappy food for himself while taking care to make sure Olivia ate the good stuff.
In my place, the silence was stifling.
I threw open the window in the living area but the neighborhood was quiet too; sleepy under the falling twilight. I tried the TV, but it was too loud, talking at me. I shut it off and contemplated the rest of my night. Hours stretched before me.
I had the makings of another tuna casserole in my cabinets and fridge; the only thing I could cook.
My stomach voiced its approval of the plan but a terrible claustrophobia was sneaking up on me, sucking the air out of the room. I needed someone. People. A face and a voice and a kind smile when I shared my news.
I stripped out of my dress and took a shower, keeping the water lukewarm.
As the water fell over me, I replayed my conversation with Carla. I didn’t expect my sister to go into hysterics of joy at my news. But in the eyes of those who knew my past, my accomplishments were always going to be tempered by how close I might be to fucking them all up.
The loneliness of an addict, Max had said.
I stepped out of the shower with my heart beating like a heavy metronome in my chest, counting out the seconds. The exhilaration of my dance morphed into fear. The kind that whispered that I wasn’t good enough to dance anyway, and how much easier would it be to lose myself for a few hours in manufactured happiness? Wouldn’t it be better to feel pretend-good than to feel like this?
“No.” My voice was like a croak.
Wrapped in my towel, I went to the living area and grabbed my phone. I opened my music and hit shuffle. LP’s “Tightrope” came on, like some sort of gift.
I stood in the middle of my little studio, listening to her achingly beautiful voice that said, with every soaring syllable, that she knew exactly what longing was.
Just look out into forever.
My hands balled into fists and tears stung my eyes.
Don’t look down, not ever.
“Don’t look down,” I said. “Just keep going.”
I sucked in deep breaths. My hands unclenched.
And when the song ended, I put on some clothes and went into the kitchen to make a tuna casserole.