Angel

I am being fought over. Me, Angel Marie Williams, the quiet, reserved, non-dating, non-drug using, non-alcohol consuming, dedicated dancer.

I was surprised at how forward Marcus was today. He’s always been interested, but today, it was like I was wearing a magic love potion around my neck. He pushed the boundaries of a physical therapist to the absolute edge.

I was trying to blow it off, considering this was our last session, but somebody else decided to take matters into their own hands.

River’s fury shot like daggers from his eyes, and it was clearly aimed at my frisky therapist.

The first time I noticed him, he was busy concentrating on Marcus and Nicka. He didn’t even notice me looking back and forth between them. The second time, he did an awful job of faking a smile.

So far in our forty-eight-hour-long relationship, I have learned that Mr. River Kelly isn’t a man who hides his feelings. He wears them on his sleeve, right out there for the world to see.

He was pissed, and if we were exclusively dating, I could honestly understand why he would be. Marcus was all hands today, and occasionally, another appendage that I’m trying to forget about. If I ever have another injury, I’m going to change therapists.

“Hey, Angel, wait up.” I hear Marcus call as I’m pushing out the front door. River and I hadn’t talked about him giving me a ride after our appointments, so I called for an Uber. It’s already waiting under the canopy in front of MBS.

Thank God I have a good excuse to leave. I’m not in the mood to talk to Marcus after all that.

“I have to get going, Marcus. I have to meet with Miss Valentina this morning.”

When he catches up, he places his hand on my upper arm, and I discreetly move away from his touch by waving at my driver.

“You left so fast. Is everything okay?”

I drop my arm when the driver sees me and stand up straight to look at Marcus.

“No, it’s not. What was that in there today? I was going to brush it off until Nicka came over and made it pretty clear that it wasn’t just me noticing your overly friendly hands.”

His hands slide into his pockets, and he bows his head.

“I’m sorry. I know I went too far. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

“I felt like it was my last chance to get you to notice me. Our sessions were ending, and you’re going to be accepted into the San Francisco Dance Company next week. I might never see you again.”

I sigh and slump my shoulders. Men are so stupid sometimes.

“Marcus, I’ve always noticed you, and we have talked a million times about why I don’t take you up on your offers. I don’t date. I have to focus on dance.”

He lifts his head, and his eyes are full of anger.

“Yeah, so you’ve said. How come there’s a picture of you and that pretty boy getting into a Benz last night on the front page of the Sports section this morning? That looked a lot like a date to me.”

More puzzle pieces from last night are falling into place now. Leaving the restaurant, paparazzi waiting for us, flashing cameras in the back window of the car.

I never gave River’s public life a second thought, and now, our date is plastered on the front of the newspaper where anyone can see us. Anyone, including Miss Valentina.

I whip my head toward the Uber and back to Marcus. I need to be early in case Miss Valentina has seen the photos, but I want to clear this thing up with Marcus too.

“It was a date. I won’t lie, but I don’t have time to talk about it right now. I have to go. I’ll call you.”

Before he can protest, I spin on my heel and make a beeline for my car and hop into the front seat.

“San Francisco Dance Academy, and hurry, please,” I say to the gray-haired old man driving the car, who nods as he pulls away from the curb.

I look out the window and watch Marcus become smaller and smaller as we drive away. How did this happen? How have I gone from being a boring loner to having my picture in the paper with a famous pro football player? How have I become the object of two men’s desires?

This is why I should keep my nose to the grindstone and my head down. Life is much easier when I keep to myself.

I’m climbing the stairs into the studio when my phone chimes with a text. It’s probably Cat asking about last night. I pluck it from my tiny handbag that I carried on our date last night and check the screen. It’s not Cat. It’s River.

River — Did you call a car? I don’t want to leave until I know you have a ride.

Do I respond? He was kind of an ass, sending Nicka over to lie to Marcus and me about extra security cameras. On the other hand, his concern was valid. I’ll be brief and to the point.

Me — Yes, called an Uber, thanks. I hear our date has gone public. I’m going into the studio to beg Miss Valentina not to throw me out on my ass.

River — Dammit. I’m sorry, Angel. I didn’t think they got a shot of us until we were in the car, and the windows are tinted black. Where are the pictures? Maybe I can get them taken down.

Me — It’s in the newspaper. Too late to do anything about it.

River — Again, I’m sorry. I hope she’s not too hard on you. It was only one night out.

I roll my eyes. He has no idea what I’m in for, and neither do I. I’ve never done anything to upset her before.

Me — Talk later, headed in to practice.

River — Call me and tell me how it goes later, please. I’m worried about you.

Me — I’m a big girl, don’t worry. I’ll text you later.

River — I will be worrying. Text me.

I drop my phone in my purse and enter the changing room behind Stage One. The stress of the day vanishes from my body when the subtle smells and sounds of the backstage area hit me.

I take a deep breath and smell the familiar scent of sawdust and floor cleaner. The dim lights and the cool draft on my feet would be less than welcoming to anyone who wasn’t a performer.

In the shared dressing room, I shimmy out of my clothes and into a burgundy tank top and a pair of gray cotton bootie shorts. None of my leotards are clean, and I’d wear sweats, but Miss Valentina needs to see the lines of my body to critique.

She’s going to have a fabulous time picking out my inadequacies today. My belly is bloated. I have circles under my eyes and a bruise here and there from some of our rougher antics last night. Not to mention, my muscles hurt like hell.

I grab my ballet slippers and my pointe shoes from under my makeup table and hustle out to the stage. I’m fifteen minutes early. That ought to be enough time to start warming up and prepare what I want to say to her.

I open the side curtain, and a little bit of light cuts a sliver across the stage. There’s no one here to run the lights this early, but I can manage. I’ve danced on this stage so long, I could probably do it blindfolded and not fall off.

I slide on my slippers and stretch on the bar at the very back of the stage. It hurts like a mother, but I grit my teeth and press on through the warm-up. This is no time to start being a pansy. I’ve worked for this for twenty years. I won’t mess it up now.

“Arms stiff, form is wretched. Loosen up, get it together,” my mentor barks in her broken English from somewhere in the dark auditorium.

I should have known she would be here early. She’s probably seen the picture in the paper.

I lift my chin and straighten my spine before my next pass across the stage. I hear her clucking her tongue while she walks down the center aisle, but I don’t stop. I know better.

“So you have boyfriend now? You skip practice and I see picture of you on newspaper.”

I continue my routine, although sloppily and more distracted than I’ve ever been before.

“Stop!” she yells.

I have never heard Miss Valentina yell in all of our years together. She is strict and rigid, but never out of control.

I stop center stage, breathing heavily and sweating after only a few minutes of warm-up. Now I see why abstaining from all things fun is so necessary.

I feel like shit. I dance like shit.

“Did you meet him in class I make you teach?”

“I did.”

She groans and turns away from me. I watch her back muscles contract as she grabs the sides of her head. Long, white fingers thread through her silky black hair, and I hold my breath, waiting for her wrath.

She drops her arms, slapping her hands on her thighs.

“This is my fault. No more football class, only practice here with me, every day till audition.”

She’s been talking with her back to me to an empty auditorium until she turns to see if I will be agreeable to her plan.

“Yes, ma’am.” That’s all there is to say. I don’t tell her it’s not her fault, I don’t defend my actions, and I don’t even ask what time to be here every day because it doesn’t matter. What matters is that she hasn’t abandoned me. I will do whatever this genius prima ballerina asks of me from now on like I always have . . . until last night. This goes to show she’s always been right.

The next three hours are grueling as Miss Valentina claws the best performance possible from my weak, hung over body. She allows me an hour lunch break only because she has an appointment. I grab a sandwich and an apple from the little food cart out front and slip into the dressing room to eat and take a nap.

I set my alarm for fifty minutes and lie down on a musty prop couch with my robe stuffed under my head as a pillow.

I’m out within seconds of closing my eyes, holding my phone between praying hands to make sure the alarm wakes me.

Forty-five minutes later, it’s not my alarm that wakes me. Instead, a warm, rough hand rubs my shoulder gently, and I open my eyes and sit up, nearly clocking River in the forehead with my own.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but I think Dictator Stalin just came back into the auditorium. I don’t want you to get into any more trouble.”

“What are you doing here? How do you know I’m in trouble?”

“I figured something was up when somebody else taught our class today. She wasn’t nearly as good with the guys as you are, by the way. I left before it was over and asked at the front desk if you were here. I sat in the balcony and watched you practice for a while.”

He tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear and cups my cheek.

“You are incredible. My God, Angel, I had no idea you were this good. I mean, yeah, I knew you had some moves, and you’re a great teacher, but damn. What you do with your body on that stage is pure magic.”

“Thank you.”

He was watching me at my absolute worst, and he thinks I’m amazing. How ironic.

“You don’t need that hard ass bitch to insult you. You’ve got more talent in your pinky finger than she probably does. I don’t like the way she talks to you.”

“She does it because she knows she can bring out the best in me when she does. And I’ll never be as good as she is. She’s a famous Russian world-renowned prima ballerina.”

“So the hell what. You’re an American ballet prodigy, for crying out loud. Don’t you see that? These small thinking people are holding you back. You don’t need to be auditioning for the San Francisco Ballet Company. You should be in New York and touring Europe, not stuck in California.”

He speaks with such passion and encouragement that my eyes well with tears. No one has ever been so emotional and vehement with his or her encouragement.

Miss Valentina has always had a particular interest in me, but she doesn’t easily hand out compliments. My parents say ‘good job’ when they come to watch a performance, which isn’t often, and Cat tells me I’m talented, but not the way River just did.

What he might not understand is that the ballet is an art form full of history and tradition. People aren’t as open and accepting of a black ballerina as they are a white one. And my body isn’t your average ballerina’s body. I have muscles and breasts and an ass, and I’m proud as hell of all of them. The color of my skin and the shape of my body have always been an obstacle in the world of ballet. It’s something I’ve always dreamed of changing, but I never had the self-confidence and courage to do it until this moment.

My phone alarm goes off in my hands, and I swing my legs around to get up off the couch.

“I gotta go,” I say, wiping the tears that spilled down my cheeks when I stood up.

“Hey.” He takes ahold of my wrist and pulls me into a warm, secure embrace.

“Why the tears?”

“I can’t talk right now. I have to get back out there, but I could use a ride home later, if you want to come back.” Please let him have time to see me. This hug is the only thing that’s felt good all day, and I could use a lot more of it.

“I’m not leaving. You go back out there, and I’ll keep myself occupied. I’ll come back here when you’re done.”

I pull away and tilt my face up to his.

“It could be hours.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Okay, see you later then.” I stand on my toes and press a quick, soft kiss to his lips before turning to leave.

“Oh, wait, can you toss my phone on the makeup table over there? She doesn’t allow phones backstage.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” he says, rolling his eyes.

I thrust my phone into his hands.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, Pretty Dancer.” Something isn’t right in the world when a talent like that is suppressed.

I came to class this afternoon, and Angel had been replaced with a sixteen-year-old as our instructor. The poor thing had no idea how to handle a room full of brutes, and I felt sorry for her.

Not sorry enough to hang around and help, though. I wanted to find Angel and make sure she was all right. After reading the article that accompanied the front page of the sports section, I figured she would be having a bitch of a day, and I blame myself.

I crept into the balcony of the auditorium in the middle of an unusually harsh critique by Angel’s Miss Valentina. I wanted to jump over the railing, storm up the aisle and choke her out when I heard the things she was saying to her in her crappy English.

I made it past those first critical moments of anger, though, and watched as she handled it like a true professional.

Angel stood concentrating on Valentina’s words, nodding her head and asking questions when the slaughtering of her last move was finally over. And then the music started again, and she did as she was instructed over and over and over until her mentor was satisfied.

She looked gorgeous and perfect before and after she was so harshly critiqued. I couldn’t tell the difference between the performances, but Valentina must have, because she let her go to lunch and take a break.

I followed the signs to the dressing room, and when I didn’t see anyone else entering or exiting, I slid in quietly to talk to her.

I was too late. She was passed out on an old couch in the corner of the room. Half of a sandwich sat abandoned on the little table next to the couch, along with an empty bottle of water and an apple with two bites taken out of it.

She looked the epitome of her name, resting there with a white robe stuffed under her head and her hands in prayer form around her phone.

If I hadn’t just met her two days ago, I’d think I was falling for her. People can’t fall in love that fast, can they?

Mom always said she fell in love with Dad at first sight, but everybody knows mom is a hopeless romantic. Dad is a damn good-looking man with a witty sense of humor, though, so hey, maybe it’s true.

“Excuse me, sir?” a girl says from behind me, interrupting my mental insta-love debate.

I turn around. Sasha, the tiny blonde sixteen-year-old substitute for our dance class today, is standing before me with her hands on her hips and her mouth set in a frown. She was so frustrated when she was trying to get the guys to haul their beefy legs onto the bar to stretch. I should have stayed to help her. Hell, I should have stayed to get a video of it. That was some hilarious shit. I’d be a YouTube star if I posted videos like that every day.

Angel would think the videos were funny, but Sasha, not so much.

“You have to get Angel to take her classes back. I can’t handle another minute with those male chauvinist pigs.”

Wow, for a sixteen-year-old, she sure is sassy.

“I’ll try to get the guys to ease up. Sorry. They aren’t so bad when you get to know them a little.”

“I don’t want to get to know them. You’re Angel’s boyfriend, right? You have to get her to teach the class. I don’t know why Miss Valentina is punishing me, but I can’t do it.”

“Wait, what makes you think I’m Angel’s boyfriend?”

Not that I mind her thinking that. Hell, the whole world can think that if they want.

“You guys were in the paper today, duh. And why else would she be teaching that horrible class?”

Wow, the news of our date spread fast. I didn’t think teenagers even read the paper anymore.

“I believe she was teaching the class because Miss Valentina asked her to. I just met her a couple of days ago, and last night was our first date. I can speak to her about it, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Fine,” she says with a huff and turns to storm off down the hall, presumably to teach the next class of guys from my team.

So I am Angel Williams’s boyfriend. I kinda like the sound of that. My first official act as a boyfriend is going to be helping Angel get a manager and a product endorsement. People need to know who this woman is, and they need to see her dance. If she can get into the public eye, I know her career will take off like a rocket.

While standing just outside the doors to the auditorium, I land a meeting with one of the world's best representatives of professional dancers and a photo shoot with the Sparks for an article on her work teaching dance to the team that will be in the San Francisco Times.

Damn good day’s work, if you ask me. I enter the auditorium and settle into a seat far in the back where no one will see me, but I’m not sitting for long.

Angel is pacing the stage with her hands covering her face, crying. Miss Valentina is standing stage left with her arms crossed over her flat chest and a sour expression.

The eyeball-vibrating and whiteout in my brain is unavoidable when I see her crumbling there, defenseless and exhausted. Even Coach knows when to back off and give us a breather. He uses positive reinforcement instead of severe criticism to encourage us to work harder.

I stomp up the center aisle. Valentina sees me first and narrows her eyes. I place my hands on the edge of the stage and gracefully hoist myself up.

Angel stops pacing and looks up to see what the noise is, and her eyes grow wide with fear.

“River, no, stop, it’s okay. I’m just having a bad day. I can’t do anything right, and Miss Valentina was helping me . . .”

She’s muted by my anger, and I silently walk across the stage and scoop her up into my arms. When I glance at her mentor, she opens her mouth to protest until I take a step toward her, and she takes one back.

I carry my Pretty Dancer off the stage and down the hall to her dressing room. She surprises me when stays still and quiet in my arms. I expected her to beat me on the chest or curse at me for fucking up her rehearsal, but she doesn’t.

In the dressing room, I grab her little purse and her clothes that are hanging on the back of her makeup chair and make for the studio’s entrance.

People stare all the way through the building. A few even try to stop us and ask Angel if she’s okay, but I am not stopping until I get her to my house and in my bed, tucked under my arm and asleep.