Angel

I’m dressed to kill, but I feel more like the one being killed. Lunch didn’t sit well with me this afternoon. In fact, it didn’t sit at all.

Caesar salad is no longer on my list of favorite foods. That was an encore I could have done without.

Cat came all the way out here to see me, and I have a performance tonight. Time to suck it up. I’m tired, and my stomach is still a little off, but nothing like earlier. I think the worst has passed.

She knocks on my door at precisely six o’clock, and I don’t mention my afternoon date with the toilet.

“Ready? It’s been over a year since I’ve been here. I can’t wait to see what’s changed. Hey, you look a little green. What’s going on with you?”

Nothing gets past Cat. I should have known.

“Oh, just some bad salad at lunch. I'll be all right, let’s go.”

“The dinner we are going to is raising money for a charity called Just Don’t Start, or JDS. They educate young people about the hazards of drinking and doing drugs. You might know the guy who started it. He’s an NFA player.”

“I do. Adam Silver. He’s a quarterback for the Redkings. My brother is a friend of his. Cool guy.”

“Will your brother be there too?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Probably not. His training camp is killing him right now. He usually hibernates during the month of August. He can hardly move at the end of the day. His life pretty much consists of eating, sleeping, and getting his ass kicked on the field.”

I wonder if River is hibernating. Part of me hopes so. If he’s at home, his eyes aren’t wandering. On the other hand, if he’s at home a lot, he sure isn’t calling me, so I’d rather imagine that he is busy with work.

“You’re looking like a little rich girl tonight. I love your dress,” she says and whistles her long, low, trademark whistle.

“Thanks, River bought it for me for the trip.” I love this dress too. It’s my favorite of all the clothes he sent with me. The one-shoulder, just above the knee, black, shimmery dress is comfortable and elegant—two things I need tonight.

“Wow, the pretty boy has great taste in clothes as well as women. What is that, Yves St. Laurent? I think I looked at that little number once. Didn’t have anywhere to wear it, though. Working in a coffee shop doesn’t call for many formal occasions.”

“If you could get ahold of your temper, you’d have an excellent job that required cocktail dresses every weekend.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Come on. I need you to hold my hand when we walk. These shoes are killing me.”

I look down at her silver and black stilettos and shake my head.

“How do you plan on walking in those things all night if you can’t walk down the hall in them?”

She points her finger straight up in the air and says, “Alcohol. If I drink enough, I will not feel my feet again until tomorrow.”

“And then you’re going to be crying when the booze wears off. Why not just wear a lower heel?”

“Um, because a lower heel doesn’t go with this dress, and these make my legs look sexy as hell,” she says in a duh-what-planet-are-you-from tone.

“Well excuse me. I’m a dancer, not a fashion designer. I choose comfort over style.”

“Just give me your arm and lead me to the food.”

“Yes ma’am,” I say, and we link arms and walk down the hall like Dorothy and the Tinman headed down the yellow brick road.

* * *

I made it through dinner picking at my thousand-dollar plate of food unnoticed. Our table was full of dancers, and they are all used to eating like a bird. Cat warily looked over at me a couple of times warily but never mentioned it. I think she was trying to behave and watch her fiery mouth in front of my future co-workers.

We’re at the theater, and Cat is somewhere backstage with Fielipe. He snapped up the opportunity to be her tour guide like it was a winning lottery ticket, and off they went.

They are a striking pair with his dark Latin looks that contrast with her porcelain skin and flashy red hair. Everyone they passed turned their heads to watch when they strolled through the lobby of the National Ballet Companiey’s Theater of Performing Arts.

I’d bet my last dollar that Cat doesn’t see me perform tonight;. The chemistry between those two is palpable.

I’m sharing a dressing room with the four dancers I had lunch with today. They have all been kind enough to make space for me in front of the makeup mirrors and cleared a spot for my costumes.

We are dancing several small snippets from the International Ballet Company’s lineup for this fall. I’ve practiced with them only a handful of times, but I feel comfortable since I’ve danced the lead in every one of the shows back home.

I’m still not feeling tip top, but I’m going on. I can’t let a little queasy stomach stop me from dancing with the IBC and their world-famous dancers.

“Knock, knock, everybody decent?” Felipe says as he and Cat enter the dressing room without waiting for a response.

“I wanted to wish you luck,” Cat says, leaning down to kiss my cheek.

Cat narrows her eyes and looks closely at the amount of makeup between her lips and my cheek.

“But, I think I’ll wait.”

“Thanks for not messing me up.” I wink at her and feel my thick false lashes scrunch up. “Crap, better fix that,” I say and turn back toward the lighted mirror.

“You’re messing yourself up pretty well without any help from me.”

“Hush, go find your seat.” I wave my hand over my head, shooing her away.

“Break a leg,” she says. Felipe ushers her out with his hand on the small of her back, whispering something into her ear that makes her giggle.

My first costume is a pale blue leotard with large, sparkling jewels sewn all over it and a long matching tutu. I’m dancing the ball scene at the end of the story where the prince meets Cinderella. I was honored when they asked me to dance the part of Cinderella as a guest. I would have been perfectly happy doing any of the support characters, but the board insisted on having me.

Dressed and waiting backstage, I peek out at the buzzing audience and catch Cat and Felipe sitting front and center in the first row instead of backstage. He must have done some serious schmoozing to make that happen.

I wish my parents could have come out for this, but Dad said he had a surgery that’s been planned for weeks and Mom couldn’t get the time off. Even more than my parents, I wish River could be here to share this moment with me. He had a big part in making this happen for me, and I’d love to have the chance to repay him with a stellar performance.

The already dim lights go down completely, and we take the stage.

This is a feeling I will never tire of. The rush of energy from the audience as the lights come up is addictive. My partner, Christopher, AKA Prince Charming, and I are in sync with each other until halfway through the piece of music when my hearing begins to fade and the tunnel vision I had earlier today in my hotel room returns.

Oh God, please no, please not right now. I don’t want to faint in front of all of these people. Somehow, Christopher realizes something is wrong and begins to guide me toward the curtains off-stage. The darkness closes in, and the last thing I remember is a row of lights overhead flashing to my right, and then nothing.

When I come to, Cat is bent over me on my right, patting my cheek and repeating my name. Christopher is on my left, looking pale, and Cammie Onyx is yelling at somebody on the phone.

“I’m not moving her. You get somebody onto this damn stage right now, or I’ll sue that hospital until you have to close the doors.”

I try to shake my head, but pain shoots from one spot, and I decide to stay still.

“I don’t need an ambulance. Please, just help me up.”

“Shush, honey, just stay quiet. You’re bleeding. We have to get you to a hospital.”

I raise my hand to my head, but there’s no blood.

“No, I’m not, see?” I say and show her my clean hand.

“No, Angel, it’s not your head.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what’s happening, but when you fainted, you started bleeding vaginally. Cammie’s calling an ambulance. They should be here any second. They were just having a little trouble understanding where exactly they needed to go. Ah, speak of the devil.”

Three men dressed in blue jumpsuits roll past Cat with a gurney that they lower to ground level. This is silly. I’m sure I can get up.

I try again, but the searing pain across my lower abdomen stops me short.

“Stay there, let them come to you,” Cat says. She holds my hand as the paramedics surround me and begin to ask me questions.

“Did you faint or fall?” an attractive paramedic asks.

“She fainted. My dancers don’t fall.” Cammie has switched her anger from the phone to the paramedics.

“I couldn’t hear, and it got all dark. I’m pretty sure I just fainted.”

“Do you know your name?”

“Yes, Angel Williams.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“In New York.”

He smiles. “How about more specifically?”

“At the International Ballet Company’s auditorium.”

“Good. Is there any chance you could be pregnant, Angel?”

“No.”

Cat looks at me suspiciously, with one brow arched high.

“What? We’re really careful, and no way am I pregnant.”

“You’re bleeding. I’m sorry, I had to ask,” the hot paramedic says while a nerdy one wraps a tourniquet around my arm.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Starting an IV. We will get you to the hospital as soon as the fluids are running. Are you having any pain? Did you hit your head?”

I think about that for a moment. My head does hurt. I reach up with my free arm and touch the huge lump that’s formed there.

“Yes, I have a lump.”

“What about the cramping?”

I didn’t notice until he mentioned it, but yes, it feels very much like I am having period cramps, which would be about right. I’m a little late on my period, but I’ve been stressed with the trip and all, so I wasn’t worried.

“I’m cramping too.”

“Can you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten?” he says just as he pokes the needle into my arm.

“Ouch, now that hurt. Cramping is a four and head is a six, but the needle was an eight.”

I hate needles. Sometimes, I think I’m the only person alive without a tattoo on their body.

“Sorry, it’s all done, though. We’re going to lift you onto the gurney. Cross your arms over your chest, please, Angel, so we don’t pinch your fingers,” the nerdy guy says.

I do as I’m told, even though I’m sure I could get up if someone would just give me a hand.

The quiet paramedic helps the hot one lift me onto the gurney, and I look back at a streak of blood on the floor where I’ve been lying.

“Oh my God, Cat, what’s happening?” I say and grab her hand as they click me in with their belts.

“I don’t know, honey. We have to get you to the hospital and find out.”

“Don’t leave me. I want you to ride with me.”

She looks at the paramedics, and the quiet one nods his head up and down.

“I’m right here. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

I wish people wouldn’t make promises. It seems like when the word promise is attached to any situation, it doesn’t turn out well.