I might have been able to get on the corps bus and switch out of first class on the plane, but when we arrive at our hotel in Chicago, I am expected to take my private room on the secure floor with the principals and staff.
I’m sad about this, having made so many new friends during the day. I know I can go rent my own room on the lower floors, but I’m not sure what Dmitri might plan, if there are meetings that will be up here. So for now, I accept that this is my position and sit alone on the bed wondering what is next.
None of us thought to exchange cell phone numbers while we were all sitting together, so I have no way to talk to anyone.
This will be my home for the six weeks of rehearsals, so I start unpacking, trying to fit the most important things in the six small drawers and three feet of closet rod. I should have brought more hangers, as there are only four in there and I have at least ten dresses and two evening gowns. I have no idea where to buy some. Maybe the hotel has more.
I line up the fifteen pairs of shoes on a shelf, realizing that if I continue to hang out with the corps dancers, all this will be unnecessary. But I really have no idea what I’m getting into. And Dmitri might still be taking me to events where I have to look the part.
Once I’ve done everything I can do, I sit again. My stomach rumbles but I don’t know the plans for dinner. I think we’re on our own until first rehearsal in the morning.
I’ve been spoiled. It starts to all rain down as I realize I have no chef here preparing the perfect blend of carbs and protein to keep me going. No smoothies. No assistant.
Man. I’ve gotten totally dependent on that lifestyle. And there’s no kitchen here. I can’t cook for myself.
I figure I might as well see what is nearby. Maybe a health food store or an all-natural cafe or deli. I pick up my purse and prepare to head down alone.
The hall is quiet. I wonder where Dmitri and Dominika and the others are. Maybe they’ve gone to dinner without me, assuming that if I was going to ditch them for the corps, I would continue to do so.
Dang.
I wait for the elevator. When it arrives, an elderly woman gives me a small smile as she exits to the hall.
I get in alone and press the button for the lobby. My body vibrates with jitters. I’m completely unfamiliar with Chicago, but I have Google Maps, and I can always just call a taxi if I get too lost.
The elevator stops on the sixth floor and slides open.
I’m surprised to see Weeza standing there. She’s changed into jeans and a denim jacket, ragged on the bottom, the hem cut out.
“Hello, Weeza,” I say as she gets on. She gives a little grunt in reply.
She pushes the button, but just as I’m contemplating the awkwardness of a ride down with her, someone shouts, “Hold the elevator!”
And just like that, we’re crowded inside, a dozen dancers squeezing into the small space. There’s laughter and whoops and “No way am I eating crab cakes” and general arguments about whether it would be unwise to go out clubbing with rehearsals in the morning.
I don’t expect to get swept into it, but one of the girls I met on the plane slides her arm around mine and drags me through the lobby and out into the chilly evening.
“Chicago!” somebody shouts, and the others take up the cry.
Then one girl says, “Roxie!”
And just like they had all planned it, like this was a show everyone had rehearsed, they all line up around her, singing, “The name on everybody’s lips is gonna be…”
And the whole rest of them shout, “Roxie!”
And it goes on.
I’ve never seen or heard what they are singing, but it’s amazing. I glance around and see Weeza shaking her head and taking off alone down the sidewalk.
The boys pair up with a girl, and the leftover girls link up, and they are doing sultry spontaneous moves. I take a step back, not sure what to do, then I’m grabbed and bent over the arm of someone I can’t even see. My vision blurs, but I’m held in a perfect position while everyone once again says, “Roxie!”
Then we’re swirled again and I’m passed to another dancer, another girl, and this time I have to hold on to her as she wraps a leg around me and strikes a dramatic pose while the girl sings another line. Then it’s another “Roxie!”
This goes on, the couples mixing and switching out. I get to a boy and he immediately takes me into a lift, and there’s another “Roxie!”
People have stopped on the street to video us and I guess that’s when everyone decides to break up, running down the street and laughing, and I am swept along with it.
We pile into some little cafe with a dozen tiny round tables, all pushed together in a jigsaw puzzle that doesn’t quite connect.
And I’m here.
“That was so nuts!” one girl says, and everyone shrieks with laughter and giggles and astonishment.
“We are gonna do this every single night,” another says.
I can’t remember any of their names. Andrew and Carla and Fiona aren’t here.
But everyone knows me. A phone gets passed around with pictures and video of our dance.
“Tag Livia!” someone says.
There’s a chorus of YES and I’m shown a phone with me in the air and all the dancers around. So I type in my Twitter handle and it’s out into the world.
“Do you think Blitz will retweet it?” someone asks.
“Just ask her!” another voice insists.
I feel the slight separation now, the person who is different from the rest. They turn to look at me. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll forward it to him.” And I take out my phone.
There’s another big YES! And high fives. I tell Blitz to go find the tagged photo and how crazy and fun it’s been. But then I have to let it go because people are ordering food and talking and finally someone tells me about the Broadway show Chicago and that we were singing one of the famous songs from it.
I’m not the only one who hasn’t seen it, thankfully, and we go over the words and decide to do the whole thing again after dinner.
When we get our sandwiches and soups and salads, I look around at everyone and think — is this how regular people live?
Then I realize, no, no it’s not. We’re dancers. Some of the best. And we’re about to embark on something big together. So we’re high. Exuberant. Unstoppable.
And it’s the best feeling in the world.