When we arrive at the studio again the next day, there’s a new image in the sky.
There’s no mistaking who this one is from.
It’s a banana.
“This is never going to die,” Blitz says with a sigh.
White lines form the outlines of the image. Blitz’s bad tweet, the one about Giselle, said she ate him like a gorilla. Bananas became a common theme in the talk shows about the incident.
I hurry through the door and catch up with him. “You think Giselle is hiring the planes?”
“She’s not even working as far as I know,” he says. “I don’t see her throwing money away on skywriting.”
“Didn’t she get on Dancing with the Stars?”
He shakes his head as we walk down the hall toward the rehearsal studio. “No. She forgot that her contract restricts her from any other dance show for three years.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Wasn’t she up for some other show? A drama?”
“Didn’t get it,” Blitz says, nodding at Vince, who waits for us inside the open door to the dance room. “She blew it when she stalked off my show.”
I don’t ask how he knows all this. If he’s talked to her or if someone has filled him in.
The subject of Giselle is really better left alone.
Although I wonder why she put her boobs up there yesterday.
I don’t want to know that either.
After an hour of warm-ups and a couple run-throughs, Amara fetches us to rehearse on the main stage so they can check camera placement.
Costume designers descend on us, pinning a tuxedo top to Blitz even as we’re shown the boundaries of our number.
We don’t have to dance ourselves. Vince and another girl do it for us, and a team tapes blue marks onto the stage where we’re supposed to land our lifts. Apparently there will be puffs of smoke for each landing as if we’re walking on clouds.
Cute.
And way more complicated than anything we’ve done before.
The music cuts off prematurely, but Vince keeps swinging the girl, talking us through the motions.
And lift and catch and sweep into a bend.
Devon steps up and says to Blitz, “This is where you’ll look into her eyes and decide right then and there that she will be your wife.”
I shake my head. It’s so ridiculous. I’m not an actress. How am I supposed to react to a fake proposal?
Blitz and I stand to one side of the stage, watching. The wardrobe people finally slide the pinned costume off him and he’s free to move.
“What’s after that?” Blitz asks.
“You hold while the new set comes down,” Devon says.
The music blasts back in, far too loud, and I instinctively cover my ears.
“New sound guy,” Devon says. He turns to the sound booth high over the audience seating. “Get it right or get out of my production!”
Silhouettes scramble behind the glass.
Devon takes a small towel from his back pocket and touches it to his forehead. Sweat is beading along his skin. “Live show with a new sound designer. Jesus.”
“What happened to the old one?” Blitz asks.
“Ran off with a semi-finalist,” Devon says. “We had to cut several people covering for them, too. The mixer is the only one who’s still on.”
“You couldn’t wait until the end of the season?” I ask.
“Talk to the producers. They were the ones who did it,” he says. He turns to the back of the stage. “Where’s the rainbow?”
Blitz makes a gagging sound. “Rainbow?”
“It’s your proposal set,” Devon says. “It might be a little over the top.”
A sheer scrim comes down, lit to be transparent so that you can see the scene behind it.
“And rainbow!” Devon calls.
The colors change, and the scrim becomes opaque. An iridescent rainbow slides across its surface, appearing slowly, as if the sun itself was creating it.
“That’s beautiful,” I say.
“Okay, I approve,” Blitz says.
“The lighting girl is brilliant,” Devon says. “Thank God for that.”
I walk across the stage. Our stand-ins are still now, the dance done. I touch the scrim, and it wavers slightly. I’m always so amazed at the magic that can be done with lights.
Another wardrobe person arrives with my blue dress. She holds it against her body.
“Light test,” Devon bellows. He hurries to one of the cameras to view the scene as it will be broadcasted.
“All wrong!” he shouts. “That dress is too light! I said CERULEAN!”
The woman holding it rushes off the stage. I guess that will mean more fittings for me.
The music starts up again, and Vince and his partner begin dancing. I move out of their way and head back to the side.
Blitz hums along, then takes my hand, sweeping me into a tighter, less buoyant version of the dance.
Vince sees us and moves his partner aside to give us room. Blitz and I run through the dance, missing a couple lifts still, but generally getting it right. When we come to the dip, he gives me a silly grin. “Wanna get hitched?” he asks.
“Not until I see a rainbow,” I say.
The scrim comes down.
“I like that,” Devon says. “You insisting on a rainbow.”
Blitz and I break out laughing, and he lifts me to stand up straight.
“Am I supposed to propose in a dip or get down on one knee?” he asks.
“Oh, a knee, for sure,” Devon says. He gazes up at the scrim with the rainbow, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Yeah, we’re going to do it. Livia, you will say, ‘Not until I see a rainbow.’ And Blitz will be all astonished, as if he isn’t good enough. And then the rainbow will appear. Sheepish grin. Lift her up. Down on one knee.”
“What about the ring?” Blitz asks.
“I’ve got it here,” I say. I tug the necklace from beneath my shirt.
“A dancer will deliver it,” Devon says. “At least that’s the plan. The fantasy set makes it feel like the world was waiting for you to propose.”
Blitz sighs. “Don’t tell me. The dancer will be dressed like a unicorn.”
“No,” Devon says. “But that’s not bad.” He speaks into his headset.
Blitz groans. “We’re going to be the worst meme ever to go viral.”
“That’s what they like,” I say. “Free publicity. They’ll make the GIF themselves and plant it.”
He leans in close. “How about we just run away?”
“I’m in,” I say.
A voice booms from over head. “We can hear that,” it says.
Devon looks up. “Hear what?”
“Let’s make a break for it,” I say.
And we do, dashing off the stage, out the secure door, and into the hall. Our laughter echoes off the walls as we barrel down a corridor and turn to Blitz’s dressing room.
We burst inside like hell is on our heels, and once we’re in the quiet, Blitz pulls me close for a long, lingering kiss.
Then we hear a throat clearing.
We break apart.
“You two are really something.”
I turn. It’s Mack Williams, the new dance bachelor.
“Oh, shit, I forgot this was your dressing room now,” Blitz says.
“No prob, bro.” Mack stands up leisurely from a stool near the big mirror. He extends a hand. “Good to see you again.”
Blitz and Mack shake. He looks so different here than on camera, his hair calm rather than spiked and styled, his face stubbled instead of smooth.
“I don’t think you’ve met Livia,” Blitz says, turning to me. “Apparently I’m proposing to her on your show.”
Mack’s hand is gentle on mine. “That’s what I hear.” To me he says, “Sorry I missed you when we had the auditions last year.”
“I was doing a ballet,” I say. The whole process of choosing the new bachelor occurred while I was on tour. Blitz went up for it, but I was in Seattle.
“We have a ballerina this season too. She’s a finalist,” Mack says.
“I’ve seen her,” I say. “She’s very good.”
“She didn’t make any of the important troupes,” he says.
I’m not sure how to respond to that. Beth Ann seems good enough compared to what I saw on tour. But many of the big companies only take dancers from their own schools.
I got lucky that a new corps formed around a Russian ballerina who defected to the U.S. I certainly could never have attended one of those ballet schools from age four. My family was way too poor to think about extras like dance lessons.
“Seems like the blonde is in the lead,” Blitz says.
Mack settles back on the stool. “Yeah, hell of a thing, having it be a television vote now.”
“You had a say in the final three, though, right? Or did they lie about that?”
Mack glances at the mirror. He shrugs. “They got rid of Felicity.”
“Was she your pick?” I ask.
Both the men look at me and tilt their head toward the mirror.
Right, the cameras. That huge mirror hides at least three of them. No doubt at least one is always running, hoping to pick up something juicy.
“We should get a drink somewhere and talk,” Mack says.
“Damn straight,” Blitz says, clapping him on the back. “We’ll get out of your space.”
“I’m headed to rehearsal again anyway,” Mack says. “But I wouldn’t do anything crazy in here. This room is always hot.”
“I forgot what it was like to be in a digital cage,” Blitz says. “But you’re nearly done.”
“It’s been a wild ride.” Mack picks up a towel and slings it around his neck. “See you in rehearsal.”
He heads out. Blitz takes a moment to look around. He stares at a bit of the wall for a moment and I wonder what’s got his attention. I stand beside him, following his gaze. Then I see it. A muted red light behind the cover of a mounted lamp.
“They recorded the whole thing?” I ask.
“Looks like it,” he says. He shakes his head and takes my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t agree more with that.