6
"Tell me, how is it possible that we beat out Dalton? He wasn't a good dancer, but he had the muscles and the face," I say.
Dominic cracks up. "Maybe it's because he had the personality of a spiraling gold fish. Plus, his partner is new to the show this year, so viewers haven't connected with her yet."
"Are you saying we made it through because viewers like you?"
He smirks. "It certainly hasn't hurt."
I shake my head, but it's true. Dominic was my favorite when I watched the show. So here I am in LA for another week and back in the rehearsal hall.
"And you're more interesting than Dalton. You get mad, you're stubborn, and despite the fact you fight to keep anyone from getting to know you, bits and pieces shine through."
I bristle. In my world no one sticks around for long, so it's easier to keep things to myself. "I just don't think people need to know my personal junk. Trust me. I'm boring."
"That's highly doubtful. Give me time, I'll get you to reveal yourself." He motions me onto the floor to stretch. "In case we make it through next week, I have an assignment for you."
"You think we have a chance?" I ask, hopeful for our changes to stay on.
"We're still a long shot, but until Marcus calls our name, we're going to fight to the bitter end. Agreed?"
I nod and lean over my leg. I've become much more limber the past few weeks.
"If we make it through, next week is the Celebrity's pick. You get to choose our music. It should be a song that has significance to you."
"Geez, that's vague. Do you mean like my prom theme?"
"Was your prom meaningful?" He switches leg stretches and starts ankle rolls. I do the same.
"Not really." I went with a couple friends and borrowed a hand-me-down dress.
"Well, think on it, but don't take long. I need to submit the song tomorrow, so the producers can clear rights to use it."
"No pressure there."
"If you can't think of one, I can suggest several that'll work."
I get to my feet. "No way. You get to control everything."
Dominic laughs. "Yeah, well, my decisions have been working well so far."
"You call us ending up in the bottom three every week working? Pfft."
"One other thing. This is family week."
His back is to me so he doesn't see me freeze up. Suddenly the air in the room is suffocating.
Dominic turns back around. "The producers want to show clips of the families cheering on their celebrity. We've never talked about your family before, but I'd love to meet them."
I glance at the camera with its constant little light recording my every move. Do I really have to address this now? Dominic is waiting for my response. I swallow.
"Is that a problem?" he asks, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
Turning my back to the camera, I say as softly, "I don't have any family."
He's taken back. "No one?"
I give a slight shake of my head. "No parents, no siblings, not even a grandparent."
"Oh, God. I'm sorry."
"We're in L.A. Maybe we can hire some actors to play the part," I joke, but maybe it’s an option.
"Don't worry about it." He shrugs it off but clearly feels sorry for me and wonders why I'm alone. But he doesn't ask. "Let's get started."
I nod.
As usual, the beginning of learning any number is the hardest. This week it's the cha cha, a quick-paced Latin dance. Dominic speeds through the steps.
"Dude, please slow down. My brain doesn't move that fast," I complain.
"We have to get this down, so we can start polishing sooner. The only way we have a chance is to deliver a perfect dance."
So I grumble on the inside and do my best to keep up. After a twenty-minute lunch break at two p.m., we're back at it, this time marking it with music. On our third try, I confuse which foot to use, then quick correct. My heel catches, my ankle turns, and slides out from under me.
I crumble to the floor with a painful screech, landing on my hip with an unladylike umph.
"Shit, are you okay?" Dominic's at my side in an instant, and I realize the camera guy is too.
Cringing with pain, between clenched teeth I say, "Not sure yet."
He frowns and stares at my foot. I blow out my breath and the immediate pain seems to wane. "May I?" he asks, his hand poised to touch my injury.
"Sure."
He gently presses different areas of my ankle.
I wince. "Right there. It's tender, but better than a minute ago."
"Let me grab you some ice."
He leaves me alone with the producer and cameraman. I want to lie back, close my eyes, and calm myself down, but the cameraman will record my weakest moment, so I lean back on my hands and watch my ankle swell. What will this mean to our rehearsals? What if I can't compete?
Dominic comes back with Hank and Sonya on his heels.
"What happened?" Hank leans over with his hands on his knees and peers at my ankle. The strap of my shoe is getting tight. I reach forward to loosen it, but Dominic brushes my hands away and deftly unbuckles and removes the torturous shoe.
"You know me, tripping on air."
Hank nods as if that makes total sense.
"Oh my God, girl. What happened to your feet?" Dominic frowns at my bruised feet with the missing toenails. Sonya and Hank lean over the camera guy's shoulder for a closer look.
"I told you my feet hurt."
Dominic rubs his forehead and looks away.
"I've been bitchin' about my bunions," Hank says. "I don't know how you dance with those mangled feet."
Sonya pushes closer. "Oh, honey. You need to tape your feet. I'll show you how."
"First can we deal with her ankle?" Dominic interrupts. "How does it feel now?" He slides an ice pack under my ankle and carefully lays another on top.
"It doesn't hurt like before." I slowly point my foot and then carefully rotate it. "Should I try to walk on it?"
"No!" Dominic glances over my head at the producer then shakes his head. "We better have a doctor take a look."
With a groan I close my eyes. I'm finally having a good time and now I might be out because of a stupid injury.
"You'll be good as gold and hoofing it again before you know it," Hank predicts. "If it were bad, you'd be begging for Percocet and a stiff drink."
I shoot him a smile and hope he's right.
Sonya pats my shoulder. "Hank is right. It's probably just a mild sprain. Don't sweat it."
"Thanks." This is the first time one of the pros has gone out of their way to be nice to me.
Together they help me to Dominic's car, and he drives me to an urgent care clinic. After a whole lot of waiting around, some poking, and images captured of my ankle; it's deemed a mild sprain. With my ankle wrapped and iced, Dominic delivers me home with take-out tacos and a bottle of high-powered meds to keep the inflammation down.
"I can stay, it's no trouble," he offers again, setting down a glass of ice water.
"Dominic, I'm fine. I'm allowed to put weight on it." All I want is to be alone and wallow in my uncoordinated misery.
"But don't!" He puts his hand out.
"Relax. You set me up with everything I need. I'll only get off the couch to go to bed. I promise. Go home to your girlfriend." There are meds, ice packs, and my laptop all within an arm's reach.
"All right. Call me in the morning and let me know how it feels."
"The doctor said I'll be okay to dance if I take it super easy for the next day or so."
"Be sure to follow the directions on icing and meds. Promise?"
I grin. "Promise."
"I'll see if I can get you out of heels for a while."
After he leaves, I imagine all the other contestants being showered with the love of their families at next week's show. I polish off three beef tacos before calling Anna to whine about my bad luck. After her pep talk, I decide to be positive and believe Dominic and I still have a chance.
I start wracking my brain for a song to use as my celebrity choice. With my ankle cradled by a bag of frozen peas, I scroll through the play lists on my phone and Youtube videos on my laptop.
And then I find my song. It's obscure. Likely no one will have heard of it, but I watch the video over and over like I did when my college roommate showed me TV shows from her semester abroad in England. The British guy singing performs with so much angst and emotional pain that I'm mesmerized all over again. If ever there were an anthem of my life, this is it. Dominic will probably hate the song and fight me to pick something else. But I love it. When I hop my way to bed that night, I dream of the haunting melody and lyrics.
Dominic lets me sleep in and picks me up around eleven for a short rehearsal. My ankle is sore, but doesn't hurt if I walk slowly. Still, I don't want to do anything to jar it and make it worse, nor does he. I've brought my laptop to show him the video of my song choice. I wanted him to see it before our producer and camera guy showed up, but they're already here and ready to go.
Dominic and I sit on the floor and lean against the wall as I cue up the video. "It's probably a lot different than what anyone else will have," I say.
"That's usually a good thing. Who's it by?"
"His name is Thomas Evan Oliver."
Dominic's brow furrows. "Never heard of him."
I laugh nervously, because I really want Dominic to like my choice. "He's from England. This video's a few years old. I looked him up last night and found out he went to New York after that to perform on Broadway." I don't mention that I spent hours watching videos of him, including one of him performing solo on the Tony awards earlier this year.
I click play and slide my laptop between us. The song begins with the actor singing to his stern-faced father in an empty theatre.
Dominic glances at me with doubt.
"Please, just give it a chance."
He turns up the volume and watches. I keep quiet, praying he doesn't hate it. When the song ends he glances at me and hits replay. This time he closes his eyes and listens to the music, like he's imagining the choreography. I watch the singer lose himself in the emotion of the melody and lyrics, just as Dominic keeps trying to get me to lose myself in our dances. For me, this song is the heart-wrenching story of my life, and even though I've watched it dozens of times, it's hard to peel my eyes away from the screen.
Dominic looks up. "This is a powerful song and I think I could do something interesting with the choreography, but I'll have to get it past the producer. He usually wants something more mainstream and recognizable. What's your second choice?"
I grip the laptop and hold my breath. "There is no second choice. I want this song."
He chuckles. "You like the hot singer."
I huff. "I'm serious. Listen, I know I'm low man on the totem pole here. I'm living in a dingy long-term apartment in a questionable neighborhood instead of some fancy hotel like the big celebs. I don't have a car service carting me around, or a dog, or an entourage the producers have to deal with. I've never asked for anything. I think I deserve this."
Dominic considers me. "Why does this song mean so much to you?"
I shift and grab my water bottle, not wanting to discuss it, but his steely gaze is fixed on me. "Chelsea, you have to help me out here. If I'm to go to bat for you, I need a good reason."
My heart squeezes with that old familiar pain. I don't talk about my past. But he's waiting for an answer. I breathe a heavy sigh. "It reminds me of my dad."
"I see." He focuses on the screen of my laptop as if trying to respect my privacy. "What's the title of the song?"
"Stay," I say softly, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
He nods with sensitivity in his eyes. "Want to tell me about that?"
"I'd rather not."
But then I do anyway.