Dream Chaser (25 page)

We looked at each other.
Crap
.

When we’d done run-throughs the past few days, we'd always skipped Eli and my numbers because the group numbers needed so much work. It’s easy to blend in when you’re in a group, but front and center with the cast watching? Yikes.

Eli tapped my foot with his toe and winked.

So we hoisted ourselves out of our seats and took position on stage while Tyson cued up the music on his sound system. He looked at us, mouthed, “Don’t fuck it up!” and hit play.

Gee, thanks Boss.

Eli and I shared one last fortifying glance. The music came on, and we focused on the dance and each other. We let the rest of the world fall away. This particular dance was filled with lifts. We’d practiced it until we were black and blue and knew it so well we could do it in our sleep. Almost.

The music is this awesome wild rock music with electric guitars. It’s a physical dance with anger and rage. Lauren tries to hit and attack Zach and he has to deflect it. I leap at Eli like a storm and he catches me midair, whips me over his head and sets me down. It comes off looking like a funnel cloud. The music is so awesome and builds through the number. At one point I jump on his back like a cat on a tree, he spins and flips me off. It’s really hard to do, but a ton of fun. And when we do it right, it looks effortless.

I get to take all my fury out in this dance. I motivate by pretending Zach’s the one responsible for all the shit in my life. He’s the reason I got hurt in cheer, he’s the reason everyone in the show was so mean to me. He’s the reason Twinkie died and he’s the reason I can’t sing better.

And to give Eli credit, he fends off each attack with finesse. While I let loose my wrath, Zach is filled with angst as he tries to save Lauren from evil Victor.

It’s a violent number that leaves me emotionally spent. Connecting with Eli like this fills my soul and yet drains me. Like so many other times in our lives, he takes my abuse, lets it roll off and keeps coming back for more. His eyes are filled with misery and pain as he gently averts each of Lauren’s strikes.

We show every emotion and thought on our faces and in our eyes and in the way we move. I get to be this other person and that is something I’ve always loved about dance. Acting each song as if it’s a story is like a drug.

By the end of the number we are exhausted.
Emotionally and physically.
Lauren continues to fight his protection but Zach won’t give up. Lauren makes one final attempt to fight him, but he lifts her from her feet and locks his arms around her. Lauren surrenders.

We finished the dance a sweaty mess, Eli’s arms protectively around me,
my
soul bared open. I liked the sensation of being in his arms. The music ended. We held the moment, and then he released me.

The cast watched, a couple with dropped jaws. They jumped to their feet and rewarded us with catcalls and applause.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Tyson yelled with pride.

Eli and I stepped apart and caught our breath.

That was the day I knew for sure I deserved the lead role of Lauren.

 
“What exactly are you trying to make?” Eli asked from his perch on the counter.

I invited him to come over for my Foods class make-up assignment.

“Chicken Cacciatore. I think.”

“Looks more like Chicken
Catcha
Disaster. You’re making a huge mess.”

“Yeah, it’s part of the creative process, what can I say.” I dumped out the bag of carrots on the cluttered counter.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

“For the onions. I figured if I block the onion fumes with sunglasses and burn a couple candles, I won’t cry. I’m so done with crying. It’s overrated.” I lowered the shades and peeked at him over the top to prove I’m
all that
!

“I don’t think wearing sunglasses is going to make any difference.”

I aimed my butcher knife at him. “Do you really want to hassle the girl with the knife?”

“You’re right. It’s brilliant.” He held up his hands to fend me off.

“Thank you.” I returned my attention to the onions.

“So, how’s that working out for you?”

“Not sure, I can’t really see what I’m cutting.”

“Is it too late to order a pizza?” He said with a lazy smile and relaxed tilt of his head. The little grey flecks in his eyes caught the light.

“You’re damaging my delicate ego?”

“I’m just trying to protect us from food poisoning.”

“There. That’s all the vegetables.” I dumped the onions into a large bowl with the other veggies. “On to the chicken!” I raised my knife in the air.

I owed the Foods teacher two more meals, for the days I missed school after my big fall. Next week, I’d miss one more cooking day because of the show, so this was my warm-up meal.

I lifted a slimy chicken breast from the package. “This is disgusting. What’s all that white stringy stuff hanging off?”

“I believe it’s fat.” His eyes danced with humor.

“Gross.” I crinkled my face and flopped the poultry on the cutting board, its slippery juice oozed around it. Disgusted, I stuck my tongue out and tried not to gag.

Eli cracked up. I wasn’t trying to be funny.

I placed the knife on the chicken and tried to cut it into strips, but the whole gloppy piece moved with the motion of the knife. I pushed harder and broke through the skin. “Come on you pathetic piece of poultry, cut!” I concentrated and pushed harder. Finally I had to hold the chicken in place with my hand so it wouldn’t slide back and forth as I sawed.

“I am never eating chicken again.” I finished up the rest and dumped the slop in with the veggies.

“Are you sure that should be touching the vegetables?”

“Why not? It’s all getting cooked together anyway.”

“I’m just saying. And you need to wash everything that touched the raw chicken with hot soapy water. Including your hands.”

“What? These hands?” I came at him with my
slimified
hands.

“Get those away from me, you sicko.” He jumped off the counter then turned on the tap to hot.

“You’re such a
germaphobe
.” I stuck my hands under the warming water.

“No, I just want to live to do the show. I’d be really pissed to miss it because you didn’t clean the raw chicken off your hands. There’s going to be a casting agent there who I need to impress and meet with.”

“Okay, Doctor Oz. I’m washing.”

“Don’t forget the knife and cutting board too.” He pointed.

“Fine.” I plugged the sink and filled it with hot soapy water.

After detoxing my hands, I sloshed oil in the pan, dumped in the bowl of ingredients and turned the stove on high to get it going. I grabbed the measuring spoons and poured out the salt and dumped it in too.

“Isn’t that a lot of salt?” Eli jumped up and sat on the counter next to the stove while I worked. He looked all tall and cute, and I kept pretending to accidentally bump his arm.

“You are such a critic.”

“You just poured in a heaping tablespoon of salt. That seems like a lot.”

“Look genius, it says one t of salt.” I shoved the print out of the recipe at him.

“Excuse me? Small t means teaspoon, capital T means tablespoon, and it doesn’t say heaping. You just put in about five times too much.”

“Oh.”

I reached in with my fingers and grabbed a few pinches out and dumped it on the counter. “There. That should be better.” I wiped my hands on my jeans.

Eli shook his head.

I nudged his knee. “I’ve
gotta
get the lid.” Eli stretched his knees apart. I opened the cupboard door and reached past his legs for the thick glass lid. I set it on the pot.

“Ta da!” I said and took a bow.

“Alright Emeril. You’re a rock star,” he said. “You remember how many times we hung out in this kitchen while your mom made us cookies?”

“Yeah, a lot.” I returned the olive oil and salt to the pantry.

“They were the weirdest cookies I ever ate, but I loved them. They were a lot better than the boxed kind my mom bought.”

“How is Hillary?” His mom’s name was really Ruth, but she was a lawyer for the most prestigious law firm in town, Schmidt,
McAvoy
and Allen. I grabbed the wastebasket and scooped the unused veggie remnants into the trash.

“She’s obsessed with getting nominated to the State Senate.” He grabbed an orange from a bowl on the counter and tossed it in the air. “Which is good for me, because she’s gone all the time at some fundraiser or another.”

“And The Donald?” I leaned against the counter across from him.

“The ole man is pissed his son isn’t working to his full potential,” Eli mimicked and gripped the orange. “He’s determined I follow in the
McAvoy
footsteps and go to Northwestern for my undergrad and Harvard for a MBA.
You know Elliott, four generations of
McAvoys
have attended Harvard
.”

I cringed. “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t picture Eli in big business. It would suffocate his carefree personality, not to mention totally squash his creativity. “Ease up on the fruit, you’re making orange juice.”

“Sorry.” He returned it to the bowl.

Eli’s dad was a power hungry mergers and acquisition guru. One look at Eli, and I could see how the pressure from his parents weighed on his normal light-hearted attitude.

“Can you tell him you want something different? That you aren’t like him?” I couldn’t imagine my parents forcing me to do anything I didn’t want to.

“He knows I’m not like him.
Not in the slightest bit
.
” Eli shook his head and I wanted to give him a hug to wash away the pain of his home life.

Then he got this screwy look on his face and said, “Speaking of wanting something different, do you really want to be with that guy Rick?”

Eli must have been able to read my thoughts.
He lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side in that special way of his.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He leaned back on his hands as his legs hung over the side of the counter.

My dishtowel twisting ceased. “You don’t?”

“Nope.” He smiled, showing off his pearly whites.

I stared, dumbfounded. I was relieved he didn't have a girlfriend, but confused at what to think or do about it.

“Ah, Willow?” he said glancing past me.

“Why not?”

“Ah, Willow, it’s burning.”

“What’s burning?” I said.

“You’re chicken
cacci
trouble.”

Sure enough, the smell of charred chicken filled the air.

“Oh no!” I quick grabbed the lid to help it cool down. The scorching heat burned my fingers. “Shit!” I dropped the glass
lid,
it crashed against the stove, broke and fell to the floor. “Dammit, I burned my hand.”

“Quick, get it under cold water.” Eli hopped off the counter, grabbed me by the wrist, pulled my hand under the faucet and turned it on full blast cold. The water soothed it immediately.

“You know, maybe cooking isn’t such a good idea.” He turned the stove off, turned on the overhead fan and used the oven mitt to push the pot off the hot burner.

I examined my burned fingers and thumb. Eli’s arms came around me, took my hand and pushed it back under the faucet.

“Keep it under the water,” He said super close to my ear.

“It’s freezing cold.” I turned my head and looked up at him, his face was mere inches away.

My breath caught.

His eyes grazed mine. “It’ll feel better,” he whispered and held my hand captive under the water, numbing my fingers. His body brushed against me, putting my nerve endings on high alert.