vnNeSsa1 (4 page)

All is numbness as the marble statue makes his exit. My mind replays the meeting: his listening to my request, his snapping, his evaluation of me, his absurd suggestion. It’s all way too much for me to take in. I just sit in my chair, stunned.
Hot desert wind blasted in when he walked out the door. Such a contrast because everything about him seems like arctic ice. The final image of Liam frozen in my mind is of him stepping into the blazing sunlight. He turned and looked at me for a long time with his white-blue eyes. I felt helpless under his gaze. Then he shook his hair off his face to slip his sunglasses on and was gone in the light.

Chapter 6

My nerves are frayed well before the audition has begun and I wonder what in the hell I’m doing here. It seems my cocoon’s been blown apart by a smooth-
talking, frosty-eyed mystery man. Anger at Liam flares hot in my stomach. Anxiety douses it immediately with a cold chill down my spine. And so it goes back and forth until it feels like my body will explode.

Everyone is
warming up, stretching out, in their own worlds. Even so, eyes stray to check out the competition. There are some amazing bodies here. Push-up bras abound. My eyes look down at my own lack of cleavage and coltish legs. It makes me want to become invisible and fly away in the wind.

S
weat rolls down my back and is captured by the fabric of my leotard at my tailbone. It’s way too hot in here for the thirty or so nervous bodies waiting for the audition to begin. According to the information posted on the studio board, there are four female dancer spots open in the production Liam spoke about. He had mentioned a famous singer, but he didn’t say she was Brynne, a fact that’s making my stomach churn.

The sweat is now beading up in the crevasse between my breasts and I blow softly to dry it.
Why can’t I just be careful with the money and stay hidden away until my memory returns?
But the answer is clear: the few days in the motel proved to me I can’t be alone and I don’t know when, if ever, my memory will return. Still, at the moment, some dull restaurant job looks pretty appealing.

Breathing in deeply to calm my nerves, I smell the sweaty bodies and the wooden floor, the distinct tang of a dance studio. The scent and feel of a dance studio were familiar the minute I walked in to take class two days ago. Dispelling nervous energy through quick jumps on the floor, I know that it’s wood with space underneath, not wood laid over concrete
, which hurts the legs. How do I know this? Perhaps the same way I knew exactly what to buy at the dance shop, choosing the items that would be just right for the audition and class.

My legs are warmed up enough to do side splits and it feels good now to slide to the floor
, even though my muscles are still sore from class. Taking Hip Hop was awkward for me, but not impossible. My body knew what to do some of the time. When I was thanking the instructor afterward, she said, “It’s tough to make the transition from ballet to street dancing, isn’t it?” She was right. My body craved the order and militarism of ballet. It must have been obvious to her. I just nodded, oddly saddened. She knew more about me than I do.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sudden entrance of several
official-looking people. The tension in the room vibrates with the arrival of a woman in her thirties and a younger male, both in dance clothes, and three older men. The men settle themselves behind a folding table, scraping back chairs, surveying the room. The two dancers busy themselves with the sound system and ignore us completely.

The tension
feels unbearable. My legs scissor me into a standing position facing one of the mirrors lining the walls, so my back is turned to everyone. The reflections disturbingly multiply the number of people in the room, pressing in on me. The woman—skeletal, black hair slicked back into a ponytail—seems to be in charge. Choreographer, undoubtedly. She gracefully gestures while talking to the male dancer, her swan neck moving liquidly with her words. Soon, addressing our group with a British accent, she tells us the format of the audition, but I don’t hear it because a roaring has begun in my ears. She finishes her description with a dramatic flourish of her arms and glides away to speak with the men at the table.

My bowels begin to act up and my right knee starts shaking. How can I dance when my muscles are seizing up
and I might have diarrhea? This thought propels me toward my gear lying by the wall.
I can’t possibly do this. I have to get out of here
. Stumbling with my things toward the door, my foot catches the leg of another dancer and she cries out in surprise. An apology dies on my lips when her expression changes to a smirk as she notices I’m leaving.

Embarrassment and anger make my face feel hot.
We’re caught in time staring at one another: me with my face glowing scarlet and her with that smirk that makes me want to slap her. She blinks first and it takes me a millisecond to change course. I fling my bag to the wall, march straight back to the center of the dancers, and stretch furiously. I may have stepped on the smirker’s toes a little on the way back. I’m not sure.

My c
hest tightens painfully when the choreographer’s assistant moves to the floor and announces they’re going to begin. This is it. I look around wildly and catch the eye of an auburn-haired, long-legged dancer who gives me a charming, crooked grin. It calms me down and makes me feel better.

They begin by teaching us the
ballet combination. Ballet is good. This should be lucky for me. Then why do I feel like I’m going to vomit? The other girls seem just fine, attentively listening and learning, with their damn push-up bras and all. At first my mind is too frozen with fear to make sense of the choreographer’s words or movements. But then it dawns on me the combination is very basic. I can handle this. Everything around me drops away but the steps in the routine. Over and over in my head. Over and over on the floor. Maybe I can actually do this.

We’re being divided i
nto groups of five to perform the routine. It’s our group’s turn to perform and my legs will be pure jelly if I look at the judges. I stare at a spot above their heads and focus on the combination. Even though the steps feel under control, my lips stick to my teeth when I try to smile and my legs tremble. Repeat what you practiced. Discipline yourself. Just repeat the steps. The judges look so serious. Don’t look at them! Just repeat the steps, except maybe do a double pirouette at the end instead of a single.

It’s over. You can s
top smiling. Relief feels sweet, but it’s short-lived because we’re being lined up to cut.

I’m not cut.

I hear myself laugh, the muscles in my face and neck relaxing. This feels good, exhilarating. My confidence picks up. Some dancers are trudging out the door and I look away.

Next comes learning the jazz co
mbination and this doesn’t go well. My confidence wilts because I can’t keep up. The steps just aren’t as familiar. The choreographer and her assistant move much too quickly. There’s no air in this bloody room. What’s wrong with the air conditioner? Sweat can’t evaporate off the sweltering bodies. It flies from a dancer’s face and hits my cheek as she turns. I look around desperately, wiping my face with my hand, not able to concentrate on the choreographer’s instructions. Finally, another dancer punches open a fire exit door. Hot air swirls lazily into the room, mocking us. Now, each breath feels like drinking scorching hot coffee. I force my mind back to the impossible task at hand.

Waiting for my turn to audition, I go over and over the pattern of steps in my head. When my group is called, my shaky legs somehow get me to the floor and I steel myself for the music to begin. The auburn-haired dancer
who smiled at me at the beginning of the audition is among those watching on the sidelines. She catches my attention and points to her mouth, exaggerating a smile. Obediently, my lips peel back and my teeth shove forward. She mouths, “You look like a horse.” It makes me laugh and relaxes me a tiny bit.

The choreographer signals our start with a
, “Five, six, seven, eight.” My legs and arms are getting through the combination with few, if any, mistakes, but my body feels clumsy and my movement forced. It seems to go on forever, my facial expression feels frozen, my feet clopping awkwardly through the routine. The combination’s finally finished and I can’t get off the floor quickly enough.
I blew it
.

The auburn-haired girl’s
group performs next and as she glances my way, I forget my worries and give her a big, encouraging grin. She’s very good, her movements sharp and clean, but her talent is beyond good dancing. She uses her face well, with animated eyes and a brilliant smile. Other dancers seem to make almost grotesque faces trying to look sexy, the smirker among them. But who am I to judge with my sole performance expression being that of a horse.

Now they’re lining us up, making cuts, keeping only one or two dancers from each group. My group is next.

“You may stay,” the choreographer says, pointing. “Everyone else, thank you very much.” I feel a stab of disappointment, humiliation even, and gather my belongings. My aim is to get out of here as quickly as possible and my feet fall over each other to the exit.
How could I have let Liam talk me into this?
I can’t decide whether I’m more embarrassed or angry. The smirker is in my path on the way out and embarrassment wins. She looks triumphant. I want to hurt her.

My escape through the door is a relief and it feels good to press my aching back against the hot building.
Never again. Liam will never talk me into anything again.

My rumination is interrupted by the choreographer’s a
ssistant, whose head appears out the door.

“Where are you going
?” he asks, agitated. “You were the one who was asked to stay in your group. Quickly now, they’re starting kicks across the floor.” His head disappears before his sentence is finished. For a moment, I’m shocked and can’t move. Then, I’m running full speed, throwing my stuff into a corner, laughing a little hysterically, and breathlessly joining the end of the line of nine girls. The auburn-haired girl, a couple of dancers ahead of me, reaches back and gives my hand a squeeze.

My legs fly toward my head as each of us does kicks
, followed by a series of turns across the floor. My extension is good and the turns seem easy, so this part of the audition is much less stressful.

No one is cut at this point. Instead, we are all ushered in
to a straight line in front of the judges while they examine each of us and talk among themselves in lowered voices. I try my horse smile at first, but feel silly, and concentrate instead on not fidgeting. The jazz combination went so poorly, there’s little hope. My mind wanders back to coffee with Liam and how he had looked me up and down in much the same way.
Can you dance in Las Vegas without being appraised like cattle at auction,
I think restlessly, wishing they’d cut me and get it over with.

The judges finally seem to come to a decision.
A ripple of apprehension runs down the dancers’ line. The choreographer’s assistant steps forward, walks toward our line, taps four dancers on the shoulder and says, “You four stay; the others, thank you very much. Good audition.”

I am one of the four.

So is the auburn-haired girl and we grab each other up into a hug and laugh and jump up and down in happiness and a release of tension. My astonishment and joy is deflated briefly as over her shoulder I watch the dejected exit of the dancers who made it to the end, but were not chosen. Some were really good dancers.
What a tough life
, I think, and then return my attention to my new friend.

“You were amazing,” I say.

“You were, too,” she lies.

“I was not.”

“You were, too,” she insists and I hug her again in gratitude. We chatter at high speed about the audition, the other dancers, the combinations, and the choreographer. She finally introduces herself as Lily Takamoto, and laughs as my eyes sweep over her red hair and freckled nose.

“I look like my mother.” Still laughing, she shakes her lovely hair behind her shoulders.

“Well, you’re beautiful—and such a good dancer,” I say sincerely. “I’m Savannah Anders.” The name, given to me just yesterday, comes out smoothly.

“Nice to meet you,” we say simultaneously and laugh. We are interrupted by the choreographer’s assistant
, who hands us a schedule of rehearsals and says the production people have to get information from us. My stomach thrills at the thought of beginning rehearsals, but a prickly feeling irritates my armpits at the thought of giving information. More lies.

I think back to yesterday and uneasiness mars my mood. Liam had phoned around seven p.m. I had taken the class and had still decided to back out of the audition. He said he needed to take a photo of me for my ID. He came straight to my motel room.
Doesn’t this violate our non-trust thing
, I wanted to ask him, but held my tongue. After snapping my picture, he surprised me by pointing down to a BMW-Z4 in the parking lot and saying, “You can lease that from me for four fifty a month.” I jumped at the chance with only a twinge of guilt at using the stolen money.

Liam told me the name he had for me and said he found an apartment that would be ready in a day or so. Then he asked
whether I was ready for the audition. After listening to my fears, he countered all of my arguments and talked me into at least showing up. Apparently satisfied, he made a move to leave. Just before reaching the door, he turned and said, “By the way, I have a friend with connections who did a missing persons search on your description. Nothing turned up
. No one is looking for you
.” The bomb delivered, he put his hand on my shoulder sympathetically but his eyes, like his fingers, were cold. It was hard keeping my face impassive even though this was not news to me. Pushing through my nausea, I had already done Internet searches on missing persons. My family—if they’re out there—is not looking for me. But hearing the words so starkly presented from Liam crushed me.