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I cried myself to sleep after Liam left. The sadness followed me to the audition today. But I remind myself of the amazing thing that just happened and shake off the momentary gloom. I definitely won’t be crying in my pillow tonight.

The four of us give our information to the person indicated by the assistant and are given more steps to complete later at human resources at the hotel housing the production. During this process, I’ve had a chance to observe the other two dancers and I lean into Lily, whispering, “The girl with the blonde hair looks so young.” The dancer has a pixie haircut and big, blue eyes and makes me think of Tinkerbell.

“Uh, actually, so do you,” Lily whispers back, her crooked grin teasing.

“I’m eighteen.”

“Old lady.”

“How old are you?”

“
Twenty-one,” she says, watching me closely.

“You could be my grandma.” The banter hides my worry that she’ll think me too young.

“Well, be respectful and we’ll get along fine.” Her dark eyes are playful. My fears are eased somewhat. “That other dancer with the dark hair is a grandma like me,” she continues, lowering her voice as we move toward the wall to pick up our gear.

“And a good dancer. And gorgeous,” I add, glancing over at the girl’s long brown hair and doe eyes. It’s the smirker. She happens to look my way and looks away aga
in quickly. “I feel like an ostrich next to her. How did I ever get chosen?”

“Because you are a good dancer and you are as pretty as she is,” Lily says firmly.
She waits a beat and then wrinkles her forehead. “Ostrich?” We laugh, me feeling silly.

“Yeah, you know how they’re all gawky and clumsy.
But, thank you, new friend. You’re not cut. You may stay.”

“You’re welcome, new friend. You may stay, too.”

We finish picking up our gear, still laughing, and introduce ourselves to the other two dancers. The smirker’s name is Jennifer Rossi. She is polite and reserved. Tinkerbell’s name is Rachelle Malone, but she will be “Tink” in my mind. We chat briefly and then move outside. It’s a relief to finally be out of the building. Even so, the Vegas sun is the most powerful force in the vast, cloudless sky. It sears my skin and bounces off every reflective surface to blind me before I can put sunglasses on. Just as the glasses are in place, I glimpse a familiar figure sliding into a sleek, black Mercedes E550 with one of the producers of the show.
What is Liam doing here
? If my memory is correct, he did say he knew someone involved with the show. I notice Tink staring at the car, too. Before I can think further about it, Lily is asking whether I’d like to go get some coffee. It makes me happy that she’s asked.

In fact, this day has made me very happy.
I turn my face up to the sun, challenging it, seeing which one of us burns brighter today. But buried deep in my stomach is a lead ball. I’m still not feeling grounded with this black memory-wiped void always behind me. Not to mention this persistent feeling of being hunted. These
minor
items aside, there is something to hold onto now, the makings of an anchor. Before leaving the studio, the mirrors reflected my image back to me. The girl in the mirror with the sparkling eyes can say she has a name and more. Savannah Anders. The name rolls around in my mind and settles. Dancer, age eighteen, friends with Lily, nice car. It’s a decent beginning.

Chapter 7

This break feels so good I may never move again. My aching back is pressed as flat as possible to the stage floor, my l
imbs scattered around my trunk like useless toys. The space above me is vast, an indoor sky, with lights, catwalks, curtains, and a suspended platform for the orchestra. Like a dance studio, this theater has a singular feel and smell. I feel at home here, wrapped in a safe, familiar blanket, a gift after feeling adrift.

My eyes close and my mind wanders to the whirlwind of the past couple of days. There’s the relief of leaving the motel that has felt like a prison to me. And the delight of moving into my functional one-bedroom apartment. Liam arranged everything. His reassuring voice is still in my ears. “You can just pay rent in cash at the management office each month.” He has really been helpful
. He suggested using a disposable phone for now. He chose an apartment where utilities are included. It is a good idea to do everything in cash and not leave a trail.

Something’s been bothering me, though. Tink lives at the sa
me apartment building. We ran into each other leaving the complex, both on our way to the first day of rehearsal. She was going to take a bus, so I offered to give her a ride. Tink said a friend arranged her apartment and everything for her, too. I was going to ask her more about it, but she changed the subject. Her friend could have been anyone. Still, the coincidence is pretty weird.

These thoughts make my muscles tense. Flipping over on my belly to ease the knots in my back puts me eye level with the most striking human being I know I will ever see. He’s walking toward the stage, in conversation with another man. It’s not his features that pull me in immediately
. There’s something irregular about them. Some people might not even find him handsome. But it’s the animation on his face that fascinates me. His eyes and teeth blaze at the same time and I’m blinded like a flashbulb’s gone off in my face. He tilts his head to the side in an engaging way and listens with complete focus when the other guy speaks. This man would be comfortable in any situation. He reeks of confidence.
Who is this guy?

The other dancers have gone dead quiet. They are staring at him with their mouths open. It’s embarrassing. My mouth snaps shut. The men sit down in center seats and the choreographer claps her hands for us to continue rehearsal. We all dance full out like it’s our debut and the theater is packed. I make way too many mistakes and earn a withering look from Jennifer, the smirker, who dances next to me. But the choreographer is pleased with our energy. “I can’t imagine what’s inspiring you.” She looks pointedly at the men in the audience and then back at us with a raised eyebrow. “That’s it for today. Tomorrow,
ten a.m.” She makes an abrupt exit through the wings and joins the men, talking with them as if they’re old friends.

The four of us take a ridiculous length of time to gather our belongings. Our behavior ranges from darting glances at the man to outright gawking. He keeps his eyes on his companions, but he must be aware of the interest he’s aroused. The minute we are out of earshot, the questions rush out
. “Who is he? Does anybody know? Do you think he’s straight?” “Does he work here?” It seems he’s a mystery. After exhausting the topic, Lily suggests we all go to dinner that evening. We discuss the logistics and go our separate ways. I’m excited by the idea of going out at night in Vegas with friends. Tink and I have carpooled as usual and it takes my full concentration to make small talk on the return trip home. My mind keeps returning to a man with flashing eyes and a dazzling smile.

The first thing I notice when Tink and I enter the restaurant to meet the other dancers is that we’re underdressed. Lily and the smirker, I mean Jennifer, have on beautiful strapless dresses with heels. By contrast, both Tink and I are in jeans. My customary tank has been traded in for a nicer top, but it’s still not dressy enough. Lily, seeing my discomfort, tries to put me at ease.

“They’re ready to seat us. You’ll love the food.” She takes my arm and leads me to the host
, who seats us at a table overlooking the city lights. Las Vegas is probably one of the only cities that justifies sunglasses at night. All the gaudy sparkle looks beautiful to me. I can’t believe I’m working here.

Someone comes to the table for our drink orders. The conversation immediately picks up where we left off at rehearsal, on the man in the theat
er. We try to find angles we haven’t discussed to death. The others laugh about how he was watching us rehearse. Apparently, he’s an avid fan of dance. Or dancers. I hadn’t noticed. He made me so nervous I couldn’t look at him. Jennifer says she’s determined to find out who he is. Oh, no doubt.

Drinks delivered, Jennifer reaches for her glass but has to stop to adjust her breasts
, which threaten to pop out of her dress. “Don’t feel bad about not dressing right tonight. You’ll catch on. Entertainers here dress up. I don’t know why. They just do.” She takes a sip of her drink, and then plays with an earring.

“There’s a lot to learn,” I admit. It’s hard to
tell whether she’s trying to make us feel worse or better. It’s time to divert the conversation.

“You’re obviously experienced dancers,” I say, looking at Lily and Jennifer
. “Have you ever danced without your tops like some of the dancers do here?” They look at me with startled expressions. Oops, maybe too nosy. Lily rescues me.

“Well, when I first came to Vegas at
eighteen, I would only do the covered line in a show. Then I found out they paid the dancers more in the so-called ‘nude’ line just for showing their breasts. They’re tasteful about it with the costumes and all. When I waited in the wings in the last show I was in, I covered my chest because you can’t have that part of me anywhere but on stage.” She puts her hands over her breasts for emphasis. “The girls are the same in the nude and covered lines. We don’t separate into good and bad people according to which line we’re in.” She smiles when she says this.

“My parents would kill me if I showed my boobs.” Jennifer stresses this with a particularly strenuous tug on her dress.

“My parents are OK with it,” Lily counters.

“What about you, Rachelle? Would you dance without your top?” It takes me a moment to realize Jennifer’s directing her question to Tink.

“Uh, this friend who’s been helping me says it pays better.” She’s looking at the table the whole time she’s talking. “And like Lily says, there’s no difference between the girls in the nude line and covered line. I suppose I might.” In a hauntingly familiar gesture, she picks up her cocktail napkin and shreds it. I’m struck by how young and vulnerable she looks.

“Savannah?” My hand sideswipes my drink
, nearly knocking it over. Questions make me nervous.

“Oh, well, I guess it ticks me off that guys don’t have to take their pants off to dance. Why should we have to take off our tops?” They burst out laughing at this.

“That attitude is not going to get you anywhere. It used to be, to dance a lead role, you had to take your top off. Not that you would get a lead role, but I’m just saying.”

“Jennifer!” It’s strange to see Lily angry. Her neck gets blotchy and the nostrils of her tiny nose flare.

“Whether or not I get a lead role isn’t the point, Jennifer,” I say, not willing to let it go. “It’s a shame the art form of dance isn’t enough by itself—for a female, anyway—but a partly naked body has to go along to sell it.”

“Oh you poor
baby,” Jennifer croons, condescension dripping from every word, “do you actually think the men come to see an
art form
?” She laughs then and it’s not a pretty sound. “The only
art form
they come to see is a woman’s body.”

“Are you ladies ready to order?”
Good timing
. My face, neck, and chest feel red hot. This girl can make me feel two inches tall in a heartbeat. We all flip open our menus and hastily order: fish for Lily and Jennifer, chicken for Tink and me. We stick to safer topics until the food arrives. It smells so good, I forget my irritation with Jennifer. Rehearsals have made me ravenous and it takes willpower to show restraint and not rip into the chicken like a starving coyote.

The conversation stays mainly on the two older dancers’ experiences in other shows and what we can expect in this one. They talk a little about their backgrounds and families. Jennifer is from New York City and Lily from Torrance, California. I can tell they are both very close with their families. It makes me have a tight feeling in my chest. Tink and I are quiet the whole time they’re talking. I notice that Jennifer and Tink pick at their food. Lily eats with enthusiasm. Suddenly, Lily turns to me.

“What about you guys? What are your families like? Why did you come to Vegas?”

For several beats there’s silence.

“You go ahead,” I say to Tink finally. She looks at me with desperation in her wide, blue eyes and sets down her fork as though she’s lost her appetite.

“No, you,” she pleads.

Big breath in. Blow it out. Might as well get it over with.

“
OK. I’m an army brat. Traveled around a lot. Regular mom and dad. We’re not that close. I’m an only child. When I turned eighteen, I stopped traveling with them and came here to audition. That’s all.” The story sounds rehearsed to my ears, probably because it has been at least fifty times. I’m ready to recite states with military bases, hoping they won’t ask.

“Where are your mom and dad now?” Oh, hell.

“North Carolina.”

“Are they going to visit you soon?” My appetite is long gone, but my fork is in a death grip.

“Maybe at Christmas, depending on finances.” I look down at my plate and start shoveling chicken in my mouth in a determined way. They take the hint and turn their attention to Tink. She looks close to panic.

“What about your family, Rachelle?” She’s gone so white the veins in her temple show blue through her short hair.

“I’m not feeling so good. I think I’d better go to the restroom.” I’m bounding out of my seat before the other two can react and leading an unsteady Tink to the bathroom. I recognize the look of terror on her face. There’s a demon in her past. She can’t face it right now.

We make it to a stall but her dinner comes up before we can get her positioned over the toilet. She spatters vomit on my arm, the wall, the floor
, and the back of the toilet—practically every surface but inside the bowl. She looks utterly miserable and tears run down her face.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She is sitting on the floor
, shaking her head back and forth. I sit next to her and wrap my arms around her waif-like body. “It’s OK. Everything’s all right.” My fingers stroke her temple. She stretches her legs out, puts her head on my chest and allows herself to be comforted. For a long time the only sounds are my murmuring and her soft crying.

Eventually she accepts the toilet paper I offer, sits up, and blows her nose.

“I feel better. Thanks.” She gives me a weak smile. Her color is better, but she’s a mess. Her white-blonde hair is sticking up straight on one side, she has black streaks down her cheeks from mascara, and there are flecks of vomit on her top.

“Let’s clean you up.” I guide her to one of the sinks. A woman in very high heels enters the bathroom and clacks into a stall. The mascara comes off Tink’s face easily with a wet paper towel.

“You know, you don’t have to talk about your past just because people ask you questions about it.” Finished with her face, I wet my fingertips and comb them through her hair. “You can just say there’s bad stuff back there and you don’t feel like talking about it.” The woman in heels has come to a sink to wash her hands. She looks at us and wrinkles her nose.
Yes, you’re right; it smells like puke in here
. She hastily finishes her business and clicks out. Tink has been watching me in the mirror, listening, eyes large and sad. They fill with tears.

“I know. I just feel like I have to tell about myself when everyone else does.”

“You don’t. It’s nobody’s business.” It’s useless to wipe the vomit chunks off the front of her blouse. The stains still show.

“Take your top off.”

“Do I get paid more?”
Good girl! That’s the spirit
.

“Very funny. You stink; give me your top.” I grin at her and she manages to smile through her tears. Soap and hot water get the stains and most of the smell out, but the top is soaked.

“Try drying it under the hand dryer.” Tossing her clothes back to her, I scrub down my arm and take off my own top to work on. She has stopped crying and busies herself with the hand dryer.

“Ti
—um, Rachelle, I’ve been wondering about something.” She looks over at me with an open expression and I’m discouraged to see mascara smeared on her cheeks again from her most recent bout of tears. “You know we were surprised to find out we lived in the same apartment complex? You said a friend found the apartment for you?” She’s putting her semi-dry top over her head and nodding. I’m drying my top and talking loud over the sound. “You also mentioned a friend said nude lines pay more. Who is your friend? I might know him.” Tink looks uncomfortable and hesitates.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. The girl just vomited because people were asking her personal questions. Just shut up.