Sasha: Book One Page 7

  Chapter 6

  Rory didn’t show in the practice room the following day. Nor did Xenia. I had back-to-back privates with Cheryl and Luna. The two arrived together, all giggles.

  “Ready?” I called out to Cheryl, trying to sound enthusiastic. She sautéed over, while Luna took a practice space in the larger rehearsal area.

  Cheryl and I worked on preparing her rumba routine for the O.C. competition. I taught her the basic again, as she’d already forgotten. I showed her each pre-bronze-level step and put them together into a little routine. Nothing fancy, just one step right after the other. That’s all the judges were looking for at this level, along with solid understanding of basic technique. Which wasn’t going to happen. She kept pawing me, and giggling over my accent and correcting my grammar. I kept trying to get her to concentrate. Alessandra peeked in a few times, as she often did. She’d always told me the primary goal with these women, the unserious ones, was just to let them have fun. This wasn’t a job for them, it was a hobby; don’t be too hard. I knew that, but it was still difficult for me. It was my nature to be serious about dance.

  “I learn better by dancing with you,” Cheryl whined when I asked her to repeat the basic step of each dance while moving side-by-side, looking at ourselves in the mirror—the best way to teach technique. But the second Cheryl and I were in basic handhold, most of my time was spent reminding her not to grip and claw. It was as if she was hanging on to me for dear life, terrified to let go.

  “Why don’t you close your eyes so you can feel the music more,” I suggested the fifth or so time she stepped between the beats and stabbed my toe with her too-high-for-practice heel.

  “I can’t close my eyes!” she shrieked.

  I moved my head back. I could actually feel my eardrums vibrate. “Why not?”

  “Because then I wouldn’t be able to see your beautiful face,” she said with a smile that was meant to be angelic but came across the exact opposite. Thank goodness for Alessandra’s non-fraternizing policy.

  Cheryl took Luna’s place in the main practice room while I gave Luna her lesson. At least Luna didn’t claw me, and she was a slightly better student, though she seemed to care more about looking good in her costume than displaying solid technique. Her movement quality was okay, particularly for someone without a dance background. She’d been my student for a little over a year and I’d have preferred for her to compete at lower levels, but she insisted on the highest, open gold. It was ultimately up to the student; they were the ones spending the money. And, since the judges gave her decent scores, she felt she was competing at the proper level.

  “I’ve been thinking about my costume,” she said.

  Of course, what else is new, I felt like saying but didn’t. Instead I merely nodded. “And?”

  “It’s going to be deep purple with mesh cut-outs on the sides, high cut on the legs, but long fringe all across the bikini area and the chest so it really shimmies when I move.” She shook her chest at this.

  “Sounds good.” I nodded. I wasn’t a fan of long fringe because it only accented any problems, but I’d done enough competitions with Luna to know that she didn’t care what I thought. But I wasn’t expecting what came next.

  “I want you to wear a purple vest made entirely of fringe. So we match.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I want the design to match as well this time. I want to look like a proper couple.”

  We weren’t a “proper couple.” We were a pro/am, student/teacher pair.

  “Luna, I have three students competing. Fringe is going to clash with their costumes.”

  “Obviously, you’ll have to change back into your black top between competitions,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  She was right; it just meant extra time spent changing for me, and renting a room. And…oh yes, looking like an idiot in purple fringe.

  It was never any use fighting Luna. Fighting with her meant fighting with Alessandra. And I chose my battles carefully with her. This one wasn’t necessary.

  “I have your measurements, and I’ve already ordered it. It will be ready for you at the next rehearsal.” She lifted her head, tossed her hair back, and flew out of the room, where Cheryl joined her, their giggling promptly resuming.

  I waited half an hour for Xenia before giving up.

  Truth be told, I was also waiting for Rory to show up for her own practice. I was probably waiting more for her than for Xenia. I knew she had a mambo class tonight.

  I wasn’t accomplishing much practicing without Xenia so I decided to take a peek at the mambo party to see if Rory was there. As I approached the door, I heard the raucous pump of the beat flowing through the walls. I could also hear laughter and cheers. It sounded more like a performance.

  I peeked in. It was a performance. My lovely Rory, and Pepe, the mambo teacher, were in the center of the room. He was going at the speed of light, and was doing all kinds of crazy tricks with her. A lot crazier than the ones I’d tried. And she was keeping up. He spun her around so fast she was a blur. He took her down lightning fast into a dip, then had her up in a nanosecond, doing high-charged basics. As the music came to an end, he yelled “Fish dive” at her. He wanted to do a lift. She looked shocked but excited, thrilled even. She jumped into his arms, he tossed her around, swung her down, head close to the ground, feet high in the air behind her. He lunged and made her legs go up even higher. The look in her eyes was a combination of euphoria, intense concentration, and excited fear. A combination of sensations I thrived on. It was the way you felt when you were on a dance high, when adrenaline was shooting through every vein, filling every pore.

  The students jumped up and down as they clapped.

  Pepe let her down. She faced her audience, and, following his lead, took a blushing bow. Then, she turned her beautiful face ever so slightly to the side of the room, where I was standing. No one else was there but me. It was as if she sensed me, the way I often sensed her. I shot out the door, feeling like a peeping Tom.

  I fled down the stairs, out the front door, and escalatored down to the parking lot. All on a total high. I couldn’t get that look in her eye out of my mind. That look of sheer elation. Pepe was gay, so there was nothing more between them than student and teacher. But I couldn’t help but be jealous. I wanted to give her that feeling of euphoria. I’d come close the night before, until Xenia and Bronislava ruined it. I needed to fix it.

  Chapter 7

  When I got into my car, I saw I had a text from Xenia. With my thoughts on Rory, I’d almost forgotten she’d skipped out on me tonight.

  We have to talk.

  I knew this was the end.

  We agreed to meet at a dive bar up the street from her. It ended up being one of the nicest, least volatile conversations I’d had with her. There was a lot of crying, on her part. I felt sad internally but didn’t let it show too much. I’m not into outward shows of emotions. Unless I’m dancing, of course. We’d been together a long time. She was my primary connection to Russia, in my new home here. In a way, she was Russia to me. She was everything I’d come from. We’d gone from Moscow to London to New York to Hollywood together. She was a huge part of my artistic trajectory. She’d helped make me into who I’d become at this moment. She’d helped propel me to national champion. And I’d helped her. We’d shared our dreams. For a time. That time was now over. She’d always be a part of me, but she’d never share my soul.

  “I don’t think you’ll ever be truly content, Sasha,” she said, resting her hand gently on mine. “That’s the problem for me.” Her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “I want to get married. I want to wear a gorgeous dress, feel beautiful, feel happiness, just…just be. I can’t do that with you. With you I’m never enough. You exhaust me.” She lay her head on my shoulder.

  “I know.” I patted her hair. It had been peroxided so many times it felt brittle. I rubbed her back.

  We sat like that for another hour. Just embracing. Not talking. This wa
s the best I could ask for from her. A congenial, graceful parting. We agreed to fulfill the Japanese performance contracts we’d already signed. But we’d both look for new partners.

  “It just takes so much out of me, Sasha. Your drive. Your never-ending quest for perfection,” she said as her hand caressed mine.

  She was right. I knew I was difficult. I was hard on her. If she was going to focus on her personal life, she needed a partner who wasn’t so demanding professionally.

  “I hope you get everything you want out of life, Xenia,” I said to her, kissing the crown of her head.

  “I hope the same for you.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  As I showered that night, my thoughts veered between memories of Xenia, and brainstorming possible new partnerships. I’d already asked Greta to organize some tryouts. I’d remembered hearing the world junior champion was nearing twenty-one, at which point she might be looking for a new partner. And that the amateur champion might become pro. I searched my brain for more possibilities. But when I got out of the shower and sat down at my computer to do a search, I found myself typing the name “Rory Laudner.” Of course she wasn’t at the level to become pro. Someday perhaps. Likely. Very likely. Not now. But I was curious.

  I found her lovely headshot smiling back at me on the website of the firm Vanderson, Rickels & Edelstein, in downtown L.A. Her real name was Aurora Laudner and she was an associate attorney there. According to her bio she’d graduated from Hastings Law School in San Francisco last May. She was originally from a town called Mebane in North Carolina and had gone to college at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I also looked up “James Prescott.” He was a senior associate at his Beverly Hills firm, and had gone to Stanford for both law school and college. I couldn’t find anything about Rory’s dance background. She looked so professional in her headshot, wearing a black suit and a slight Mona Lisa smile, her hair pulled back into a twist and a narrow strand of small pearls adorning her lovely neck. She looked very hard-working. And she’d have to be. No, a partnership with a lawyer would definitely never work. Not that I was remotely thinking about it.

  Greta put out a call for tryouts. She was a former champion. Not just a champion but a ten-time world champ. She and her former partner were legends. They’d retired several years ago, and when they did so, left the championship wide open. Micaela, my pre-Xenia partner, with whom I’d won the junior world championships years ago, and her partner, Jonathan, were currently in first place. But everyone knew they weren’t Greta and Dean. They could easily be unseated.

  And I was going to unseat them. With Greta’s help of course, in finding Ms. Right.

  The response was overwhelming. As Greta and I both knew it would be. Not to sound obnoxious. I’d worked hard to get where I was. I was already the national U.S. champion, second in the world. Whomever I chose would likely become the same. Partnering with me was a first-class ticket on a high-speed jet to the top.

  I had four tryouts the first day. I was correct about the newly crowned amateur champion wanting to advance to the pros, and about the world junior champion who’d just turned twenty-one and was ready for the adult division. I also had an appointment with the world rising star champion and a former national champion whose partner had just retired.

  But the day was a waste. I knew with each right away she wouldn’t work. None of them were at the level I was, and I feared it would take too long for them to get there. Out of that fear, I’d probably be even harder on them than I had on Xenia. And none of them would be able to take it. I could tell by their delicate hands, and their even more fragile senses of self.

  I had my last of the tryouts for the day right after my lesson with Cheryl.

  “Word has it you and Xenia broke up?” she said with a lascivious raise of her eyebrows. Luna must have found out and told her. This place was gossip central, at least among certain of the clientele.

  “Yes, that is correct.” I nodded. This caused her to burst out in laughter again at my formal way of speaking. “Why do you ask?” I said with a shrug, indicating I no longer cared about her ridiculing. I was too concerned now about finding a partner in time for Blackpool.

  After several beats, she stopped cracking herself up. “How are you going to find a new one?”

  “There’s a procedure my coach and I abide by,” I said, then immediately instructed her on one of the many steps she was getting completely wrong. I didn’t want to get into the system of tryouts with her.

  “What procedure?” she asked.

  I sighed. Did she have to be so nosy? Did she care at all about her own dancing? “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your concern.”

  She stopped moving and lifted both eyebrows. Maybe my wording was a tad too harsh.

  “Just let me worry about that, please. When we’re together, you and I need to focus on getting this right so we can really nail it in Irvine.” I hoped this made it better. Instead she burst out laughing again.

  “‘Nail it!’ You’re trying so hard to be a ‘real American,’ Sasha. Where’d you learn that?” Her laughter now sounded like a witch’s cackle.

  “I honestly don’t remember,” I said. Then, “Come on, let’s try another cucaracha.” It was such a struggle to get this woman to learn.

  As she left, she passed by my final tryout of the night, the former champion whose partner had retired. Cheryl gave her a glaring complete up-and-down. The girl looked at her in disbelief, then me.

  I shook my head and smiled in apology.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been at this a long time. I know all the types,” she said with a snarky laugh and toss of her carrot-red bob. The snarky laugh didn’t sit right with me, and right away I didn’t like her. I desperately needed my female students and pro partners to stop competing with and being so bitchy to each other. Several of my advanced female students had had a thing with Xenia. The cattiness, which I was always in the middle of, was tiresome and completely unproductive.

  It was then that I spotted Rory. Her eyes connected with mine right as she entered the room. Unlike Cheryl, she didn’t even glance at my tryout. Her eyes were only on me. Very briefly, of course. The second she caught my gaze, she turned away, walked quickly to her practice area, set her bag down, and took her place before the mirror.

  “Sasha? Earth to Sasha?” This was Greta, snapping her fingers at me from the back of the room. I turned to her. “We don’t have all night,” she said, eyes darting back and forth between me and Rory. My new tryout followed Greta’s gaze, and squinted at Rory. I could see the jealous gleam in her eye. This definitely wasn’t going to work.

  Greta turned the music on and we took position and began a rumba. Everything was all wrong. Our connection was forced, not natural; she was stiff and was anticipating my lead and anticipating wrongly, as most back-leaders do. But mostly, she kept looking at Rory, even though I wasn’t. At least not consciously. I ended the tryout early. Why waste each other’s time? She was pissed, grabbed her bag with a harrumph and stomped out.

  She opened the back door with such gusto, such overt anger, everyone looked. Including Rory. Though she didn’t turn her head. I caught her gaze in the mirror.

  “Everyone is so interested in who Sasha is going to choose as his new lady,” Greta said to me, sauntering up behind me, placing her lotioned hand on my shoulder. “You know, Sasha, this girl wasn’t that bad. You didn’t even give her a chance. You want to tell me what’s going on?” Greta’s voice was like a fine wine, aged to perfection. She knew me inside and out. And there was no one alive on this earth who knew more about the world of competition ballroom.

  I shook my head, without turning toward her. “I just…wasn’t in to her. I just knew she wasn’t right.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, dubiousness lacing her voice. “After five minutes?”

  “It was more than five min—” I began. But she interrupted me.

  “Who is this?” She rested her chin on my shoulder. I could see her eyes
in the mirror all the way across the room. She was looking at Rory.

  I turned to her and shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ha!” She laughed. Loud enough for Rory to hear. And she did; I caught her gaze in the mirror when I glanced back. “Seriously,” Greta said, more quietly. “Who is she? She’s good. Not very advanced, but she’s good. She’s a natural.”

  “You can tell that?” I felt myself getting excited, like a schoolboy. As I said, Greta knew everything.

  She laughed again, reading my thoughts. “Of course I can. And so can you. Whenever she’s been in this room, whether you’re practicing with Xenia or doing a tryout, your attention is constantly on her. You were right to notice her. To, however unconsciously it was, direct my attention to her. Everyone’s attention to her,” she said with a laugh.

  I frowned. “How did I do that? I didn’t say anything.”

  At this her laugh turned into a guffaw. “You didn’t need to! Everyone’s eyes are on you all the time. Which means that everyone’s eyes are on whoever your eyes are on!”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “It’s true and you know it,” she insisted.

  I sighed, and turned back to Rory.

  “We can shape it, you know,” she said, wrapping her fingers around my shoulders.

  “What?”

  “The raw talent of that one. I predict she’ll be a contender in no time.”

  I immediately shook my head. “No. She’s too new. Even if we could train her in time, no one knows who she is.”

  “All the better. She’s a fresh face. And, now with the new rules, a new set of judges, who cares that she’s an unknown?”

  She had a point. I’d momentarily forgotten they’d just changed the rules in the international competitions. Judges had mainly consisted of coaches. Obviously, if you’re a judge, you’re going to choose as the winner the couple who pays you to train them. It had become more a game of which pairs were the most connected. Dancers felt it was rigged, and the growing sense of unfairness led organizers to prevent coaches or anyone with any stake in the outcome to judge. Meaning there was to be a whole new panel.