Page 123 of Igniting Sparks
Great. This is going so well already.
“Traffic. And I only found out about this change thirty seconds ago.”
She rolls her eyes, which is apparently wildly popular on this set. “Whatever.”
I toss down my gear and turn on the music. “Let’s do a run-through before the producer gets here.”
“That’s it. I’m done. I can’t do this, Leo.” I bury my face in my hands as a mixture of despair and exhaustion washes over me.
“Here, have a drink.”
He hands me a glass of wine, and I take a large swallow. “They hate me.”
“They’re testing you—and so am I.” Leo leans back against the couch, completely unbothered by my meltdown. “Right now, they’re kicking your ass.”
“This isn’t a game,” I mutter, taking another swallow.
Leo grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “No, it’s not. It’s actually a really big fucking deal. I just handed you the keys to the kingdom, and you’re crying about it? Give me a break, Mina.”
So much for sympathy.
The rational side of me knows Leo is correct. Hollywood is a cutthroat industry, and dancers are a dime a dozen—along with models, actors, and musicians. There are always a hundred people ready to take your place.
“It feels so disconnected. I know the routine by heart, but it isn’t flowing.”
“Then,” he replies, grabbing his phone to answer yet another call, “make it flow.”
He’s already halfway across the room when he pauses and tosses over his shoulder, “You’re not here to be Frankel. You’re here to be you. So, figure out what only you can bring to the piece.”
I stare at my half-empty wineglass as his words echo in the quiet.
WhoamI?
I don’t know.
Maybe I never did.
Maybe I’ve just been pretending all along.
It’s after ten when I finally get back to my apartment—if you can call it that. The space is barely the size of a closet.
Still, it doesn’t cost me a dime, and it’s in a gorgeous slice of Santa Monica. My goal is to have enough time in the next week to walk on the beach. I’ve only done it once since my arrival, and the waves did wonders for my soul.
Perhaps if things get any worse tomorrow, I can call on the ocean to drown me.
That’s one way to avoid my issues.
Leo has thrown down the gauntlet regarding the video, and I know my future hangs in the balance.
Most people never get a chance like this, and there’s no way he’ll give me another one if I screw up.
I just wish I could pinpoint what’s wrong with the routine. Technically, it’s solid, but even before Frankel’s departure, the dancers were disconnected—moving like robots through the song.
Pulling up the music on my phone, I press play. The song has the standard pop beat, but the lyrics speak to a deep pain, covered by the picture-perfect façade expected by the public.
Jeez, do I know how this woman feels.
I pour a glass of wine and flip through my mail. Junk, junk, oh look, more junk—and then… a large, padded envelope.
