Page 69 of Liar
I stand and straighten the skirt of my new dress then leave the dressing room in search of my dance partner.
Eduardo opens his dressing room door on the second knock, reaches a hand into the hallway, and tugs me inside. “Did anyone see you?” he stammers.
“No.” My eyes go wide in alarm. “What’s going on? Who are you avoiding?”
He shakes his head. “Not me. You.”
“You’re speaking in riddles. Is this about the men who came to the lavandería?”
“My uncle’s here.”
“The used-car salesman?”
Eduardo looks ready to faint.
A knock on the door causes us both to jump. “Five minutes. Please join your partner and make your way backstage.”
“You have so much explaining to do,” I bite out. “But right now—”
“Ay!” he interrupts. “What happened to your face?”
“It’s time.” I ignore his shocked expression and draw in a deep breath. “Can we leave all our problems, all our troubles, all our worries behind in this dressing room? Let’s win this thing, and later, when we’re basking in the glow of our success, we’ll talk?”
“You don’t understand. My uncle—”
“Please.”
He stares at me for what seems like ages. “I’m sorry, Luciana.” He’s on the verge of tears.
Panic struggles to take over. I close my eyes, ignoring the pain my action causes. I think of my mother, the excitement on her face after my first recital, the way she put ointment on my blistered feet, her kisses on my forehead. I think of Diego, his bigger-than-life presence, his pushy manner, his unmistakable love for me. I think about all the moments when life seemed too overwhelming, too heartbreaking, too excruciating to go on, but, nevertheless, I pushed forward, with a strength that came from God knew where.
I summon that strength now. “If we hurry, we have just enough time to practice our jump.” Clasping his hand, I lead him out of the dressing room and down a narrow hallway.
We get into position, and with two minutes before we’re to be called on stage, perform the ten-point with ease and perfection.
This is going to happen.
As the announcer introduces us, out of the corner of my eye I catch Eduardo’s somber expression.
That won’t do.
“Whatever you’ve done,” I offer with a pat on his arm, “I forgive you in advance.”
And then, it’s time.
20
The first twenty seconds onstage are sometimes the most difficult. Begin the Salsa cabaret too early and points are deducted. Hesitate too long and points are lost. Counting down the seconds with laser focus is the best way to start. How you begin sets the tone for the entire performance.
Blame it on my throbbing cheek or my distressed partner sapping the life out of my focus, but I forgot to count.
Our salsa cabarethas the highest difficulty level of all the performances according to the World Salsa Championship rules. Fifty percent of the overall score is a combination of choreography, technique, level of difficulty of tricks, flares, dips, side by sides, and finally, overall presentation. Our shine moments, the solo breakout performances where we can showcase our footwork, are a thing of beauty. The same is true of our choreography.
Our choreography is a story about unrequited love. Eduardo playing the reluctant object of my affection and myself the determined pursuer. Each carefully designed moment adds drama, depth, and a raw honesty to our dance. Of yearning for someone who clearly has no interest in you, told through body and soul.
I feel the pull of it. Me, being the ill-starred object of Eduardo’s desire, Hayden, being the absent object of my own misguided heart.
Dios. How much longer?
