Page 15 of Wicked Dance
“Yeah, especially in season one. Two got eliminated over it. Only one girl got a dramatic story line about her stage fright.”
“Yes, I remember. The tall one.”
“Farrah,” Blitz says. “I really felt for her and tried to help her. But something about that camera light turning on would just freak her out.”
“Poor thing.”
Blitz keys in a code on the door and it pops open. “Let’s go in.”
It’s pitch black beyond the door, although when my eyes adjust, I can make out the pale glow of emergency lighting along parts of the floor.
Blitz flips a switch and red light bathes the backstage. I can make out some of the equipment and props, waiting for a season that will never come.
“When will they clear all this out?” I ask.
Blitz shrugs. “I’m guessing we’re about to negotiate someone else taking over. It can be likeTheBachelor, where a new dancer auditions new contestants every season.”
“But you’re the Blitz ofDance Blitz,” I say.
“Maybe they want me to make appearances,” he says. “Based on today, I’m not sure I’m willing to negotiate even that.”
We wander closer to the stage, which is lined with emergency lights, presumably so nobody falls off in the dark. It’s a solid eight-foot drop to the floor if you don’t take the side stairs. The seats for the audience are set on risers.
The stage is completely bare. Blitz changes his grip on my hand and twirls me out. My hair flies as I reach the end of his arm and reverse back up against him.
“It all started right here,” he says.
“The end of the beginning,” I say.
He slips his arm around my waist. “True. We went from secret couple to public spectacle in a single dance.”
We cross to the other side of the stage. I didn’t ever venture this way the night I stormed onto the show. On this side, props are everywhere, stacked tightly against each other. We have to carve a way through them in the near-dark.
I bump against a lamppost. “I remember that one,” I say.
“These are mostly from the finale,” he says. “The crew strikes from this side. People enter from the other.”
We dodge a palm tree and a giant moon. “I don’t remember these,” I say.
“They would have come in for the final dance,” he says. “But it ended up being with you.”
A line of dim floor lights leads us toward a set of enormous double doors.
“This is where the real fun is,” Blitz says and keys in another code.
The lock pops and he pulls on the handle. One side opens and another red light automatically switches on. He turns to me. “This will be a lark.”
His expression is pure mischief. He leads me into the room.
Even bathed in red, it’s astonishing. It’s a storage room, big as a gymnasium, for all the props ever used onDance Blitz.
I let go of his hand. “Oh! There’s the boat from season one!” I turn around. “And the tiki hut from that Polynesian number! I loved that one!”
Blitz laughs. “That was a fun one.”
I rush from one set piece to the next. There’s the shell of a sports car, a motorcycle, two staircases set in clouds, and a partial interior of a malt shop. I sit on a stool and spin around. “Shake, please!” I say.
Blitz runs forward and leaps onto the counter like he did on the show, sliding along its surface to land in front of me. Then he grimaces. “That’s a lot harder to do in jeans,” he says.
