Page 25 of Wicked Dance
Chapter 8
When we land in Texas and turn our phones back on, Blitz’s notifications go berserk. Everybody wants to talk to him about the Twitter trend, the possibility of letting me and the three finalists do a dance-off. All the entertainment shows, the big websites, several newspapers, and at least three network news reporters have inquired.
Blitz quits looking at them after we get off the plane, but I take his phone and continue to scroll through as we walk through the airport. Two girls notice him as we head toward the exit, but they are quiet and easily placated with a quick signature on their arms. I’m grateful there isn’t a mob and a thousand questions about the rematch.
Ted picks us up, and I’m glad to see him. Duke was nice, but I’m not sure I trust him. Blitz is subdued, and nobody talks as we drive back to the hotel.
Blitz’s bad mood doesn’t lift even when we’re inside our suite, the city lights of San Antonio twinkling outside the huge windows. I’m not sure what to do to help him.
He sits on the floor by the windows, looking out. I curl up next to him, my head on his shoulder.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a while, then finally says, “I’m worried about what the show will do to you.”
I sit up. “Me? Why are you worried about me?”
“Taya already talked about your dance skills. It’s brutal out there, Livia. People are damn cruel. They’ll pick apart your hair, your body, your dance, what you eat, what you say, where you come from. And they wonder why Hollywood is notorious for its addicts and suicides.”
I lean my head on his shoulder again. I’m not sure what to say. I’d like to think that after years of feeling nothing but shame and self-misery, inflicted by my own father, I would hold up to any fire.
But maybe I’m not strong. Maybe years of solitude and guilt would only make me more vulnerable than most. My wounds might open easily, and I don’t have a big support network to catch me. My family isn’t speaking to me. I was homeschooled throughout high school, so I don’t have a friend network. My best friend’s family blocked my number so I can’t reach her.
But I do have Bennett in my corner. And his wife Juliet. And Dreamcatcher Dance Academy. Danika. Betsy. Aurora. Suze.
“I’ll just have to get better,” I say. “Maybe double up. Dreamcatcher and Jenica’s.” My voice almost falters, just saying it out loud. Our one experience at Jenica’s Dancery was intense and scared the crap out of me. But I’d do it. For Blitz.
Blitz slides his arm around me. “You amaze me every day, Livia. There is nothing you won’t try.”
“For us,” I say. “I wouldn’t do jack diddly for Hannah.”
He laughs. “You might need your own manager in the end.”
The room is quiet, although from across the room I can hear the new notification I set up on my phone for #DanceBlitzRematch. Every few seconds, there’s another soft ping, another person agreeing that this is what they want to see. Another piece of evidence to the producers about the way the show should go.
~*´`*~
The next day we take Blitz’s red Ferrari out to a dance shop in a quiet part of town to pick up red sparkle sticks for the wheelchair ballerinas.
It’s Sunday, and the city is already preparing for spring, because Texas doesn’t have much of a winter. Along the streets,piñatavendors hang their oversized Tweety Birds and princesses out on porches. Men push metal freezer carts full of ice cream and cups of frozen fruit.
I love these parts of San Antonio because I never saw them before Blitz. He knows all themercados, big and small, the tinytaqueriaswith the best tamales, and where to find flamboyant tights you can’t find in normal shops.
We generally don’t have to worry about fan sightings or getting mobbed by crazy girls in these places. Everyone is friendly, and even if they recognize Blitz, nobody asks for more than a handshake and a smile.
In general, the car attracts more attention than we do. Several men line up to run their hands along the Ferrari’s hood as we park on the street in front of a low-key dance store that doubles as a place to buy dresses and accessories for a girl’squinceañera.
Blitz gives the men a nod and leads me up the wood steps to the shop, which is a converted house nestled in the middle of a neighborhood.
Dresses with miles of ruffles hang over the porch. Inside the door are glass cases full of lacy accessories and guest books and pillows.
“I guess there isn’t an equivalent of aquinceañerafor boys?” I ask, fingering another dress that is an explosion of tulle and netting, like a wedding dress, only in pink.
“Fifteen-year-old boys do not want a fancy party,” Blitz says, scanning the place. “It’s bad enough having to go to the girls’. Dance stuff over here.”
I linger on the dresses. Gabriella doesn’t have any sort of Mexican heritage, but I picture her in one of the dresses anyway, her long black hair flowing down.
Then I realize in my image of her, she is standing up, and I shake it from my thoughts. I’ve never known exactly what happened during the car accident that killed her adopted father and injured her, but I know it was bad. I saw pictures of her in the hospital on Facebook. They were dark days, ones I could not see her through.
