Page 53 of Wicked Dance
“I remember,” I say. “Where do I need to sign?”
“You want to go over these?” he asks. “They contractually obligate you to do season three ofDance Blitz, five episodes or until you are eliminated from the competition.”
“I know,” I say. “And nothing that happens to me due to the show is part of your liability, et cetera, et cetera.”
He grins at that. “We should review your financial data, when and how you will be paid, residuals, and your points toward sales of subsequent media after the show is over.”
I didn’t realize I would be paid. But of course I would. I’m not married to Blitz. I’m my own person. And I’m working for a show.
“Okay,” I say.
Liam flips through to the last pages. “This is the amount you will make per episode. Here are subsidiary properties, such as media sales, promotional spots, and endorsements related to the franchise. Merchandising is separate, if your likeness is used on things such as lunch boxes or dolls.” His pen touches several charts.
I feel like I can’t be seeing this right. No wonder the finalists fought for this. I wouldn’t make this much money in years and years, no matter what I was qualified to do. I could pay for college.
I could buy my own car. My own house.
I’m too shocked to speak.
“I take it these numbers are adequate for you,” Liam says. “We should get you an agent. I think Bennett has had someone make sure you were part of the appropriate guilds and unions to work. I’ll double-check on that, as we can’t pay you until all that is square.”
“Thank you,” I say and pick up the pen.
“Don’t thank me,” Liam says. “You need someone in your corner looking out for your interests. This is a short-term contract with standard rates and no add-on clauses. Bennett saw to that. But whatever you do next will need an experienced hand.”
I scrawl my name and initial in all the spots he indicates.
“The things I’m doing next won’t require any expertise,” I say. “I’ll teach little ballerinas and keep Blitz out of trouble.”
“That’s a big job for sure,” Liam says. He shakes my hand again. “Now I believe that young woman over there needs you.”
I turn and see the choreographer who was none too pleased to see me at the live finale of the show. She’s willowy, like a dancer, her brown hair pulled up in a tight bun. Her eyebrows are dramatic arches, and one lifts higher than the other as she sees me approaching.
“I’m Amara,” she says. “And you’re still here. That’s something.”
“Hello,” I say uncertainly.
“Blitz is on the set with Mariah right now,” she says. “We’ll do a warm-up in another room, and then I’ll watch the two of you together. I hope you’ve been dancing since the December finale. We need you to be competition ready in three weeks.”
I’m not sure I could be competition ready in a year, but I follow her out of the viewing room and down the hall. We stop a few doors down, past the dressing room. Everything is unlocked today, and Amara leads us into a studio with a mirrored wall. Mats are stacked along the side.
Two other girls are here, chorus dancers, by the looks of them. Their eyes cut at me as we enter, then they return to their stretches.
“Follow my lead,” Amara says. She takes me through a thorough set of warm-ups, enough to make me feel a little fatigued by the time a half hour has passed. Partway through, the other girls leave.
“I won’t be doing this for you every day,” Amara says. “But I’m here now to ensure that you understand the rigor of what you are about to do and to be adequately prepared for each day’s dancing. While you and Blitz are filming your parts of the first show, we’ll also be rehearsing numbers for the live episodes.”
“What if I’m sent home after the first one?” I ask.
“Confident, aren’t you?” Amara’s voice is cutting. “We focus on the next dance, and just prepare the basics for the future. But we have to be ready, as time will fly once all this begins.”
I snatch up my bag as she hurries out of the room. I assume I’m supposed to follow her. This woman doesn’t do anything at a normal pace.
The door bangs my elbow as I simultaneously try to go through it and pull a water bottle out of my bag. Amara turns at the clang and says, “Don’t get injured. We have no protocol for what to do with a hurt finalist.”
I rub my elbow as we head toward the stage doors. They’re propped open today, and I can hear voices and music inside.
Unlike the night of the finale, the backstage area is brightly lit. Quite a lot of people stand around.
