Page 27 of Wicked Dance
I pause to knock. “Blitz?” I ask and wait. No answer. Was there another way back? I glance around.
Then I realize — phone. I text him a quick note.
We’ve been sighted. Mob descending.
Within seconds, a door I didn’t notice, tucked in a corner behind a rack, pops open.
Blitz storms out empty-handed and pulls on my arm. “The owner did it,” he says. “I caught her sending out a picture.”
He pulls me to the front door.
As soon as we step out, dozens of cell phones lift into the air.
“Great, just great,” Blitz says. He plasters on a smile and waves.
We try to head straight for the car, but the crowd surges forward.
“This is nuts,” I say as we push through. “How did so many get here so quick?”
“She sent out a Tweet before we even got on the porch,” he says, opening my door, waving at everybody, but firmly keeping them back.
The first girl shouts, “Blitz, I love you!” and then the noise just erupts. They wave paper, pens, notebooks, phones. Blitz manages to shut my door, but he’s completely trapped trying to get around to his side.
He signs a few things, still trying to smile, and attempts to walk forward.
But the girls are aggressive. One of them starts shouting, “Rematch, rematch!” and the whole group takes up the chant. From my spot inside the car, I can see at least five live Facebook feeds are broadcasting them.
I’m about to open my door and scream at the lot of them when a couple of the men who had been looking at the Ferrari take charge and start pushing them back.
Blitz manages to go around the front of the car and get to the opposite door.
Then he’s in.
“I guess we’re not going anywhere else public for a while,” Blitz says as he starts the car. When the engine rumbles, the crowd steps back.
“This wasn’t happening before,” I say. “We’ve been going to restaurants and shopping for clothes, and we haven’t had more than a few passersby stop and chat or ask for a picture.”
“It’s got to be the finalists,” Blitz says, dropping the car into gear. A couple girls try to get in front of us, but the men pull them back so he can get a clear path out onto the street.
“What are they up to?”
“They must have social media people scouring for mentions and blowing them up.”
I open my phone again. I check for #BurnBlitzBurn but there isn’t much there. The #BlitzSighting is huge right now, but I go back and back through time until I spot older mentions of his whereabouts to see if I can connect any dots.
Then I see it. A Twitter profile called “DanceBlitzRematch” has been promoting Tweets that show our current location. It has maps and even offers prizes, free DVDs and T-shirts, to people who post live updates if they see him and start the “rematch” chant. It is only two days old and already has half a million followers.
I lean my head back against the headrest.
“I’m guessing you found the source,” he says.
“Who does your social media?” I ask.
“There’s several of them,” Blitz says, eyes on the road as he carefully eases away from the crowd.
“They’ve got a whole account set up to promote the rematch,” I tell him. “They are offering incentives to fans to start the chants anywhere they can spot us.”
Blitz slams his hand on the steering wheel. “They just won’t let up, will they?”
