Page 56 of Wicked Dance
Chapter 17
The next few days are a whirlwind. I work out with a dance coach, sometimes alone, sometimes with Blitz. Amara occasionally comes in to supervise.
Jessie follows me around, bringing me meals from the chef, filling my water bottle, and keeping Giselle at bay. For that, I am very grateful.
I have three dances to prepare. The first one will be on episode two, a waltz that expands on what Blitz and I improvised during the finale. Devon says we need to “show our love” since the other girls will have jazzier numbers.
For the “Classic Dance,” we’ll be doing a ballet-styled number with lots of lifts. My coach has me doing tons of abdominal crunches to make sure I have the core strength to hold the poses.
Even though I will probably be eliminated, we’re also working on a number for the third live show, which is the “Sexy Dance.” This will be a straight contemporary dance, which I’m not very well schooled on, but Amara is trying to make sure I can handle the positions if I get that far.
She hasn’t prepared a dance for the final show yet. I’m assuming she will, or maybe we’ll get to the eliminations before she plans that far ahead. I try not to think about the possibility that the home audience will vote me out right away due to my rather mediocre dance skills.
I don’t feel like it will matter. In the end, Blitz and I will be together. After all, I’m the one who goes home with him every night. But it would be nice if the world was behind us.
The best part of the workday is when I get to practice with Blitz. For the past few months, we’ve had fun working out together and dancing on our own. But this is an entirely different level of togetherness. We have coaches, the choreographer, the costume designer, and Devon all watching our every move, preparing us to dance for millions of viewers.
Everything is heightened, each time our eyes meet, his hand on my back, every slide into a position where he lowers me down, his arm bracing me. The music is amazing, and when it all comes together the way it’s supposed to, it’s like magic.
I know he dances with the other girls too. I assume it feels different with them, more like work. But I don’t know. I have to have faith.
Our evenings, of course, are mainly about crawling into bed and trying to sleep enough to feel ready to do it all again the next day.
Shelly was right. We have zero time to look at properties. She rides with us to the studio Friday morning to say that during our one day off on Sunday, she has lined up three places to view in a row.
Blitz and I are tempted to tell her just to pick one, but looking at them together is the right thing to do. The house we choose will be our home, the first place we can call ours. We should do this ourselves.
The property tours become the thing I look forward to. On Sunday morning, we linger in bed because we can. It’s our first morning to snuggle in, not jumping up and preparing for another grueling day.
This room isn’t even close to the size of the suite we had in San Antonio, so only half our stuff came to the hotel, the rest sent on to Blitz’s camera-filled condo. Even so, we are surrounded by luggage and racks and boxes, so there isn’t a lot of room to move around.
Because of the claustrophobic feel of the room, once we are up and about, we leave the hotel to have breakfast before meeting Shelly and the real estate agent who will show us the properties.
Blitz gave Duke the day off, so Blitz himself drives us around in the black SUV. I still don’t have my driver’s permit, and my little convertible was left behind in Texas. That will be something for another day. There’s no way I could manage LA traffic anyway.
Blitz avoids anything trendy, settling on a little diner across the street from an old-school workout place called Buster’s Gym. We have French toast and smoothies, watching the people come in and out of the facility, men and women who all look like they could seriously kick butt.
“I think that famous boxer used to work out there,” Blitz says, stabbing a bite of egg. “The Cure. Cure McClure.”
I catch a drip of syrup before it hits my chin. “I don’t keep up with sports, but there’s a big sign up there for Colt McClure.”
“His son. He has like a billion MMA championships,” Blitz says. “I think I was at some charity event with him last year.” He shrugs and dives back into the decadent breakfast. This is one of the few days we can risk eating like this.
Shelly buzzes us that the agent is at the first place a little early if we want to get a jump start. We figure that’s our cue to quit stuffing ourselves. We pay the check and head on over.
It’s a beautiful February day. We wear sweaters but no jackets. The sun beams down. You can feel spring just around the corner, not that winter ever really took hold. It never does in Southern California.
Sometimes I think I could live here, but then I remember that Gabriella is in Texas, and I can’t let her go. She will grow up, and I want to see what I can of her for as long as possible.
When Blitz pulls up to the first address, I feel shock. It’s outrageous, stretching down the block, at least ten times the size of my parents’ house back home.
“It’s a lot,” I say, peering out the window.
“Yeah, that’s a big place,” Blitz agrees.
We step out and shield our eyes from the sun as the chipper realtor comes over in her stilettos and beige suit.
“Don’t you love it?” she asks, extending a hand. “I’m Tammy.”
