Page 93 of Wicked Dance
Jessie follows as I hurry down the hall. If I see anyone, I might lose my nerve.
The windows to the studios are very small, only six inches wide. I peer in, and catch a glimpse of Blitz and Giselle in the mirror before they are out of range of my limited vision.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
The music is a blues number with a sultry low female voice. Blitz has Giselle bent over his arm and leans over her, his face lowering closer and closer, before she turns him aside in a dramatic rejection.
They’ve had him take off his shirt for this rehearsal, so he wears only the form-fitted dance shorts.
Amara looks up, but doesn’t want to disturb the dance, so she says nothing.
And there is a camera. In the corner, one of the crew members squats down, holding a rig.
Why are they filming Giselle with Blitz but not me?
I swear they want her to win. Maybe she’s made some behind-the-scene deal. Maybe all the voting is just for show, and it doesn’t count.
My stomach turns over.
The dance is arresting. Giselle rolls out of reach and Blitz is on the ground tumbling toward her and bracketing her body with his.
Giselle wears a skin-colored body suit, so when he does this, a quick glance would suggest she is naked. With his bare chest, this footage could look like anything.
I want to go over there, break it up, call everyone out on what they are doing. But I don’t. I just stand there like an ice statue, unmoving, barely breathing.
Giselle’s legs come up and around Blitz’s body, and they roll together this time. Blitz notices me and stops abruptly. Giselle keeps rolling and ends up alone at the end of the mat.
“What the hell?” she says.
“Hey, baby, everything okay?” Blitz asks.
I look at him, and Giselle, then Amara and the camera. “Who decides what is filmed?” I ask. “Who chooses the clips?”
“Devon, honey,” Amara says. “He’s the director. If you feel you’re getting shortchanged, take it up with him.” She walks me to the door. “This session is closed.”
I turn back to Blitz. He’s not happy about Amara escorting me out.
“I’ll come find you as soon as we’re done here,” Blitz says.
But he doesn’t insist on them letting me stay.
I don’t know where to go. I won’t talk to Devon, of course not. But I don’t want to go in my dressing room where there are cameras. Or any room, really. They could be anywhere, waiting to film me looking dejected and angry.
The safest place is the hall. Or maybe the parking lot. I leave Jessie in the viewing room to hang out with the other assistants who are waiting to be called on, and walk outside.
It’s a gorgeous day, typical Southern California, and I just walk and walk. Some of the studio buildings are quiet, and others are bustling with people, crews, vans of equipment, and props moving back and forth.
I wonder if I can go in any of them, but most of them are keyed, like ours, so I doubt I have access. In fact, I can’t even get in ours unless I call Jessie. And she has my phone.
Locked out. It’s fine. I wander some more, sitting for a while on a park bench prop by a couple of fake trees. It’s fun, feeling like I’m in the middle of television magic. People work their whole lives to be exactly where I am, and never get here.
They get injured, like Jessie, or give up or just never get their chance. I need to see the good side of all this. Have fun with it. Blitz and I are secure. I shouldn’t worry about the show. Blitz and I are more than a few dances, bigger than some misleading footage or an audience vote.
I have to have faith.
The giant tower clock on the central building tells me I need to figure out how to get back in the building. Fortunately, the camera crew is packing a van outside the door, and I walk in with them.
Time to do a dress fitting and get my sexy on.
