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  “Because they’re at the back of the house. They didn’t decide to come until this afternoon when one of them declared they’d always wanted to see a Broadway show, and they found the TKTS booth in Times Square.”

  “Not bad seats for last minute,” she says admiring the view.

  “There really isn’t a bad seat in the house.” I would know. I’ve sat in most of them over the course of the run this past year. I take a few minutes every night to sit in a different part of the theatre to remind myself of the perspective of the ticket holders from the front row to the last.

  “You’re right about that. Where are these mystery people from?”

  Paige enjoys my prediction game, so I indulge her. “I’d say they were travel agents in town for a conference, but travel agents have most likely already been to New York. This is a group of graphic designers from a tech company in Salt Lake City attending a convention at the Javits Center.”

  “Nice.”

  “One of the woman used to do community theatre in her younger years, so this is her dream to see a show. The others are more inclined to watch football.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “It is. We’re going to have to work a lot harder tonight to win them over. So best bring you’re A game.”

  “Speaking of A games, did you watch Celebrity Dance Off last night?” she asks.

  It’s Paige’s favorite show and she got me hooked on it last season. “Yup. How about that girl from the reality dating show? Molly something.”

  “She was good, but I couldn’t get past her constant hair flipping. I’m rooting for the celebrity chef. Who knew cooks could dance so well? Or look so good!”

  “And that old dude in the sequined cowboy getup,” I laugh.

  “Hank Curdy. He’s a legend,” Paige says.

  Personally I’d never heard of the guy, but I’m also not a fan of country music. “Maybe so but he was terrible. I feel sorry for his partner.”

  “I kind of liked him, but that girl. The one they’re calling America’s Chance to Dance…”

  “Chelsea something. I don’t think bringing in an unknown is going to work even if she is beautiful.” I take a swig from my water bottle.

  “You can tell she has some natural talent, but she looked terrified.”

  “Poor thing. I bet she’s never performed on stage before in her life. If she doesn’t go tonight, then for sure next week.”

  Paige checks the time on her phone. “Speaking of performing, we’d best get back before the ushers open the house doors.”

  We take the steps down to the mezzanine landing and cut through a side hallway that leads to backstage and our dressing rooms. “I’ll meet you at intermission to see who’s voted off.”

  4

  Los Angeles

  Dominic and I are in the first group to learn our fate. We're with two other couples, Hank with his partner Sonya, and Tedrick, the rapper with Daria, a beautiful Brazilian dancer.

  "Try to smile and look pleasant," Dominic says through his teeth.

  "What? Compared to my resting bitch face?" I give him a sardonic smile.

  He laughs. "This process is going to feel like forever, but the elimination music only lasts about 15 seconds."

  Hank winks at me from his spot. I smile in return. Marcus MacIntyre goes through the clips of all our dances and then plays the elimination music that sounds suspiciously like the Jeopardy theme song.

  He announces, "Tedrick and Daria are safe."

  So it's either Hank or I in the bottom three. Can I beat out a friendly 73-year-old geezer? I doubt he cares either way about staying on the show, but I definitely wouldn't want to be here without him.

  "Hank and Sonya are safe!" Marcus calls. "Which leaves Chelsea and Dominic in the bottom three."

  I nod, keeping my fake pleasant smile in place, and two seconds later we're ushered off as the show rolls on.

  The encore dance is performed by early standout, Brady, a handsome chef with his own cooking show and line of cookware. The other teams all go through the eliminations until it's narrowed down to Dominic and me; Molly Gibson, a big-breasted girl famous for being rejected on a reality dating show; and the news guy.

  The audience is packed and it feels like all eyes are lasered on me, judging me, deciding if I'm good enough and popular enough. I tap down my longing to be liked and accepted. This is fine. I don't want to be here with a partner who can't stand me, and I loathe the idea of being publicly humiliated the first week.

  The elimination music plays.

  "The next team to be safe is," Marcus pauses for effect. "Molly & Pavel."

  Dominic's breath goes out of him. His arm is around my waist in an awkward gesture of camaraderie.

  "Have you ever gone out in the first week?" I ask under my breath as we wait under the burning spotlight.

  "Never," he mutters.

  "Sorry."

  "And sadly the couple we must say goodbye to tonight is..."

  The blasted music plays again, going on for an eternity before Marcus finally says, "Grant and Petra."

  * * *

  The shock of the results show still hasn't worn off, but here I am still on the show and trying to learn the tango, which I'm especially bad at, while the cameras wait for me to do something embarrassing.

  "Again," Dominic barks, his patience thinning. This brings me an evil bit of joy after having heard him with Pavel. "This time hold your frame and take each step with snap precision."

  My brain is overloaded and my body quit paying attention ten minutes ago. I give the sequence one more attempt, arching my back, snapping my arms in position, and stomping each step, which makes pain radiate through the broken blisters on my aching feet. I bite back the urge to wince.

  "No, no, no! It has to be sharper, more defined. Like this." He displays the tight sequence with flair and an air of superiority, and he looks perfect doing it. "You're holding back. What's going on?"

  "Nothing," I say tightly, trying to rein in my feelings of embarrassment and disappointment that this experience isn’t what I hoped it would be.

  His eyes focus in on me as if he knows I'm lying. "If this is going to work, you have to trust me and believe that we can do this."

  "You're right. We need to believe in each other." I huff and cross my arms because anger is easier than opening up.

  "Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

  "Nope." I stare back, silently daring him to confess he wants out.

  "Well, there's not much progress we can make if you're going to clam up."

  "Am I not doing everything you've asked? Granted, I'm not the best, but I'm trying. I'm here every day in this dank, moldy studio, working my ass off. My muscles ache and my feet are bleeding. This is me working hard."

  Dominic shakes his head. "I think you've got a whole lot more in there. How about some emotion in the dance, some attitude? You keep giving me a stone-faced reaction. Let your guard down."

  His efforts at pretending to care are pushing me to the brink. Neither one of us wants to be here anymore, but neither has the guts to admit it. I grunt. "I guess that brings us back to the trust issue. Unless I entirely trust someone, I can't let my guard down."

  He says nothing.

  By the time show day rolls around, I'm exhausted from the six hours of rehearsal every day not to mention the various production, marketing, and concept meetings that interrupt and stretch our days longer. We can barely tolerate each other. I'm trussed up in my tango costume, a breath sucking bustier, full skirt, heels and dark makeup feeling more like Vampira than a seductress.

  During dress rehearsal I’m a little disappointed that this is likely my last day on set, but watching Dominic laugh with his friends while I wait on the sidelines for our cue is depressing. I'm back in high school with all its cliques and social positioning.

  We run our tango and it goes pretty well. I try to hold frame like Dominic drilled into me hour after hour for the past week.

&nb
sp; "That wasn't bad," he says. "But you didn’t look at me once. This is an aggressive dance of passion. We need to sell the emotion."

  Is he really going to keep up the false pretenses? "You know. I can learn those steps and wear the costume, but I can't show an emotion with someone who's just counting the hours until he's free."

  He has the nerve to act surprised. "What?"

  I shake my head and walk away. "Never mind."

  "What the hell! You want to explain yourself?" He follows me.

  I really don't, but I'm done pretending. "I know you don't want to be here. It was a colossal mistake to have me on this show."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "How about you stop pretending? You wanted to partner with someone else and when that fell through you were saddled with me."

  He has the decency to look away, guilty as charged.

  "That's fine, but don't expect me to buy this whole, we're buddies, we're friends game you play to the cameras and then switch off when they're gone. I know I'm an embarrassment."

  He rubs his forehead. "You're not."

  "Let's not play games. I'll try not to embarrass you, and you can stop pretending this is something it's not. I'm sure it will be over soon."

  "If that's what you think, then I'm sure it will be, but you aren't an embarrassment, and I'm offended you'd say that."

  "Whatever."

  I hide out in my trailer with a bag of chocolate chips and a jar of Skippy, paging through entertainment magazines. One features a full spread on the show and runs odds on who might win. No surprise, Dominic and I are at the bottom, a long shot at best.

  We avoid each other until show time and don't speak until we're in the wings waiting for our cue. But while Dominic and I don't see eye to eye on much, we are united in not wanting to embarrass ourselves on national TV. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt, but the satiny fabric isn't conducive to absorbing my nerves.

  "Just remember your frame. You know the dance inside and out, so relax and enjoy it. You're gonna nail this."

  I huff. "Seriously? After all your criticism and bullying, now you believe in me?"

  Host Marcus MacIntyre introduces our video package. We take our places on the dance floor as the video shows several of our arguments from the week before. I watch the screen and cringe as Dominic chastises me for not trying hard enough, and me acting flippant and bitchy. I look haggard wearing minimal makeup and with my not-totally-clean blond hair shoved in a knot on my head, but Dominic looks professional and camera ready, other than the constant glare of contempt on his face. I glance at him and he seems just as irritated that the producers chose to show our low points.

  I stare at the floor and try to drown out the noise. I hear Anna's voice in my head. One thing at a time. All I need to do is get through this dance.

  Dominic gives me the cue and we take our position. The intro sounds and we perform the rhythmic steps around the dance floor. I focus on each move, completing it with as much precision as I can muster with my feet in agony beneath broken blisters.

  We glide through the intricate steps, all while I avoid Dominic's eyes. When the performance ends we're heaving to catch our breath. I sneak a guarded look. Dominic gives me a curt nod and we take our place before the judges, hands at our sides. The few inches between us might as well be miles.

  "Well," Nikki LaFlash says. "That was one of the most unemotional dances I've ever seen. It's as if you were both on robotic auto control. Where was the partner interaction? You two might as well been on different planets."

  But I got all the steps right. I'm sure of it.

  Judge Stephen Harris says, "After seeing your package, it's no surprise you delivered such a lackluster performance. The tango is supposed to be about passion and chemistry. Instead you were side by side performing rote."

  We take the beating like guilty children.

  Brice Zimmer says, "It's clear Chelsea has natural talent, but her heart isn't in it. You two are so busy butting heads that you're missing out. If you make it through, which is unlikely after that performance, the only way you'll continue on is if you start working together."

  Dismissed, we trudge our way across the dance floor to receive our scores. When I pass Hank, he says under his breath. "Screw 'em, hon." Which coaxes a smile out of me.

  Julie Mason, the other announcer, on towering heels with overdrawn lips, pokes her microphone in my face. "Why aren't you and Dominic getting along?"

  I stare at the microphone and then at the camera with its nasty little red light. "That's an excellent question, Julie," I say in my best faux media voice. When I refuse to say more, she moves on.

  "Dominic, do you think bringing in a non celebrity is a mistake?"

  My mouth drops open at her gall. Of course it was a mistake, but does she have to point it out to the world? I came into this with such high hopes that it would be a blast.

  Dominic smiles and says in his silky television tone, "Not at all, Julie. It's a lot of pressure to be on this show, and sometimes fatigue gets in the way."

  She cocks her head. "You're saying that being tired has kept you from developing chemistry with your partner?"

  It's all I can do not to cross my arms and hitch my hip. I'd love to tell her where she can shove that microphone.

  "Chelsea's a terrific dancer and we hope to be here next week," he lies. I fight back my snort.

  "Let's take a look at your scores and see."

  The scores come in as all sixes and every last shred of self-confidence I had goes up in smoke. These scores are way worse than last week's sevens.

  Her mic appears in my face again. "How do you feel about the scores?"

  I raise my eyebrows. "Honestly, it's humiliating."

  "There you have it," she trills into the camera. "If you want to see Chelsea and Dominic next week, they really need your help."

  "That's an understatement," I mutter as we make our way back to the dance floor and line up with the rest of the cast for the final wave off as the summary reel of each team's dance plays.

  "Did you really have to say that?" Dominic says through his teeth behind me.

  "What did you want me to do, lie?"

  "It's television, not a police interrogation."

  "Sorry, but lying doesn't roll off my lips like it does for you." The finale ends and the house lights come up. People begin to mill out of their seats.

  "What the hell does that mean?" Dominic asks, reigning in his anger. The producers direct the dancers to their spots for the media rounds.

  "Don't insult me by playing dumb," I say as Hank walks up.

  Dominic shakes his head. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."

  "How about how you hate being saddled with a nobody like me. That you deserved an A lister and I should go back to the farm where I belong?"

  He has the decency to cringe. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

  "So don't look me in the eye and give me that load of bull. I'm sure I'll be out of here by tomorrow night and you can get on with your life." I spin on my heel to leave. "Sorry Hank. I'm not usually so rude."

  "Nice to see you have some fireworks in you, Sparky," he says with a chuckle.

  "Chelsea, we have post interviews," Dominic calls after me.

  "Remember, I don't have a clue on how to talk to the media. You handle it." I storm off as gracefully as I can in my torturous heels.

  The next day Dominic and I come to the unspoken agreement not to speak unless we absolutely have to. Our scores were the lowest of the night and I'm the least popular person on the show. We'll be booted off, and other than a red-eye flight to New York to make our walk of shame appearance on the national morning show, it'll be over.

  I wander over to Hank's trailer to say my goodbyes. He's stretched out in his lawn chair holding court with his bottle of bourbon.

  "There you are. I missed you last night at the party." He takes a tumbler and pours me a finger of amber liquid.

  "I'd reached my
quota of Celebrity Dance Off drama for one day." I take a seat on the steps to his trailer. I spent my night alone with a bottle of pre-mixed margaritas, a bag of tortilla chips, and a tub of guac.

  "You must have a low tolerance because I usually hit it by noon." He tilts his head toward the ear-splitting rant from two trailers down. "Miss Capri is a difficult woman to satisfy. Yesterday it was the wrong flavor of vitamin water. I haven't ciphered out what today's hissy fit is about."

  I sip the pungent liquid, letting the burn soothe my jumbled nerves. "I wish I had the guts to throw a temper tantrum. When I get the slightest bit frustrated, the cameras are all over me, making me look like a whiney child."

  "Is that what's got you down?"

  I swirl the bourbon in my plastic tumbler. The strong taste is growing on me. "Nah. I just wanted to stop by and say it's been nice getting to know you."

  He nods, drumming his fingers on his lawn chair. "You know, it's possible it could be me tonight."

  "No! You're the entertaining grandpa figure that everyone wishes they had."

  "More like the crazy uncle everyone avoids at family gatherings." He winks. "You're much too nice a girl to get caught up with this bunch anyway. What'll you do when you go home?"

  "That's a good question. I came here to jump start my life. Instead I think I just derailed it more. I don't want my old job back, and I have no idea what to do next." The idea of another job in a stuffy office with a bunch of conservative suits stifles my breathing.

  "No handsome young fella to sweep you off your feet?" He studies me over the top of his bifocals.

  "Nah. I'm not too lucky in love either."

  "A pretty thing like you? If I were forty years younger, I'd take you for a spin around the dance floor myself."

  I grin. "I bet you were a handful in your twenties."

  "And a half," he chuckles with a mischievous glint in his eye.

  When we line up backstage for the results show, Candace Capri is arguing with the head producer. The show starts and she's still deep in meltdown mania with her arms flapping and voice raised. The show goes on and as predicted Dominic and I are in the bottom three. He clips me a resigned nod. Hank isn't in the reject group with us. Instead it's Haley, the model, and Dalton, the body builder.