Red curtains frame a large stage. A huge banner hangs high above the dance floor; it reads dance away depression. We try to register at a desk, and it becomes obvious that we are the first contestants to show up, because the fat woman who is in charge of registration says, “Registration is not for another hour.”
We sit down in the last row of seats. I look around. A huge chandelier dangles above us, and the ceiling is not just a regular ceiling, but has all sorts of plaster flowers and angels and other fancy things sticking out of it. Tiffany is nervous. She keeps cracking her knuckles. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“Please don’t talk to me before the performance. It’s bad luck.”
So I sit there and start to get nervous myself, especially since I have a lot more riding on this competition than Tiffany does, and she is obviously rattled. I try not to think about losing my chance to send Nikki a letter, but of course this is all I can think about.
When other contestants begin to arrive, I notice that most of them look like high school students, and I think this is strange, but I do not say anything—mostly because I am not allowed to talk to Tiffany.
We register, give our music to the sound guy, who remembers Tiffany from last year, I know, because he says, “You again?” After Tiffany nods, we are backstage, changing. Thankfully, I’m able to slip into my tights before any of the other contestants make it backstage.
In the far corner, I’m minding my own business, sitting with Tiffany, when an ugly woman waddles over and says to Tiffany, “I know you dancers are pretty liberal about your bodies. But do you really expect me to allow my teenage daughter to change in front of this half-naked man?”
Tiffany is really nervous now. I know because she does not curse out this ugly woman, who reminds me of the nurses in the bad place, especially since she is so out of shape and has a poofy old-lady haircut.
“Well?” the mom says.
I see a storage closet on the other side of the room. “How about I go in there while everyone else changes?”
“Fine with me,” the woman says.
Tiffany and I enter the supply closet, which is full of abandoned costumes from what must have been a children’s show—all sorts of pajama-looking suits that would make me look like a lion or a tiger or a zebra if I put one on. A dusty box of percussion instruments—tambourines, triangles, cymbals, and wooden sticks you bang together—reminds me of the music room in the bad place and music relaxation class, which I attended until I was kicked out. And then I have this terrifying thought: What if one of the other contestants is dancing to a Kenny G song?
“You need to find out what songs the other dancers are performing to,” I tell Tiffany.
“I told you not to talk to me before the performance.”
“Just find out whether anyone is dancing to any songs played by a smooth jazz performer whose initials are K.G.”
After a second she says, “Kenny—”
I close my eyes, hum a single note, and silently count to ten, blanking my mind.
“Jesus Christ,” Tiffany says, but then stands and leaves the closet.
Ten minutes later she returns. “No music by that person,” Tiffany says, and then sits down.
“Are you sure?”
“I said no Kenny G.”
I close my eyes, hum a single note, and silently count to ten, blanking my mind.
We hear a knock, and when Tiffany opens the door, I see that many moms are backstage now. The woman who knocked tells Tiffany that all the dancers have checked in and are changed. When I leave the storage closet, I am shocked to see that Tiffany and I are the oldest contestants by at least fifteen years. We are surrounded by teenage girls.
“Don’t let their innocent looks fool you,” Tiffany says. “They’re all little pit vipers—and extraordinarily gifted dancers.”
Before the audience arrives, we are given a chance to practice on the Plaza Hotel stage. We nail our routine perfectly, but most of the other dancers also nail their impressive routines as well, which makes me worry we will not win.
Just before the competition begins, the contestants are brought out before the crowd. When Tiffany and I are announced, we take the stage, wave, and the applause is mild. The lights make it hard to see, but I spot Tiffany’s parents in the front row, seated with little Emily, Ronnie, Veronica, and a middle-aged woman who I guess is Dr. Lily, Tiffany’s therapist, because Tiffany told me that her therapist would be in attendance. I scan the rest of the rows quickly as we walk offstage, but I do not see my mother. No Jake. No Dad. No Cliff. I catch myself feeling sad, even though I did not really expect anyone but Mom to show up. Maybe Mom is out there somewhere, I think, and the thought makes me feel a little better.