“How much money do we need?” he asked, his eyes closed.
“Well,” I said, swallowing. “I’m basing it roughly on what you were paid for Broadway Revisited. If we assume 20 dancers, 12 musicians, six lighting, audio and backstage, two admin at $800 a week, say . . . and you want a month of rehearsal?”
“Minimum.”
“That’s $128,000—plus a couple of thousand for renting rehearsal space. My best guess, $135,000 for the first four weeks of rehearsals.”
“Fuck!”
“And if we assume a theater of 500 seats, $45 per head, 75% capacity—that works out at $16,875 per night. With the theater having 50% of the take and paying salaries for a three-week run . . .” I took a deep breath, wincing as I handed out the news. “We’d have to sell 10,500 tickets to break even.”
Ash stared at me. He looked sick. “Ten thousand?”
I nodded.
He stood up, fisting his hair and pacing the room with long strides.
“Ten thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Pizda!”
“Excuse me?”
“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”
Ash grabbed his coat and stormed out of the apartment.
The truth was, we needed the best part of a quarter of a million dollars to make the show viable.
Ash
I strode down the street, the heat of my anger warming me, even though I could feel the wind biting at my cheeks.
I wasn’t angry with Laney. I saw now why she’d been so worried. I was a fool—an imbecilic na?ve fool. How could I not have understood all this? I’d got everyone’s hopes up for nothing.
And then I thought of Yveta’s face—the flicker of life in her eyes when I’d talked about the show, about taking control of our lives, taking back what had been stolen.
Somehow, somehow I had to find the money.
My footsteps slowed as I squinted up at the sky, but the stars were hidden under heavy clouds that promised more snow, and I could feel the weight of what I was trying to do press down on me.
Laney
Ash returned half an hour later, looking frozen, apologetic, and he wasn’t shouting at me anymore. But he was quiet, and I wondered what he was thinking. His face had settled into a sort of grim determination.
“Laney, does Chicago have a mayor?”
“Yes, why?”
He nodded.
“Good, then we start at the top. Can you make a list of 100 of the most influential people in Chicago: politicians, business, media, Chief of Police—everyone you can think of. We’ll contact them all.”
I blinked, surprised by what he was suggesting. A slow smile crept across my face.
“You’re not giving up.”
He stared grimly. “I can’t.”
The next two weeks were a whirlwind. The article came out and we milked it for all it was worth. Ash turned out to be a natural at schmoozing when he needed to, and soon we had TV and radio stations asking for interviews. Of course, it helped enormously that he was handsome and charismatic.
Money was beginning to trickle in. Not from traditional routes—all those grant applications would take months to secure, and that was just filling in the reams of paperwork. No, the public was funding us directly. Our Go Fund Me account already had nearly $13,000. We had a long way to go, but we were getting there. Ash was making it happen.
One of Angie’s colleagues agreed to donate time to prepare any contracts once we got to that stage, and Dad was setting up a press conference/photo opportunity with the Police Commissioner.
Best of all, my local gym offered Ash, Yveta and Gary free memberships, and use of the dance studio when it wasn’t being used.
Ash said he needed to get in shape. Believe me, I’d been checking, and his shape looked darn good to me. But the offer was a godsend and he spent a lot of hours there doing a combination of yoga, swimming and even weight lifting. That surprised me—I didn’t think dancers wanted bulky muscles.
“I don’t,” he said. “But I use light weights—the idea is to stretch and tone the muscles, not build bulk. For dancers, it’s best to go for more reps and fewer pounds, to build endurance. It’s not really necessary in traditional ballroom, but when you’re training to lift a partner, yeah, it’s useful.”
“Will you be doing a lot of that, lifting, I mean?” I asked, puzzled.
Ash gave me a look I couldn’t interpret and nodded.
Ash
I looked down at Laney, seeing the stress on her face, hating that I was the cause of it. She was in pain again, although she didn’t say much. She’d met me at the dance studio today because I’d been working late with Gary and we were all going to eat after.
I hadn’t shared my ideas for the show, and when we got to really rehearsing—if that ever happened—I’d have to ban her from coming, which would be hard because she wouldn’t understand and I couldn’t explain yet.