“Sorry,” Riya mutters as she lets go, then notices the forearm crutch the girl is discreetly keeping out of sight. Riya Natrajan’s heart drops as she looks up at the girl’s parents. Their lips put on a smile that doesn’t quite make it up to their eyes.
“It’s okay,” the girl says in a reassuring voice. “It didn’t hurt much.”
Riya Natrajan catches herself staring at the girl, the crutch. She closes her mouth, attempts a smile, then says, “So are you enjoying yourself so far?”
“Are you kidding? I got to meet you!” the girl squeals. “This is the best birthday present ever!” She starts singing “Love on the Rise,” even putting in the little booty shake from the video, but in her excitement, the girl loses her balance. Riya Natrajan reaches out instinctively and catches her.
“Jennie, careful,” her father says, hovering like she’s made from glass.
“Dad!” Jennie says. “I’m not a baby.”
Jennie’s father’s brow drops, reminding Riya of her own father, overprotective, overbearing.
“So you like to dance?” she asks the girl, her voice coming out so syrupy she hardly even recognizes it.
Jennie nods. “I know all your moves.”
“Do you, now? Well, how’d you like to be my honorary backup dancer for the night?”
Her eyes get big as saucers. “You really mean it? I get to dance onstage with you?”
“Dear, that’s not what honorary means. It’s a gesture,” her mother says.
“I don’t see why she couldn’t come up onstage for one song.” Riya Natrajan gives Jennie a wink. “Maybe ‘Love on the Rise’?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” her father says through gritted teeth. He pulls Jennie closer to him. “Ms. Natrajan, we really appreciate your time, but if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be getting to our seats now.”
“But, Dad! Mom?” Jennie says with tears in her eyes.
Her mother keeps her lips pursed, then leans to Riya. “We appreciate it, but Jennie isn’t well enough. She’s got multiple sclerosis,” she whispers, face tight and apologetic.
Riya Natrajan presses her lips together and tries to push away the memories of the endless limitations and boundaries inflicted upon her childhood. She’d lived through this once, and seeing it happen here, right in front of her, is almost unbearable.
“Of course, I understand. But what if I dedicated a song to Jennie and had her up on the stage? A slow song, no dancing.”
“I don’t know,” says Jennie’s father.
“Oh, please, please!” Jennie says. “No dancing, I swear. And I’ll be so, so careful.”
“Maybe next time, Jennie,” her mother says. “When you’re feeling a little better. Now let’s not start crying. Be strong.”
“I’m sorry, Jennie.” Riya Natrajan sighs. She’s only making this worse. “But your parents are right. I’ll keep a spot reserved for you and whenever you’re feeling well enough to dance, we’ll shake some booty together, okay?”
Jennie nods, wipes the tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand, and says to her father, “I can, can’t I? When I’m feeling better?”
“Sure, honey,” her father says, rubbing her back.
“All smiles, okay, Jennie?” Riya Natrajan opens her arms, and Jennie steps forward into them. She buries her face in the nook of Riya’s neck, tears wet against her skin. Riya whispers into her ear, “You hold on to your dreams, you hear? Don’t let anyone steal them from you, not even the people you love. You understand?”
Jennie nods.
Riya Natrajan strokes her hand over Jennie’s cheek, drawing the pain into her own body, and for the first time, she’s not obsessing over how it will improve her voice. She doesn’t pull much, but she pulls enough for Jennie to throw down a few of her favorite moves in the aisle, enough for her to have a night she’ll never forget.
“Happy birthday, Jennie,” Riya Natrajan sings, in a voice as smooth as the finest silk, yet sturdy as iron.
“Riya?” Adam Patel’s voice calls. “You’re needed in your dressing room. We’ve got an issue.”
Riya Natrajan nods, says her good-byes, sparing herself a moment to watch Jennie walk off with an extra spring in her step. She turns back to Adam, now sans sling, but anxiety is still seeded deeply in his eyes. “What is it now?” she asks. “You know I pay you so I won’t have to deal with these distractions.”
“I know. But I thought you’d want to sort this one out yourself.”
Riya Natrajan hisses as she brushes by Adam, then returns to her dressing room. Felicity Lyons is standing there in a cute dress and heels and makeup that looks like it was applied while waiting at an incredibly short stoplight. Riya slits her eyes. Oh, the nerve Felicity has to show up here, now. Not after they’d had to scramble to get a replacement act. “What are you doing here?” she rasps.
“I’m not quite sure. I was hoping someone could tell me,” Felicity says.
“You missed rehearsal.”
“‘This is not a rehearsal . . .’” she says, eyes drifting off into the distance.
“You’re damn right this isn’t a rehearsal! This is the real deal. Do you know how much time and resources I put into getting you to this point? And you repay me by flaking out at the last moment. So what’s your excuse? Stage fright? Flat tire? Hamster ate your sheet music?”
Felicity grimaces. “Amnesia?”
“Forgot the lyrics? Figures.”
“Not just the lyrics,” she says. “Everything. Honestly, this is the first time I’ve seen you in person, but I get the feeling we’ve worked together? All I know is that I somehow left myself a note to be here now, and I know it’s important. I suppose you know I can put on a helluva show, if you’ll just let me have the chance.”
“You said you don’t remember anything. That includes your set? Your choreography? Felicity, I’m sorry. You’re wasting your time. And more importantly, you’re wasting mine.”
Felicity looks like a bomb went off in her chest, then she begins humming a few bars, taps a toe, does a short riff. “You know no one treats ya betta . . . And no one can do it like I do . . .”
Riya Natrajan crosses her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes. “That’s not working.” It is.
Felicity then does a shuffle step, arms out, fingers happy, and writhes her body, feet crisscrossing with a ferociousness and a passion that Riya can’t deny. Truth is Felicity’s replacement can’t dance worth piss, not like this. And while her voice is superb, her stage presence is clinical at best.
“Okay, fine,” Riya growls. “You’ve got thirty minutes to learn your routine, and if every single note, every single step is not exactly on point, I’m pulling you for good, got it?”
“Yes, Ms. Natrajan. Thank you, Ms. Natrajan!”
The edges of Riya Natrajan’s lips spread, pulling slightly upward, and not even because she’s forcing them. Oh, hell no. She’s not about to be happy. Happy doesn’t pay the bills—it’s all angst and melodrama and attitude. She turns that near smile into a snarl. “Now get the hell out of my dressing room. All of you!”
Chapter 32
Nomvula