I shake off my melancholy and clap my hands. “Okay, girls. Everyone to the mirror for warm-up.”
They scurry away, some graceful, some clunky. I don’t think I have anybody in this class who’ll grow up to take the stage, but what I want for them is to not only develop a love for dance, but to also be comfortable with their bodies. To realize that it really is only a shell, though hopefully not as stifling as the one Nia described. And that they need to take care of it even while they use dance to escape from it. Because no dancer ever stays inside herself. That’s the point. To rise up with the music. To chase your soul. With your body only coming along for the ride.
“Can we jump, Miss Draper?” Amanda asks after the warm-up, and all the other girls bounce and shout, “Please, please!”
And even though I have another class planned out, I agree. Then line them up across the room, remind them of what to do, and then stand by as each races toward me, gathers her courage, and then leaps up, trusting me to catch her the way Johnny catches Baby in Dirty Dancing, one of my all-time favorite movies.
We do three rounds of jumps, then rehearse for the parent recital coming in four weeks. And then that’s it. The time has literally flown by.
I accept all the hugs and promise I’ll see them at the next class. Then I lock the door behind them, and for the first time in days I can completely relax. Because I don’t have another class until Zumba, and nobody else is using this room until then.
I go to the jam box, turn on the music, and simply dance. Sometimes I rehearse a routine or try to choreograph something new. But not today. Today, I just want to get lost. And as the music takes me, I let go, relishing the freedom of the melody. The power that fills me. And not just the strength in my limbs, but the wellspring of emotion that rises inside me.
It’s as if I’m soaring. As if gravity means nothing. It’s wonderful and thrilling and exciting.
I’m letting go completely, and that’s something I never do in the real world. But in here, with the music, I’m always me.
It’s the only place I’ve ever truly felt like me.
But as I fall to the ground in time with the final strains of music, breathless and alive, I realize that’s not entirely true.
I felt this way twelve years ago in Wyatt’s arms.
I felt it again last night.
And I’m not sure that I have the strength to stay away from the one man who can truly bring me to life.
18
“Griff!” I yelp, as I clutch the door with one hand and the dashboard with the other. “If we die before we get to the party, I am totally going to kill you. And if you scratch Blue, I’m going to disown you.”
“Chill,” he orders. “I’m just doing what you never do.”
“If you mean driving like a complete idiot down a twisty canyon road, then yeah. I never do that.”
We’re still well above the city in the hills that separate the Valley from the West Side, but he’s slowed down a bit. Whether because the road’s now reasonably straight or because of my griping, I’m not really sure.
“I should never have let you drive,” I mutter.
“Nonsense. Blue loves it, don’t you, girl.” He pats the Mustang’s dashboard, and I have to grin.
I also realize in that moment that I can’t sell Blue. She’s an easy route to a decent amount of cash, but there’s no way I can part with her. I love her too much.
More important, so does Griff.
Which means that I have to do the shoot, figure out another way to earn fifteen grand really fast, or tell Griffin I don’t have the money.
I already know I can’t do the shoot. I’d be trading fifteen grand for unemployment once the show opened.
But I also don’t have another way to earn the money really fast. It’s not like I have the money in investments. After all, I’m the girl whose checking account is feeling warm and full and happy if it tops four hundred after I’ve paid the mortgage, utilities, and all the other necessary bills.
I’ve got some savings, sure, but it’s mostly retirement accounts through my school that aren’t vested yet, so I can’t get to the money. I already pulled out five thousand from savings for the initial cost of getting him into the program, and now I have just enough in my account to cover a month of living expenses if I lose my job. Which I won’t since I’m not posing for Wyatt.
And I can’t take out an equity loan against the condo I bought at the height of the real estate market because that bubble burst, and I’m upside down.
A bad financial decision on my part, maybe, but I do love my little place in Valencia.
I could borrow from Nia, but I don’t know when I could repay her, and I firmly agree with the adage of not mixing money with friendship.
Working more can’t save me either. I did the math, and even though I’ve rearranged my summer so that I can offer two extra children’s dance classes and one adult Zumba class, that won’t earn me anywhere close to the money I need.
Which means I’m out of luck.
Or, rather, Griffin is.
I just don’t quite know how to tell him.
“Hey,” he says. “Where’d you go? I just took that curve at lightning speed, and you didn’t even yell at me.”
I smile. “Maybe I’m becoming a daredevil.”
“Yeah, that’ll be the day.” He glances up at the cloth roof. “We really should have the top down.”
“I love this car, and I love that it’s a convertible. But I spent an hour on my hair, and you’re crazy if you think I’m going into some big producer’s mansion looking windblown.”
“You look great,” he says, because as brothers go, he’s the best. “As a navigator, though, you’re crap. Are we even close?”
“Oh, sorry.” I’d been navigating until his Speed Racer tactics had thrown me off task. I open the app on my phone and figure out where we are and where we’re going. “There,” I say, pointing to an upcoming stop sign. “Turn right, and then it looks like we’re going all the way to the end of the road.”
The map doesn’t lie. We end up at a gorgeous multi-level mansion perched at the end of a street that dead-ends over a canyon. Which means that the entire back side of the house more or less hangs off into space. Mildly terrifying, but I can’t wait to get inside.
I turn to Griff. “This is your producer’s house, right?”
“His name’s Tim Falcon, but everyone calls him Bird. I know, it’s stupid, but he’s brilliant, so he gets away with it.”
“And the movie’s called Warhol, Women, and the Great White Whale?”
Griffin nods, and I give myself a pat on the back. I pay attention to movies once they’re out, not when they’re still in production. But now that Griffin’s in the biz, I’ve been trying to get educated. Apparently this is a coming of age film set in the sixties with a protagonist who’s fascinated with Moby Dick and pop art. Griffin is his adult voice of reason looking back on the teenage wackiness and angst.
“Ready?” he asks as he gives the valet his keys.