You’ve got to do something—fast.
“Chan-ning.” The movement of your lips as you speak his name dislodges Channing’s mouth from yours.
He pulls back quickly, as if waking up from a daze, and shakes his head.
“You okay?”
With wide eyes, he nods once. “Think so.” Then, without hesitating, he pulls you up into his arms and the dance continues.
What was that all about?
There’s no time to spare thinking about it, though, because pretty soon the next phase of the dance is under way. The buildup to the final, toughest move requires a lot of concentration. When Channing sets you down on the floor and the two of you begin to re-create a section from Swan Lake, the crowd’s oohs and aahs fill the theater. Together, you’re creating magic—you know this because Harry Styles has given up attempting to flirt with Lianne across the room in favor of watching the two of you intertwining your bodies in time with the music.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Jonah’s voice booms out through the speakers, “it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. . . .”
You glance at Channing. Little beads of sweat have appeared on his brow. He’s just as nervous as you are. But when he winks at you, flashing that heartbreaking cheeky smile, you feel more powerful than a god. This is your moment, and you’re going to kill it.
“It’s the Tatum Pole!”
The crowd goes wild as you climb up onto the shoulders of one of the backing dancers, gripping him tight with your toes to make sure you don’t fall. Channing reaches up to catch on to your hand, and you pull with all your might to lift him off the floor, level with your body.
The backing dancer wobbles beneath you. Channing seems unsteady as he reaches to grab your shoulders for support. For a nail-biting moment it looks as though the three of you won’t make it—but then in one swift, unbelievable movement he makes it up onto your shoulders and spins around to face the crowd.
You grab hold of his leg tight, squeezing your fingers into his tense muscles to let him know how proud you are of him.
“Yes!” he roars from the top of the Tatum Pole.
The audience erupts with applause. Lady Gaga snaps a photo on her phone. Kanye West removes his shades to check that what he’s seeing is real. Michael Cera pulls his shirt off and throws it onstage, clapping his hands and whooping so loudly the security guards start to move toward him.
This is glorious. Even though you’re only halfway up the Tatum Pole, you feel like you’re on top of the world; you can conquer anything; nothing is impossible.
But then the impossible happens.
You feel Channing’s foot lose its grip.
Oh, no.
Next, a leg appears in front of your face.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Channing’s whole body slips. Your hand, once gripping his leg, is now suddenly sliding fast along his tight Lycra pants, heading for his crotch. You feel the squish of his bulge in the palm of your hand and hear Channing’s high-pitched cry as you reflexively squeeze tight in shock.
The theater falls silent. All you can hear, as time slows to a stop, is the muted cry of Channing above you—and the click of a hundred cameras as every photographer in the room catches your mortifying pose on film.
This. Cannot. Be. Happening.
The curtain finally falls. You release your tight grip on Channing and catch his thighs instead as he repositions himself so that he’s sitting with his legs on either side of your neck—a decidedly more comfortable pose than the one he was previously in.
Slowly, the backing dancer sets you down on the floor. Channing’s entourage surrounds you, pulling him down from your shoulders and whisking him off toward his dressing room in a flurry. Once again, you’re left alone behind the stage curtain, staring hopelessly around while the other dancers watch, stifling their laughter.
You’ve never felt so foolish.
Like a ghost, Lianne suddenly appears in front of you. “That was unfortunate. . . . Come on, let’s go back to your dressing room and get you out of this leotard. You must be exhausted.”
Comforted a little by her kindness, you let her take your hand in hers and guide you toward your dressing room. As you pass by Channing’s door, you can hear him yelling in pain.
“He definitely hates me now,” you sigh.
Lianne doesn’t answer. You traipse into your dressing room, tears welling behind your eyes, and allow Lianne to help you change out of the costume and into some baggy sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.
“I’m sure he isn’t that mad at you,” Lianne insists. “It isn’t your fault he slipped.”
Unconvinced, you shake your head and grab some paper from the desk, scribbling a few words down onto it that you hope will smooth things over.
Dear Channing—
I’m sorry for making you look like a fool. It would mean the world to me if we could be friends after all this. I hope you can forgive me.
X
“What do you think?” you ask, passing the note to Lianne.
She reads it with a smile. “I think it’s perfect. I’ll deliver it when I pop into his room to collect his costume.”
You smile gratefully. “Thanks.”
“In the meantime, you should probably head back to your dorm and find something amazing to wear. The afterparty begins in an hour, and you certainly don’t want to miss it, now that you’re queen of the spotlight.”
“Sure.” You fake a smile. “I’ll see you later.”
But you’re lying. You’re in no mood to celebrate your humiliation. Instead, you’re going to go back to your dorm room, jump into bed, and curl up under the covers until this day is over.
MAGIC MIKE, microwave popcorn, and fanfiction: the ingredients for a great night. However, after your awful experience, the mere thought of Channing is enough to make your heart ache. You’ve been sitting here alone in your dorm room for over an hour now, and through the window you can hear the thump of music coming from the grand hall on the other side of the dance academy, where the afterparty is in full swing.
You slide farther down beneath the duvet and groan. All you ever wanted was to impress Channing—and now he probably hates you enough to never want to see you again.
You’re just about to pick up the phone to call your parents and tell them you’ll be traveling home tomorrow when there’s a knock at your door. Reluctantly, you leave your phone in its place and push yourself off the bed. It takes three strides to get to the door, but when you finally pull it open, you can barely believe your eyes.
“Channing?”
And there he is, standing in the corridor with a smile on his face and your note in his hand. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” you ask, confused. “Don’t you hate me for ruining your dance?”
Channing takes a step forward. “Can I come in?”
You nod, stepping aside to let him in. He stands before your bed, scanning the room to take everything in. Your palms are clammy. You wish you’d bothered to tidy up a little—clothes and empty food packets are all over the place.
“Nice room.”
You grimace. “Thanks.”
Channing takes a seat on the edge of your bed. “You were incredible on that stage, honestly. I’ve never seen a dancer move as well as you.”
“Now, that’s a lie,” you scoff. “What about Jenna?”
Channing flicks his hand. “Don’t worry about Jenna. I’m talking about you.” He locks eyes with you and bites his lip. “You’re far better.”
Butterflies appear in your stomach. You think you must be dreaming.
“I got your note.” He holds up the piece of paper for you to see. “Obviously. And I just wanted you to know that I can’t forgive you.”
Your stomach drops. “Oh.”
“I can’t forgive you”—Channing stands and positions himself right in front of you—“because in order to do that, I’d first have to be mad at you. But I’m not, because you haven’t done anyt
hing wrong.”
“What about the massive crotch grab?” You will yourself not to look down at the scene of the crime. Fortunately, he’s changed out of his tight Lycra pants and into a smart gray suit, so the bulge isn’t quite so obvious now.
He shrugs his shoulders. “No biggie.”
Well, actually, you want to tell him, it was pretty big.