I was myself again.
I closed my eyes and put my hand on my forehead. The absence of the panic made me feel like I could do anything, even walk out on that big stage in front of a panel of judges and cameras, and perform my fucking heart out. And he’d be with me no matter what.
When I sat up, it forced him back on his knees. I reached for his shirt, lifting it out of the way so I could get at his belt, but he grabbed my hands. “Wait.” He looked strange. Like he was full of guilt. “We broke two already.”
“I don’t care about their rules right now.”
He looked pained. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I do. I wanted to make a good impression on them.” Grant settled back on his haunches and raked a hand through his hair, putting it back in place. “It’s better this way. Next time, no restrictions, no time limits, no worrying if someone’s going to catch us and throw us out.”
He made excellent points.
I was still naked from the waist down. I grabbed my shorts and hurried to pull them back on.
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “But what about you?” He’d given me two amazing releases and hadn’t gotten any in return.
His smile was dry. “Don’t worry about me. Do you feel better?”
“Much.”
“Good.” He helped me to my feet, kissing my neck as I stood. “Then I do too.”
-28-
Tara
Grant held his bow in one hand and the cello in the other while I grasped the folding chair, fidgeting nervously behind the curtain in the wings of the theatre.
Our plan had been approved by Tina, the production head, yet the staff fought us at every step along the way. They argued Grant hadn’t signed a release to be filmed, like this was a problem that couldn’t be easily solved. Then they told him we couldn’t bring on the folding chair, saying “props” weren’t allowed. It was another bullshit excuse to try to get me to toe the line.
Earlier this afternoon, they’d let a girl go up with a ribbon swivel stick. It had been one of those ‘fail’ routines, a total train wreck, which I always thought were mean spirited. But the idea the chair Grant would sit on while he played was considered a prop was ridiculous, and they couldn’t arbitrarily make up rules if they weren’t going to follow them, anyway.
As Grant had suspected, filming was behind schedule. They were supposed to begin solos after lunch, but we’d heard setup had taken longer than anticipated, and they’d started late. Nearly every contestant ran over their allotted time, but it wasn’t their fault.
“The judges are awfully chatty today,” the assistant standing beside me remarked. She was the one who’d give us the green light on when we could go on.
From where we stood behind the curtain, we could see the right side of the house of the theatre, including half the panel of judges. A platform had been erected in the orchestra pit so the judges were level with the front of the stage, and I watched Hugh Freeman’s discerning gaze zero in on the feet of the tap dancer who was currently performing.
There were four judges. Hugh, Rita, and Shonda were the core three—the ones at every audition and show. The fourth was a guest judge I couldn’t see or recognize by voice. He didn’t speak much either, so that was no help.
Beyond them, I could see lots of people in the seats,
more in the balconies. It was friends of soloists, or people who hadn’t made the next round and wanted to watch.
“I don’t want to freak you out,” Grant whispered, “but the stage is fucking huge.” Had he forgotten I’d already performed on it once? He looked clammy. “It looks even bigger down here.”
The response was automatic from me. “That’s what she said.”
My juvenile comment earned me half a smile from him.
I cast my gaze across the theatre and was flooded with feelings. This was where the Chicago Ballet Company performed. Fate worked in funny ways, right?
If I’d been accepted into the CBC, I would have danced on this stage, but I would have always shared it with at least a dozen other members of the corps. Today, I would be the principal dancer. I wouldn’t have to blend. I wouldn’t be staged near the back or side.
For two minutes, and hopefully not less, I would be seen.
The dancer concluded his solo, and his taps clicked as he walked to the microphone at the front.
“Okay,” the assistant whispered to us, “stand by. When the interview is over, you two are up.”