Neevah
I’m soaring.
Tossed through the air, wind whipping the skirt past my knees and thighs. A blur of legs and flying feet. My partner’s strong hands anchor at my waist, whirling me to his right and then his left. Propelled through his legs, I glide across the floor on my back, hopping up for a flying run into his arms again.
Caught.
Held.
Lifted.
Spun.
I’m a weightless wonder. One in a kaleidoscope of hand-painted butterflies taking flight, our way made straight to a chorus of trumpets. The band blares “Flat Foot Floogie” as a hundred feet stutter through the intricate steps of the lindy hop. Electricity crackles the air, charging our bodies into frenetic rhythm. We move, we dance, clothes clinging to our bodies with the sweet juice of fervor. Sweat drizzles between my breasts, coats my neck and arms like dew. In the thrall of this dance, a syncopated stomp, I drip the wine of winding hips. I dip. I sway in an intercourse of jazz and blues and swing.
“Cut!” Kenneth calls.
The fifty or so dancers roar and clap and laugh, triumphant. We’ve been practicing this number for hours. Days, really, and finally, it’s falling into place. It’s one of the dance centerpieces of the movie, and Lucia, the choreographer, has been relentless.
“That was great, Neevah,” my partner Hinton says, walking with me over to a table loaded with water. “Best so far.”
“I hope so.” I accept a water bottle and down a long, refreshing gulp. “It took me long enough to get it.”
“Most of us are trained dancers. I know you dance, but it’s not your primary discipline. You’re a natural, though.”
I swipe the sweat from my forehead. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Well, you’re doing great.”
“You could be better,” Lucia says, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.
The woman is a phantom. She haunts my dreams. I’m surprised I don’t wake up every night screaming get that leg higher. I know I’m the lead, and I feel the weight of that responsibility, but she rides me harder than everyone else. At four feet, eleven inches, with a nest of dark Medusa curls and a plethora of expletives, she’s the most intimidating presence on set, second only to Canon himself.
“Something is missing,” she says to me now, Puerto Rico and New York thick in her accent. “You got the steps—now I need you to feel them. Stop thinking and just let ’em take you.”
I swipe at the sweat sliding from beneath the wig and down my neck, afraid to admit I’m not sure how to do that. “I’ll get it. Sorry.”
“You are verrrrry close, and much better than when we started. You need to see. Come on.”
She walks off without another word. I shoot a startled glance at Hinton and scurry to catch her. She dances like a swan, but walks like a tank. The sea of brightly clad dancers part in her wake. You’d think, since her legs are half a foot shorter than mine, I could easily keep up, but I’m scampering after her like an eager Chihuahua.
“Where are we going?” I ask, waving at members of the cast as we plow through the crowd.
“Video village. It will help to see yourself on camera.”
She strides confidently into the large white tent. It’s usually a hive of activity—command central, with mounted screens covering the walls, 3D prop models on the center table, and laptops scattered seemingly on every available surface.
The first thing I see when we enter is a digital diagram of the Savoy Ballroom plastered to the wall. The production team recreated the famous ballroom to such exact specifications, you’re transported to Lenox Avenue, what Langston Hughes called the Heartbeat of Harlem, as soon as you step on set.
The Savoy spanned an entire city block on Lenox Avenue and could hold up to four thousand people. The team carefully recrafted two flights of marble steps bordered by mirrored walls leading up to a smaller replica of the original ten-thousand-square-foot, mahogany, spring-loaded dance floor. The floor saw so much traffic, the owners had to replace it every three years. The production team left no detail undone, even adding the ballroom’s cut-glass chandeliers, rose-pink walls and two raised bandstands where legends like Benny Goodman and Chick Webb dueled before record crowds.
Being in the room, working for hours and focusing on getting the steps right, I lose sight of how massive the set is. The sketch taking up the entire wall reminds me.
Canon, wearing a frown, stands at the other end of the tent with Jill and Kenneth. He pokes the digital illustration on the wall and grasps the headphones draped around his neck. Everyone teases him about the beard he grows during a movie, but damn, if it doesn’t look good on him. It lays close to his face, framing his full lips and scraping the sharp angle of his jaw.
He glances up, the frown deepening when his eyes collide with mine. We’re two days from Thanksgiving, and we haven’t really been alone since the Halloween party. And why should we be? Because he said he didn’t mind my company? Because we shared a few innocuous moments on a secluded balcony serenaded by Luther that felt more intimate than every kiss I’ve ever had?
Girl, get a grip.