“Hey,” Lucia says to a tech scrubbing through footage. She points to the jigsaw of rectangular screens on the wall. “I need to show Neevah something from that last run.”
“Sure,” he replies. “I’ll cue it up. Just let me know where.”
“We need to see the whole ‘Flat Foot Floogie’ sequence,” Lucia mutters, eyes already fixed to the screen.
“I think the camera’s positioned wrong,” I hear Canon say.
I need to pay attention to all the deficiencies Lucia wants to show me, but I can’t help it. I glance over to the wall. He’s tugging at his bottom lip, something he does when he’s working out a problem. He looks up, catching my eye, and I turn back right away like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“I’m going to check,” he says, walking out without acknowledging Lucia or me.
I release a long breath, able to focus now that he’s gone, and tune into what Lucia’s saying. She pauses the tape, though, and stares at me for long, disapproving seconds.
“What? Why’d you stop it? I thought you wanted to show me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Not wrong. What you can do better.”
“Semantics.”
“You seemed to be more interested in him,” she says, tipping her head to the wall where Canon stood seconds ago, “than in the dance. I’ve caught you looking before.”
“Excuse me?” I hope I sound confused and indignant instead of caught. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I send a furtive glance around the tent to see who might overhear this mortifying conversation. Jill and Kenneth are still engrossed in their discussion about the diagram and the tech is at a laptop on the other side of the tent, leaving us to our own devices.
“Look, you’re obviously the real thing,” Lucia says, her words lowered so only I hear. “As much talent as two Jacksons and an Osmond, but no one’ll notice that if you start screwing your director before your first film even releases.”
“I’m not,” I grit out.
“This crush, or whatever it is you have—squash it. It will only distract you, and if he figures it out, which, knowing Canon, he already has, it’ll compromise your working relationship. He’s not gonna ruin his movie over some pussy.” She runs assessing eyes over me, head to toe. “No matter how good it might be.”
Each crude word congeals my insides into embarrassment. My hands screw into the wide skirt of my swing dress. “It’s not like that.”
“Good. Don’t let it be.” The hard, red-painted line of her lips softens. “Look, I get it. That is a man. Like, they don’t make ’em like that anymore. Every room he walks into, he becomes the center, even when he doesn’t mean to.”
She’s right. There’s a reluctant charisma to Canon. Like he doesn’t ask for everyone to be drawn to him, but he can’t not be the thing that draws them.
“He the honey and we the bees,” Lucia says. “But he ain’t looking for a queen bee. Ya feel me? Quickest way to get your heart stomped is to sleep with him and expect something he never gave a girl before. Canon is loyal, and when he finds someone he likes, he sticks with them. Evan, Kenneth, Jill, me. Through the years, he’s built a team of people he trusts. He’s just as serious about keeping out the ones he doesn’t trust as he is about keeping close the ones he does. You make them eyes at him every time you walk into a room, and guess which side you’ll be on?”
“I don’t mean to . . .” I want to deny it, but she just peeped me so thoroughly, I can’t. I want to tell her I can’t help it—that I’m trying my damnedest not to feel like this—but she either wouldn’t buy it or wouldn’t care, so I settle for the only thing I hope she’ll believe. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She smiles, nods, and restarts the tape, eyes once again fixed on the screen. “Now let’s look at your footwork. I want more Frankie Manning from you, less Megan Thee Stallion.”
“Megan Thee . . .” I laugh at the teasing glint in her eye, grateful for her attempt to ease the tension of our conversation about Canon. “You better stop, and I don’t even know who Frankie Manning is.”
“Most don’t.” Lucia nods to the monitor. “That air step you do when Hinton flips you over his back and you land on your feet? Manning did that. The lindy hop was created right in the Savoy by him and his crew before other folks took it and renamed it the jitterbug. He should be a household name, but whereas Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly went on to Hollywood, he went to work in the post office for ’bout forty years ’til somebody ‘revived’ him when he was seventy years old. Least he did win a Tony before he died. A little of the recognition he shoulda got. Girl, the way they do us.”
“I feel robbed sometimes.” I sigh, expelling my frustration. “All the things we don’t know, are never taught. Have to dig around to find out.”
“History is so picked over, by the time you get to the tree, there’s barely any fruit left.” Her grin is sudden and bright. “When you get home, look up Hellzapoppin’. Watch that clip. I know you’ve looked at tapes of swing. My fault for not mentioning this clip sooner. You have the steps technically, but dance is more than execution. It’s possession. You gotta give your body over. Your whole spirit has to surrender. The people who can teach you what I’m talking about are all dead.”
Her phone lights up and she grimaces at the text on her screen. “Watch that last run-through. They think one of the dancers may have sprained an ankle. I need to go check.”
“Oh, no. You go. I’ll be out and ready before the next run.”
She nods absently, a frown worrying her brows, and leaves the tent. Before watching my next run-through, I’d love to see the Hellzapoppin’ clip. Our phones aren’t allowed on set, so we usually leave them in our trailers.
“Excuse me,” I call out to the tech, who lifts his head. “Can I borrow your phone for a sec?”