Stripped (20 page)

“I love you too. Keep trusting in your inner compass. You’ll get to where you’re meant to be.”

We disconnect the call.

As I get ready to meet Stone for rehearsal I wonder—my compass has been broken for quite some time. Is it really fixed? Completely? How can I tell?

“So, I have this idea.”

“You usually do,” I quip, elongating my muscles in front of the mirror at the studio.

“The dance you were doing on the rooftop to ‘Pillowtalk’…”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been seeing a male lead to what you were doing and want to try it out.”

“Cue it up and show me.”

I keep stretching and warming up.

“Can you get in position, please?”

“What position do you want me in?” I say, all flirty, stretching my leg over my head at the barre.

“We don’t have time for that right now—I mean on the dance floor.”

I crack with laughter. “Ooooo… look who’s all serious today.” It’s only ever been me fighting off the advances.

“The big day is close—I’m freaking nervous.”

“Then, are you sure you don’t want to go over your choreography?

“No, we’ve worked those pieces to death. I want something to take my mind off them.”

“That’s one approach,” I wax sarcastic.

“Just get where you need to be when the music starts.”

The song begins with me on the floor, curled in a ball. Stone bends and curves his body over mine, shielding me, as we rest together like nesting dolls.

He stands, straightens and lifts me by my waist, bringing me against his chest and spins us, as I alternate between holding his arms strong around me and reaching away.

We’re telling the story of passion—maybe our passion. The push, the pull. That romantic back and forth. We come together, we run away. We show ourselves fully, but then in fear, we hide again. Isn’t it what all lovers do?

We dance in unison—in perfect sequence we lunge and kick, and spin, side-by-side, before we come crashing against each other. I perform a series of falls where he catches me in the nick of time. He dips me over his bent knee and pulses his hovering hand over my heart while I allow my breast to follow it—it gives the illusion that he’s making my heart beat and that he controls my body.

This dance is mimicking life. I’ve most definitely fallen hard for him and he has complete command of my pulse. But I wonder if, in real life, he’d ever be able to or want to catch me so securely.

Dancing this here with him is so incredibly intense. It makes everything I feel for him so acutely real—every thought I have towards our relationship comes out here, all of my reflection and speculation are powerfully displayed. I wonder if he can hear it.

Hear me.

This is what it’s like to be stripped.

Exposed to one another in the deepest of ways. Stripped of all false pretenses, stripped of the words and fumbling that become obstacles when lovers talk—when they’re afraid to be seen for who and what they truly are and how they really feel—when they’re terrified to be exposed.

We move and face one another so it appears as if we’re now dancing mirror images.

He lifts me again at the chorus. “I want you to twist like this in my arms.”

“You’re not going to drop me, right?”

“Never, Love.”

I follow his choreography, loving it.

He hoists me high above his head, lets me go so I spin down his chest, and then catches me at the last riveting moment.

It’s an expression of the lovers’ deepest fears and greatest hopes, all brought to the surface. Words aren’t necessary, the dance reveals the truest, purest form of emotional connection.

It is the most intimate of conversations.

We practice a series of turns, lifts, splits, and flips, up over or around his body—all with Stone keeping me safe and secure—in a variety of positions that look amazing, and we discuss where they’d best be placed to go along with the music.

I adore his strong arms around me, protecting me, cocooning me. I could stay here forever like this. Being one with him in this way.

We start the song over and perform the dance again and again. Hours slip by like minutes.

It’s sweeping and beautiful. The more we do it, the more I love it.

The more I love him.

“For the finish, I was thinking you fall back into my hands, arch your spine, and I’ll lift you over my head.”

“That’s perfect, Stone.”

“You’re perfect, Em.”

Hundreds of dancers wait in line for their chance to get into the Orpheum Theatre. The line goes to the corner, rounds it, and then continues on for another twelve blocks.

Makes me wonder if we’ll even get in.

There’s a tangible buzz, a storm of energy that emanates from each dancer. Everyone is bouncing or moving their bodies. Some dancers are stretching, showing off some of their signature moves, or all-out practicing their dances right there by the curb as cars go by and beep their horns. Others are sitting on the sidewalk next to their duffels or backpacks, talking to their fellow auditionees in line next to them or to the friends and family that came for support.

Staff for
Then Prove You Can Dance
walk around with video crews and microphones, doing brief interviews. Every now and then they take someone inside for what I assume is a more extensive story.

I get to ruminating on a subject we’ve adamantly avoided.

“Stone, what if—?”

“No regrets, Sunshine.”

He’s uncharacteristically quiet and his form is still. Only his jaw clenches from time to time.

I have a feeling it’s like the calm before the storm.

We’re coming closer to that make-it-or-break-it moment—that sixty second blink in time that will either send him off towards a future he’s so desperately worked and wished for, or crush it.

He’s so brave for doing this.

I’ve come to know Stone, his passion and desires. He’s brilliant and already successful in the field his parents have placed him in, but it’s suffocating the life right out of him—sitting in an office, making business deals. He wants to fly. He needs to.

He was born to.

We finally get into the lobby and inch our way to the registration table.

I say, “I need to find a restroom. I think you can handle this part without me, slugger.”

The line to use the bathrooms is almost as long as the one outside. I’d normally text someone or play on my phone, but I didn’t want any distractions so I turned it off and left it in the Jeep.

It takes a long, boring while, but finally, I’m back looking for Stone amidst the sea of people in the lobby.

When I spy him, his mouth tugs up at the corners. First hint of a real smile all morning.

He strides over to me. On the hip of his jeans is pinned a white rectangular piece of paper with a number and the anagram and logo for
TPYCD
.

“We get to go sit in the auditorium now.”

With just those words, I feel like I’m going to bust out of my skin!

Stone laces his fingers through mine and we find a couple of seats together.

“You okay?”

“Never better.”

Now I see him start to come alive. Whatever nerves he’d been working through seem to have vanished.

“There they are.” He indicates the judges’ table with his gaze.

The panel consists of legendary choreographer Sir Alastair and pop sensation Babycakes, along with their guest star, actor and WWE wrestler Ripped.

While the wait seems to take forever, it feels like only a few seconds since we got here when they actually call Stone’s name.

Suddenly it feels like someone released a swarm of bees in my stomach. I can’t sit still to save my life and fidget in my seat as he takes the stage.

“Hello, Mr. Wright,” Sir Alastair begins with a prominent British accent. The man is perfectly coiffed—his hair is trimmed short and combed neatly, he wears a designer suit and tie, and he sits up with perfect posture.

“That’s an advantageous last name,” Babycakes says with a wink. She’s in her early thirties and dressed for attention in a leave-nothing-for-the-imagination jumpsuit.

“Where are you from?” Sir Alastair asks.

“I was born and raised in Australia.”

Babycakes starts fanning her face with the paper in front of her. “Whew! Lord have mercy on us all. Oh, I just love a man with an accent. How old are you? I need to be sure you’re legal.”

Everyone laughs and Stone answers, “Twenty-three.”

“Tell us your story. What makes you want to dance for us today?” Ripped—whose name describes him perfectly—is wearing a red t-shirt that is ripped in all the right places to show off his physique. It gives the illusion that his muscles are hulking out of his shirt. I wonder what his pants look like and then hope he
doesn’t
stand up.

“A few years back, I had a scholarship and a promising career as a football player until a serious injury and long recovery time tore the rug out from under me. But see, I’ve always believed in serendipity, and maybe even fate now too. From the time I was five years old dance was my deepest expression. Footy was fun, but dance was my oxygen. I wanted to perform professionally, but my loving and often meddling folks demanded I choose a real job. Standing here today—along with one other important development in my life—it feels like even my injury wasn’t necessarily an accident, but rather another event that led me to this stage and this moment.”

“That’s a gripping tale, Stone. I’d like to inquire about the one other development in your life, but we’re running out of time. Perhaps we’ll get to hear the rest of the story in Vegas,” Sir Alastair declares, and the crowd around me sends up their applause. “Ready the music.”

Stone stands in the middle of the stage with his back towards the audience. It instantly brings me back to the moment I first saw him perform this piece—at Foreplay, surrounded by a platform of spraying water.

Like a shooting star, he soars.

The audience watches, riveted. So do I.

I’m on the edge of my seat! The suspense is killing me—I can’t take another second! This is the culmination of everything he’s worked so hard for. It’s right here, and all of it is hinged on this one moment.

It’s Stone’s do or die.

For seventy seconds—I’m holding Stone’s watch in my hand and counting the seconds as they tick by—the judges sit captivated with his performance.

When Sir Alastair lifts his hands for the song to stop, the audience leaps to their feet.

“Look, honey.” Babycakes is the first to speak. “You just earned a standing ovation. The crowd loves you and so do I.”

“Man, I wasn’t sure if you were more than a pretty face when you stepped up there,” Ripped tells him, “but you definitely brought your A game today.”

Stone’s newly acquired fans cheer louder.

Sir Alastair raises his hand and hushes the crowd. He stares at Stone with a very solemn expression.

“Well, I guess now I’ll hear the rest of your story in Las Vegas,” he says and waves the Vegas ticket in the air.

The audience roars. Stone’s cockiest grin rises to the surface as he comes down the stage to receive his golden ticket.

They usher Stone off stage right and I bolt to the lobby to greet him. When he comes through the theatre’s heavy double doors I can’t stop myself from screaming like his biggest fan! He rushes at me, lifts me into his arms, and spins me around.

“We did it, Em! We really did it!” He brings me down so I’m level with his gorgeous ecstatic face, but he doesn’t set my feet on the floor—instead my shoes hover just above his.

“You did it, Stone. That was all you.” I snort happily. “I’m so proud of you.” Damn it, here come the tears. “I knew you’d make it. I never doubted it, not once.”

I blot my eyes with the heel of my hand and try to get control of my emotions. People are all around us, snapping photos and taking videos with their phones.

“We still have to get through Vegas,” he says, reminding me of the task ahead. “The competition is going to be tough.”

“You’ll blow them all away.”

“Come with me.”

“I am coming with you.”

“I mean…” He puts me down, reaches into his bag, and pulls out another registered number tag like the one he has pinned on his hip.

“What’s that?”

“Your turn, Em. If you want it.”

“What…? I’m…” I stammer. “I don’t…”

“I’ve thought hard about this, Love. Whatever happens, you’re coming to Vegas as my coach… but what if you were to also come as my fellow contestant?”

I can’t say anything. My mind is blank, literally. I can’t even begin to fathom what’s happening.

“You are exceptional in every way, Emelie Cartier, and you deserve another shot. Your work deserves to be seen.”