Chapter 4 Is my dancing not bad enough?
Is my dancing not bad enough?
Josie
IT’S EASY TO hide when the Lost Star guys come out.
All I have to do is hunch my shoulders and take a teeny-weeny step backward, and suddenly I’m concealed by a wall of celebrity-induced insanity.
Geez, ladies, they’re just men. They have the same hardware as all the other guys you see on the street every day; it’s just packaged differently.
I have to say they do look good. Emmy’s gotten Jason away from those athleisure pants he loves so much and into jeans with a black silk vest over a charcoal, long-sleeved button down.
The other Jason in the cast, Jason Ramirez, looks like his floral shirt has been painted onto his muscular torso, the dark teal background and cherry-red flowers complementing his brown skin.
Andrew’s all in white. I think he’s got a “good guy” complex, either that or he’s planning on scooting out of here as soon as possible to jump on the next yacht to Monaco.
Zachary Tay is so lovable it doesn’t matter what he puts on.
He could show up in a unicorn onesie, and the next day, unicorn onesie stock would go up ten points.
Today he’s got on a cream-colored crewneck sweater, dark jeans, and square-toed leather shoes.
The thing they all have in common is that they look halfway normal, unlike Mr. Grape Soda Bedroom Eyes Tilt-a-Whirl.
I don’t think Sean could call any more attention to himself if he tried.
That purple avant-garde getup. The flips.
All those rings up and down his fingers suggest he shook down the Elves and Dwarves and Men in a dark alley outside of Mordor.
The One Ring probably threw itself at him, crying, Take me, too!
Please! I know I would—he could wrap me around one of those fingers. Confidence is attractive.
Oops! We’re sitting down again. I tug Peyton’s cap farther down my forehead and press the sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. I’d better pay attention. Stay alert for my next opportunity out of this heinous trap. I swear, Emmy owes me big time.
Emmy and Terica banter with the celebrity crushes as the grips deal out lanyards with numbers on them to all of us contestants. Sean can’t sit still. Does he have grasshoppers in those purple tweed pants?
“All right, contestants!” Emmy booms into the mic. “That last selection was based purely on luck, but you’re gonna have to earn this next one.”
The women around me exchange nervous glances. I’m just glad I’m going to have an opportunity to fail. Whatever it is, I’m ready to suck at it. Hard.
“Our next game is a dance-off!” Emmy trills.
“Out of your seats!” Terica shouts as Rihanna’s “We Found Love” blasts across the speakers. “Come on, let’s see your moves!”
We’re herded to a dance floor in front of our chairs.
I have to say, being a contestant is the life.
All you have to do is show up, and people tell you exactly what to do from then on.
I wish I had this kind of direction in my real life.
And I have zero doubts about my ability to dance poorly.
I mean, I can dance well, too, but nobody needs to know that.
As soon as I’m in place, I turn my back to the cameras and the audience.
All of the celebrity crushes are watching us, each with a flip pad and a pen.
Are they writing down our numbers if they like us?
I hope so, since they can’t even see mine.
My neighbor on the right is doing the suburban-white-girl shuffle.
My neighbor on the left has some skills, but I’m worried she might get whiplash.
As for me, there are a few ways I could play this.
In a nod to the fact that it’s Halloween season, I go for a zombie-with-its-head-halfway-chopped-off-by-a-marginally-effective-axe-blow and hold out my arms in “Thriller” stance.
My sneakers stay planted on the stage because I’m afraid of getting too close to Whiplash Girl—the human skull flung with enough velocity can act like a wrecking ball. Instead, I just do some knocky knees.
A grip marches my way, and my heart soars as I anticipate the inevitable tap on the shoulder that will signal that, Awww, sorry, you’re eliminated. But she just takes my lanyard and whips it over my shoulder so the guys can see it. Fair enough.
But why am I still here? Is my dancing not bad enough?
My knees are getting tired, and my neck is getting sore. I peek at the men. They’re all scribbling away on their notepads, taking this very seriously.
Dammit. I’d better up my game. Or perhaps less is more. When I get tired of dancing TikToks with Peyton, I do this thing that drives her nuts. I just gaze up at the ceiling and turn in a slow circle. I call it “The Old Tired Adult move.”
But when the music cuts out, I’m still here.
I take my seat, bewildered, as Emmy and Terica chat up the celebs.
“So, what were you guys looking for when you made your choices?” Terica asks.
“Was it how good their moves were?” Emmy offers.
“I don’t know,” Andrew says. “I was looking more for attitude. And energy.”
“Everybody knows I’m no authority on this subject,” Zachary adds, earning laughs. Apparently, his dancing was so bad in the short time he was on Lost Star Dance Troupe Saves the Universe that they had to write it into the script.
“What about you, Sean?” Terica prods.
“Well, Terica, I just looked for something interesting. Something different.” His green eyes laser straight to me, and I feel all the blood vessels in my face go supernova.
Then I spot the eye of the camera and that nuanced little combination of movements that tells me it’s zooming in.
Crap! I slink down into my seat. Why is this happening?
Everything was good. Everything was fine.
I was happy, quote unquote, for whatever that trite sentiment is worth.
I should have stayed in Florida working at Tranquilidad Spa.
It kept changing owners and names, but the tips were decent, and it gave me a chance to use my Spanish.
But after Emmy and Peyton left, I was lonely.
That’s it, isn’t it? I overplayed my hand. Got too cocky. Forgot my place.
I adjust my hat and glasses. No more games.
No more nuance. I’m getting kicked out of this competition if I have to get arrested to do it.
The trick, however, is to fade into obscurity rather than attract attention.
I need to be boring. Forgettable. The kind of woman Sean O’Sullivan would overlook. A beige lamp on an oak end table.
Challenge accepted.