Chapter 17
Ican’t believe it’s already here. Our first competition night arrived in the blink of an eye. The beautiful San Juan villa where all of the live routines will take place is alive with tension and excitement. It’s packed so tightly that, even in the greenroom, the crowd’s applause thrums through the walls.
The home patio has been transformed into a theater of sorts. In one week, the crew has taken down the fence that used to separate the back patio from the beach area, removed all the backyard furniture, and installed a giant stage overtop the pool.
They installed bleachers for a few hundred people, which extend onto the beach but start at the end of the stage. There’s overhead lighting on metal beams over the stage floor, two jumbo screens, and a section set off with seating and microphones for our guest judges.
Colette, Sil, Eli, and I take up different positions in the room as we await our turns.
Nerves kick heat into my mouth, drying out my lips and tongue. I bounce up and down a few times and twist from the waist to keep warmed up. Where is my… I grab my water bottle and sip lightly at the icy relief.
Though I try to avoid it, my gaze strays right, to the enormous ninety-eight-inch high-def TV, silent but glowing with images. Doc, Cameron, and Kay Lee, who’ve already performed, appear cheering in an off-stage box as Fonzie throws all his energy into his routine.
Fonzie’s on stage, kicking butt. Literally. He’s walking around in a handstand, kicking his own culo.
I flinch as I see myself on the screen, remembering the camera operator stationed in the greenroom. He pans discreetly over me, Colette, Sil, and Eli.
“Way to hit the whole Puerto Rican thing,” Colette says, nodding down at my costume.
I’m basically draped in a ballerina tutu that’s been transformed into the Puerto Rican flag. I have a white star across my chest. Surprisingly, I love Haydée’s design.
“Thanks.” I resist the urge to tug at the strip of blue covering my hips where it floats out. “My cousin, Haydée Vasquez, is an amazing designer.”
Hopefully, the camera operator caught that, so Haydée won’t complain I didn’t mention her on the show.
Colette makes a noncommittal face while stretching sexily in her black-and-green FTW racing print jumpsuit—which is a nod to the fact that she works at an FTW franchise in Ohio. It’s been a big focus of her persona on the show. The color combination, along with Colette’s skin tone and reddish-brown curls, is absolute perfection. Dropping her stretching arms, she says, “I’m surprised Parker allowed your cousin to design for you.”
“It’s a family affair,” Sil sings, making me smile. In their purple-and-black shorty-shorts with an off-the-shoulder, sleeveless violet bodysuit, they look amazing. “All of Puerto Rico will be rooting for you.”
My smile and my stomach drops. As if I didn’t have enough riding on tonight’s performance.
The camera operator zeroes in on Eli, who is stretched into a backbend, testing the limits of his sparkly-blue, scaled biketard. Thanks to a cutout in the middle, his abs are on full display, along with other things.
Sil casts a glance at him, then winks at me. “I’d wear a biketard, too, if I had that package.”
I try not to laugh, but when Eli says, “It’s not for sale,” Sil and I totally lose it.
“Yolanda,” Néstor calls with a somewhat bored expression from the doorway, as he pushes up his glasses.
My jaw tightens automatically. “Adios,” I say to the others, waving with my water bottle. And since I’ve been warned repeatedly that it’s bad luck to wish someone good luck, I add, “I wish you all the best of rotten luck.”
“The best of rotten luck to you too, darling,” Sil calls, kissing their palm with their purple-painted lips and blowing an imaginary kiss to me.
“The bestest of rotten luck,” Colette says, winking.
Coming out of his backbend, pulling his biketard into place, Eli chimes, “The best of rotten luck, Yo!”
Smiling at the nickname Eli has spontaneously given me—maybe he’s warming up to me—I follow Néstor out the door. Without looking to make sure I’m following, he leads me around to the stage.
The stage is raised, so my view is blocked, but even this partial view of the towering and packed stands sends my stomach coiling into knots so tight a sailor with a decade’s worth of experience on the high seas couldn’t untie them. I sip again at my water. I don’t want to overhydrate, but I won’t be able to speak to Miguel with such a dry throat.
“Stand here,” Néstor says, pointing at an X at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the stage, before shoving his glasses up his nose. “When I signal you, head up those steps, walk across the stage, and start your routine on the spot marked there.”
I nod, even though I don’t need his direction. We’ve practiced enough, and I can hear the announcers clearly from here, so I’ll know when they call my name. Still, it’s one less thing I need to think about, and the transformation of the set is disorienting.
My gaze travels to the large screen. It’s the only way I can see all of what’s happening, since the stage is raised and I’m too low to the ground. The guest judges from Dance Your Bleep Off break down the elements of Fonzie’s program, pointing out aspects of the routine they think were hardest and most impressive.
The camera pans to Easton in the front row. Dressed in a dark blue suit with blond locks framing his face, he commands attention. Especially, mine. It’s not only that I find him incredibly attractive; it’s that, once he drops his gruff exterior, he’s kind, funny, and interesting.
I’ve got to put him out of my mind. If I think too hard about him watching me, I’ll probably trip, spin out of control, and fall of the stage, right on top of him. Nightmare.
“Go, go,” Néstor says, surprising me.
I blink at him and his outstretched hand. Ay. Did I just space out? I hand him my water bottle and start up the stairs.
“Smile,” he says, grinning wide at me.
My head suddenly hurts, but I smile like a crazed jack-o’-lantern as the overhead lights assault my eyes.
You’d think the second time I went live I’d be a lot less nervous and sick to my stomach. I’m not. I’m actually sicker. Noticeably so. And the usually dependable muscles in my thighs wobble as I climb the stairs.
Dizziness swamps me. My vision dims. The stairs seem to tilt. Ay. This feeling is not normal and not nerves. Am I… sick?
I focus on the camera operator, who steps back, giving me the room to get up onto the stage.
There’s a rush of clapping from the audience that drenches my hearing like the roar of the ocean. Missing the last step, I slam my calf against the metal edge of the stage and pitch forward. The audience gasps as I fall onto both palms.
From his place across the stage, Mateo stands up. It looks as if he’s about to charge over. I bumble to my feet. Smile. Wave my stinging hands to signal I’m okay.
Head buzzing, stomach pitching, heart squeezing, I walk across the stage. The hot sting of scraped skin aches under my red leggings and across my palms.
The camera operator slides out of my way, but I’m sure she’s getting a close-up of my tight grimace-smile.
Trembling, I take my spot. An overwhelming roll of nausea bubbles up my throat. Moisture washes over my tongue. Cold cascades down my body. Mateo starts playing.
I don’t dare move. Not yet.
Giving me a concerned look, Mateo mouths, Bien?
I nod slightly. He starts again. There’s nothing for it, sick or not, I have to perform.
I begin my routine. Blood thrums in my ears muffling my hearing. I lose a beat, but I continue doggedly. Swallowing past the flood of moisture, I rock my hips and raise my arms. Sweat drips into my eyes. I leap into my first big move, landing on a leg that buckles slightly before I snap it into place.
It gets worse from there.