Wallflower In Bloom (19 page)

I waited.

He didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “So what does that
mean
?”

“Basically,” my
DWTS
partner said, “it means we’ll do what we can.”

Practice what you preach, and remember that preaching takes practice
.

I
fell asleep like a ton of bricks, maybe even two tons. When I woke up I was a whole new simile: I felt like I’d been run over by a golf cart.

“That fish bowl is looking pretty good to me,” I said to Ginger and Fred.

I inched my way out of bed and hobbled into my little white bathroom. My calves felt as if they’d atrophied overnight and were now pulling my heels and knees in to meet each other. The muscles of my arms and shoulders were actually trembling, and the rest of me wasn’t far behind.

Reaching in to turn on the shower was a challenge. So was stepping over the side of the tub. I closed my eyes and waited for the hot water to work its magic.

When the water turned cold, I got out. It was possible that I was a little bit less stiff, but it was also possible that I was imagining it because I wanted it to be true. I wrapped a towel around me and hobbled out to my little white kitchen. I put an English muffin into the little white toaster that I’d discovered toasted only one side of the bread. While it was half toasting, I started a pot of scentless coffee.

I couldn’t believe it was morning already. I picked up my cell phone from the counter and thought about turning it on. Not because Joanie Baloney wanted me to, but because it might be a good idea to check messages one of these days. Tag and my parents were settled in at home by now, and basically this was a golf week for Tag. And a bowling week for my parents. Tag would be churning out some new chiasmuses between holes and texting me all day long with them. He’d want to talk strategy. He’d want me to hang out with him. He’d want to yell at me for what I’d done.

Just before I’d climbed into bed last night, I’d thought again about calling Steve Moretti. But who even answers their phone anymore? If only my father had written my e-mail address instead of my phone number on that little piece of paper he gave him. Although e-mail seemed pretty formal these days, too. Maybe I could text Steve instead. But it would be hard to fit whatever it was I had to say in a text message. I mean,
yo, whassup?
didn’t quite cover it. So maybe I could text him to ask when he might be available for a phone call, because what if I just called and took him by surprise and he didn’t even remember me and I could hear it in his voice. Or worse, what if he didn’t want to talk to me anymore and instead of just ignoring the ring until it went to voice mail, he pushed the End Call button, the ultimate blow-off. Somehow not answering my text would be less painful. At least I could pretend it had gotten lost in cyberspace.

I sat on the couch and gazed up at the poster of the
DWTS
mirror ball trophy that I’d adhered to the opposite wall with four chewed pieces of Orbit spearmint gum, since I hadn’t thought to buy tape. Back when we were in junior high and mirror balls were called disco balls, Tag was the first person I knew to get one. He hung it from a hook on the ceiling of his room and rigged up a spotlight with interchangeable lenses made out of blue, red, yellow, and green plastic. When you turned on the spotlight and gave the disco ball a spin,
hundreds of mirrored facets flashed endless patterns of light all over the room. I used to sneak in there when Tag wasn’t home, find a good song on his transistor radio, like Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” or the Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian,” and dance for as long as I dared.

I closed my eyes and meditated on what it would be like to stun the whole world with my amazing grace and charm and dancing ability. To carry the mirror ball trophy home with me, hell, maybe even buy it its own first-class seat on the plane. To hold the glittering orb in my hands as I assumed my rightful place as the new family star.

The coffeemaker gurgled and sent a final spurt of coffee into the pot, snapping me back to the new day. I put my cell back down on the counter. I had enough going on. As soon as I got the dancing thing under control, I’d reevaluate. But right now it was all about survival.

The English muffin popped up. On the one hand, I knew how much better it would taste if I turned the halves around so the other sides could toast, and on the other hand, I was really, really hungry. And if yesterday’s busy schedule and my fear of eating in front of my partner and his rock-hard abs were indications, peanut butter on an English muffin might be the high-calorie point of my day.

I slathered the peanut butter on thick, poured a cup of coffee, and added some milk. Then I grabbed the fish food and brought it into the bedroom so Fred and Ginger and I could have breakfast together.

When I opened the apartment door to leave, the super was standing there with his fist up, ready to knock.

He switched hands and held out his cell phone. “It’s your sister.”

“Which one?” I said.

The super glared at me. “Listen, lady, this isn’t in my job description.” He was barefoot and his hair was wet. A trench coat was belted
around his waist like a bathrobe, and water was dripping onto the linoleum floor.

“Sorry,” I said. “I just remembered. I don’t have a sister.”

Joanie Baloney’s voice squeaked from the super’s cell. “She does, too.”

I reached for the phone. “What?”

“Listen, I’m just trying to be a good sister. Mom and Dad and Tag are never going to speak to you again if you mess things up. Oh, and Dad says Mom wants you to call Tag, but honestly, I can just give him a message for you.”

“Everything’s under control,” I said. I was pretty sure it was even true, at least if you factored out the dancing part.

“Tag was just thinking how much easier it would be for you if I took a few things off your plate.”

The super made circles with his index finger, telling me to wrap it up, Hollywood style. A small puddle was forming between his feet.

“Sure,” I said. “That makes total sense.”

There was a beat of silence. “Great,” Joanie said.

“Okay, well, have a nice day.” I couldn’t find the hang up button so I just handed the phone to the super.

“Wait,” Joanie yelled.

The super shook his head and gave me the phone again.

“What’s the password?”

“Guess,” I said. As I handed the phone back to the super yet again, I took a moment to imagine everything grinding to a halt without me around to manage things. I had to admit, I was thoroughly enjoying hearing my little sister squirm.

I found my way to the practice studio without a hitch. Ilya was already there. If he noticed that the black yoga pants and baggy T-shirt I was
wearing today looked a lot like the black yoga pants and baggy T-shirt I wore yesterday, he didn’t let on.

I sat on the edge of the small practice stage, easing out of my flip-flops and strapping on my dance shoes. I’d expected blisters, but I couldn’t find a single one. Amazingly, even though my feet hurt, they didn’t hurt any more than the rest of me.

Ilya and I had practiced for more than four hours yesterday. The
DWTS
rules said that you could only practice for five hours a day, and you had to take a thirty-minute break every two hours. You also had to take one day off a week, but since I’d already had the first seven days off, I was pretty sure that was not going to happen this week.

Ilya was already dancing around the room with an imaginary partner. I had to admit she was a lot lighter on her feet than I was. If I tiptoed away now, I wondered if he’d even miss me.

I pushed myself up into a standing position.

Ilya stopped. Maybe he heard my muscles scream.

He smiled. “Today the real work begins.”

A wave of buyer’s remorse hit me with tsunamilike force. What had I gotten myself into? I had a perfectly nice little life back home in Marshbury. I was good at my job and almost never felt like I was in over my head. Now I was so far over my head that I wasn’t sure it was still attached to my aching body.

Maybe my best bet would be to tuck my tail between my legs and catch the next plane home and face the inevitable family meeting.

“What,” my mother would say while one of Afterwife’s dinners heated in Tag’s professional-grade oven, “in the world were you thinking, Deirdre?”

“Apparently I wasn’t,” I’d say.

I’d peer down at my folded hands. The more pitiful I made myself look, the faster this would go and then we could eat. I was pretty sure I smelled Afterwife’s famous turkey-asparagus potpie.

“What a loozah thing to do,” Tag would say. Over the years, he’d developed just a hint of Madonna’s fake British enunciation. His Boston accent came back only when he was really, really mad.

“Give her a chance, son,” my father would say. “I think the guiding principle here is that we’ve all got to practice what you preach and remember that preaching takes practice.”

“Not now, Dad,” Tag would say.

“I think,” Joanie Baloney would say, “what we really need to discuss here is who can best handle Tag’s interests from this point forward.”

I’d glare at her. “Oh, shut up.”

She’d glare back. “You shut up.”

Maybe I’d stay in the
DWTS
competition after all. I took a deep, ambition-building breath.

“I’m pretty sore,” I said. “Do you think we could take it a little slower, just for today?”

Ilya crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing jeans and a tight purple short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned one button too low. Possibly two. His resemblance to Felix the Cat had completely disappeared. Today he looked like a dancer. I could only hope this would help my focus.

Ilya did his famous one-eyebrow raise. “No problem. Perhaps we should skip today entirely given that you are
pretty sore
. There’s a McDonald’s around the corner. Perhaps we could grab a breakfast sandwich and a double order of fries, and hang around and chitchat until the mall opens.”

I knew he was kidding, but I had to admit those McDonald’s fries sounded pretty good right about now. And I still needed to buy underwear.

“And then, in six days, when our first performance puts us. . .”

Ilya ran a hand through his slick-backed hair and stopped halfway, his fingers still in his hair.

“. . . At. The. Bottom. Of the.
Leaderboard
. . .”

I closed my eyes.

“Perhaps we can celebrate our embarrassment with a double-dip ice-cream cone.”

I pictured the huge black
DWTS
leaderboard sign with Ilya’s and my names way down at the very bottom. What would our combined scores on the first dance be? 14? 12? 6? How low could that leaderboard go?

Whether or not you are good at discipline, discipline she is always good for you
.

I
couldn’t think of another option, so I opened my eyes.

“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I wasn’t thinking about your reputation being at stake here.”

Ilya took his hand out of his hair and shrugged.

I’d never really thought about it from his point of view. I was the booby prize, the short end of the stick. Even if Kelly Genelavive was a thug with hair spray, at least she was a young, beautiful, famous thug with hair spray. And even though this might be the most embarrassing thing I’d ever do in my entire life, dancing was Ilya’s religion. His livelihood.