Chaos Choreography
Page 25
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
I rewarded him for his clever placement with a kiss. He kissed me back, so I felt compelled to kiss him again. This somehow turned into several minutes of us passing the kissing responsibility back and forth, my arms remaining locked around his neck the entire time. A few of my fellow dancers whistled or catcalled amiably as they walked past, but I ignored them. I had more important things to do.
Finally, Dominic let go and asked, “Well? Was it everything you hoped it would be?”
“It was pretty much exactly what I expected,” I said. “I have to go see the official housing, but I should be able to sneak out after sunset. Meet you back at our usual spot?”
“Ah, yes; I’d missed this phase in our relationship. The intrigue. The subterfuge. The frequent need for tetanus shots.” Dominic kissed me again. “I’ll see you there.”
I let him go, and watched, only a little regretfully, as he walked away. It was going to be weird, sleeping by myself. But who knew? Maybe this was going to get us back to New York.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said, and turned to head for the back of the room. It was time to fill out my paperwork and meet my roomies.
Five
“The only place you shouldn’t sleep when you have the chance is a den full of bears and rattlesnakes, and if you’re tired enough, even that turns negotiable.”
—Frances Brown
The Crier Apartments, privately owned by Crier Productions, about an hour later
ADRIAN CRIER WAS A SMART MAN: everyone who’d ever had cause to work with him knew that. Being a smart man, he’d invested in Burbank real estate more than twenty years ago, which had helped to fund his production company. Among his assets were several apartment buildings, one of which was kept perpetually open in order to house the people who came to work on his various shows—people like us.
We’d all stayed in the Crier Apartments before, and there was something oddly comforting about climbing the exposed exterior stairs to the second floor. The building followed the kind of open design that only works in deserts and places that get minimal amounts of rain: all the apartments had doors that opened on the outside, and were built around a central courtyard that contained a fountain and a barbecue grill, as well as a great deal of aquamarine tile. It was like looking down into an empty swimming pool. It also echoed weirdly, something that was being clearly illustrated by the people who were shouting across it to their friends.
“I am so glad we’re sharing a bedroom,” I said to Lyra, as I unlocked the door to our temporary home. “I know you’re not weird.”
“And I know you are weird,” she said amiably. “Do you still sneak out the window in the middle of the night?”
“Yup,” I said. I opened the door and braced it with my suitcase before turning to take Lyra’s duffel bag. As a jazz dancer, her costumes took up substantially more space than mine. Add that to the fact that I was using Dominic as off-site storage for half my stuff, and it was obvious why she needed help. “Do you still whistle in your sleep?”
“Sometimes.” She eyed my single bag dubiously as she pushed past me. “Are you planning to get eliminated in the second week?”
“David’s delivering the bag with my shoes in it later,” I said.
Lyra smirked. “You know he can’t come in, right? Show rules.”
“Right.” Show rules: no visitors were allowed in the apartments, and while our friends and family could visit if they wanted, no one was supposed to go and show them around. Everybody did, of course. We just had to make sure the producers never noticed.
The apartment was small enough to be compact and big enough to be cozy, skirting the line between “reasonable housing for four people” and “dormitory” with consummate skill. Lyra and I were the first to arrive. We claimed the back bedroom, farthest from the echoing courtyard, and I dumped my stuff on the bed next to the window. It would be easier to slip in and out if I didn’t have to negotiate a sleeping body in addition to everything else.
Lyra looked at the bed I’d chosen and shook her head in amusement. “Oh, look, Val’s next to the window. Whoever would have guessed? Not me. Never me. I know nothing.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” I said, taking a moment to nab the note from my waistband. As expected, it said “See me later.” Brenna wanted to talk. “Do we know if the boys were able to trade for the other bedroom?” Anders and Pax—Lyra’s original partner—had been deep in negotiations when we left the theater. We were allowed to set up coed rooming arrangements if we wanted, as long as it didn’t distract from our work, and sometimes sharing space with your dance partner could be a real advantage. If you wanted to practice at three in the morning, you could do it in your living room, instead of in the courtyard. Big help.
Finally, Dominic let go and asked, “Well? Was it everything you hoped it would be?”
“It was pretty much exactly what I expected,” I said. “I have to go see the official housing, but I should be able to sneak out after sunset. Meet you back at our usual spot?”
“Ah, yes; I’d missed this phase in our relationship. The intrigue. The subterfuge. The frequent need for tetanus shots.” Dominic kissed me again. “I’ll see you there.”
I let him go, and watched, only a little regretfully, as he walked away. It was going to be weird, sleeping by myself. But who knew? Maybe this was going to get us back to New York.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said, and turned to head for the back of the room. It was time to fill out my paperwork and meet my roomies.
Five
“The only place you shouldn’t sleep when you have the chance is a den full of bears and rattlesnakes, and if you’re tired enough, even that turns negotiable.”
—Frances Brown
The Crier Apartments, privately owned by Crier Productions, about an hour later
ADRIAN CRIER WAS A SMART MAN: everyone who’d ever had cause to work with him knew that. Being a smart man, he’d invested in Burbank real estate more than twenty years ago, which had helped to fund his production company. Among his assets were several apartment buildings, one of which was kept perpetually open in order to house the people who came to work on his various shows—people like us.
We’d all stayed in the Crier Apartments before, and there was something oddly comforting about climbing the exposed exterior stairs to the second floor. The building followed the kind of open design that only works in deserts and places that get minimal amounts of rain: all the apartments had doors that opened on the outside, and were built around a central courtyard that contained a fountain and a barbecue grill, as well as a great deal of aquamarine tile. It was like looking down into an empty swimming pool. It also echoed weirdly, something that was being clearly illustrated by the people who were shouting across it to their friends.
“I am so glad we’re sharing a bedroom,” I said to Lyra, as I unlocked the door to our temporary home. “I know you’re not weird.”
“And I know you are weird,” she said amiably. “Do you still sneak out the window in the middle of the night?”
“Yup,” I said. I opened the door and braced it with my suitcase before turning to take Lyra’s duffel bag. As a jazz dancer, her costumes took up substantially more space than mine. Add that to the fact that I was using Dominic as off-site storage for half my stuff, and it was obvious why she needed help. “Do you still whistle in your sleep?”
“Sometimes.” She eyed my single bag dubiously as she pushed past me. “Are you planning to get eliminated in the second week?”
“David’s delivering the bag with my shoes in it later,” I said.
Lyra smirked. “You know he can’t come in, right? Show rules.”
“Right.” Show rules: no visitors were allowed in the apartments, and while our friends and family could visit if they wanted, no one was supposed to go and show them around. Everybody did, of course. We just had to make sure the producers never noticed.
The apartment was small enough to be compact and big enough to be cozy, skirting the line between “reasonable housing for four people” and “dormitory” with consummate skill. Lyra and I were the first to arrive. We claimed the back bedroom, farthest from the echoing courtyard, and I dumped my stuff on the bed next to the window. It would be easier to slip in and out if I didn’t have to negotiate a sleeping body in addition to everything else.
Lyra looked at the bed I’d chosen and shook her head in amusement. “Oh, look, Val’s next to the window. Whoever would have guessed? Not me. Never me. I know nothing.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” I said, taking a moment to nab the note from my waistband. As expected, it said “See me later.” Brenna wanted to talk. “Do we know if the boys were able to trade for the other bedroom?” Anders and Pax—Lyra’s original partner—had been deep in negotiations when we left the theater. We were allowed to set up coed rooming arrangements if we wanted, as long as it didn’t distract from our work, and sometimes sharing space with your dance partner could be a real advantage. If you wanted to practice at three in the morning, you could do it in your living room, instead of in the courtyard. Big help.
