The Winner: A Ballroom Dance Novel by Erin Bomboy

Author:Erin Bomboy
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-9984830-4-7

Chapter 29

Nina: It Sounds Like a Joke

"The season is right around the corner," Maxine said.

"Are we ready?" Jorge asked.

"As ready as you're going to be. You need to get out on the floor and show the judges what you're doing. If it's not working, we need to rethink immediately. And if it’s working, we need to make it better, as quickly as possible."

My left knee shook in terror while my right knee wobbled in pain. The last competition I’d danced in was the one in Baltimore where Maxine had told Oleg and me to retire. I wiped my palms, clammy with ambition and nerves, on my skirt. The enormity of what Jorge and I, a Latin boy and a Standard girl, two kids born of immigrants from the outer boroughs, were trying to do hit me hard.

"Costumes?" Jorge asked as he massaged his left hip. He’d done this before, but he was doing it with more frequency and intensity. I wanted to ask him about it, but it might draw attention to all the rubbing I was doing to my knee. So I kept my mouth shut.

"They need to bold and sexy.” She swiveled her gaze to me. “I know you're used to being covered up when you dance, but now isn't the time to be demure."

A dressmaker volunteered to sponsor us due to our previous accomplishments. Maxine went with us to the first appointment. She selected primary colors: stoplight red, swimming-pool blue, sunflower yellow. The silhouettes featured cutouts, low backs, plunging necklines, and slits in the skirt.

It was nothing compared to a Latin costume, but my cheeks burned self-consciously the first time I tried on the ball gown Maxine had chosen. If these slivers of fabric tacked together could even be called that. The dress consisted of two tiny diamonds of blue satin for the top attached to a large triangle of skirt, slashed with a thigh-high slit.

"I feel like a showgirl," I said when I walked out of the fitting room. "I’m ready to join a kick line."

"Sell it, darling,” she said. “None of this will work if you don’t believe in it.”

Jorge had his own problems. He pulled at the sleeves of his blue suit coat. "How can anybody dance in this much clothing?"

He took dance position with me, our torsos pressing into each other. “I can’t feel your body,” he said with a grumble. “How am supposed to lead if I’m separated by all this fabric?”

My cheeks heated up although he meant it benignly.

"Practice, practice," Maxine said.

Practice, practice was all we did. We had so much information to apply—from Maxine and from each other—that we pushed running rounds to the evening. Long after everyone left, we would stay in the studio, running round after round.

It could have been awful. It was late and we were tired, but when one of us would droop, the other would swoop in with a joke or a cup of tea.

Our deficiencies were so pronounced that, out of desperation, we committed to everything together.

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