If Ever(4)

"Chelsea." Dominic catches up and steps in front of me. "Don't panic."

"I can't do this." I wring my hands. Taking chances is not what I do. I'm a survivalist. I play life safe.

"Yes you can," he says.

"I need to go." I search for the direction of my trailer, but I'm surrounded by a sea of little white boxes.

A PA appears around the corner and throws up his hands in frustration when he spots us. "We need you guys set!"

Dominic waves him off and steers me further into the maze of trailers. "We're going to walk this off. Take a breath before we return for the final line up."

"I can't go back in there. I made a fool of myself." I stop, but he pulls me along to keep me moving.

"No, you didn't. I've been throwing a lot of moves at you. I've been pretty harsh and you didn't deserve it. I take responsibility."

But his words glaze over me as I try to think of ways to get out of the show, like faking an appendicitis or running into traffic. At the end of the row, he guides me back toward the studio.

"As soon as dress rehearsal is over, we'll find a quiet spot and mark through the number. You've done it a hundred times in the past two weeks."

"I just want to go home," I plead.

He pauses to study my meltdown. "I know." And for a moment I think he actually feels sorry for me. "But we have to."

I struggle to keep my breathing even, giving into the fact I have no choice. "Hopefully we'll be voted off and I won't have to do it ever again." I kick a pebble out of the way, stubbing my toe.

"That's a definite possibility," he says, and there's something about his tone of voice that makes me wonder if he wants us to go home too.





2





An hour later with the dress rehearsal over and Dominic having marked the dance with me three times, I'm on my own. He insists we need to think of anything other than the show for a while, so he's off shooting hoops with a bunch of the other pro dancers. I wander back to my trailer to call Anna so she can talk me off the cliff, but on the way discover Hank dressed in his sequined cowboy outfit, lounging in a lawn chair outside his trailer. He holds up his glass in salute.

"You've got the right idea," I lean against his trailer, envious of his ability to remain calm.

"After that torturous experience, I feel like a damned fool. I deserve a couple stiff ones, don't you think?"

"Absolutely."

"Join me." He gestures to a stack of plastic tumblers on the steps.

I eyeball the bottle of amber-colored liquor. "Is it allowed?"

"Everyone around here's strung tighter than a virgin on her wedding night. Candace Capri is screeching in her trailer over the shade of her spray tan, and someone's smoking some wacky tobacky in the trailer behind me. As long as we show up on time, I'd guess anything goes."

I help myself to a glass. "I've never tried bourbon."

"No time like the present." He pours and sitting in the late afternoon wearing my sparkling costume, I have to agree that a bit of scorching booze down my gullet takes the edge off.





Just before show time, it's more than the dancers who are bursting with nerves. The crew, producers, and techies are running around trying to hide their panic. Clearly they haven't been to visit Hank. I'm introduced to the rest of the stars. Most say mild hellos and others appear too nervous, or in one case too altered, to pay much attention.

"Whatever you do, stay out of the way," Dominic instructs. "Otherwise you're likely to get bulldozed by a crew member or set piece."

I nod numbly both excited and terrified, watching the monitors backstage showing the packed audience. My shoes are squeezing off the circulation in my feet, my costume is creeping up my butt, and the adhesive pasties that are supposed to prevent a wardrobe malfunction are pinching my left nip. If only the effects of Hank's bourbon hadn't begun to wear off. The announcer warms up the crowd and suddenly it's all lights, camera, action as the band strikes the first note and the pro dancers take the stage for a mind-blowing opening number that leaves me feeling even more unworthy to be here.

Suddenly Dominic is at my side, leading me on stage for our four-second twirl and pose as each celeb and pro are introduced. Of course, this exposes me as an incredible fraud, as I'm the only person in the cast without an actual celebrity status. I'm "America's chance to dance."

We take our place with the other contestants, all bouncing to the music like a bunch of strung-out bobble heads. Cameras pan the line while I try not to puke on national television. Dominic is all smiles, totally at ease. I fake smile to the guy next to me, a pro partnered with an Olympic gold medalist in volleyball. He smiles brightly, and for a moment I feel part of the group. Before I know it, Dominic pulls me aside and the host, Marcus MacIntyre, introduces the first couple to dance, Molly Gibson, a reality dating show reject and her partner Pavel.

While we wait for our cue, Dominic marks through the number with me one last time. Others are stretching or having their hair and makeup retouched. Then I'm chewing on my newly painted nails and counting the minutes till this is over. Dominic slaps my hand away from my mouth.

Before I register what's happening, Mary Kay touches up my lip gloss and Dominic tugs me to the dance floor. Marcus, a tall man with a goofy expression, high forehead, and flat hair, commands the microphone with ease as he introduces me to the viewers.