3. The Dancer

THREE

THE DANCER

BECCA brOOKS

I shouldn't be this grumpy while performing the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from the Nutcracker ballet in August—in the dry Las Vegas heat of a record-breaking one hundred and four degrees.

But I am, and my attitude shows in my routine.

I know it.

The judges of my audition know it.

One even shakes his head with a frown as he marks me down on his scorecard. Probably with a comment like, "She had so much potential. What the hell happened to her?"

Everything happened. Just…everything.

I came to Las Vegas a year ago, so na?ve after college, with high hopes and dreams. My position as a soloist in the newly formed Las Vegas Symphony and Ballet Company was all but secured. My fast-track to my dream of making it in ballet a sure bet.

Then life smacked me across the face and said, "Oh no, girl. Think again."

I finish my routine, and the judges avoid my eyes as they fill out their forms. Not even one glance up with a flatline good-try-but - we-feel-so-sorry-for-you type of smile.

How disappointing? But I'm more disappointed in myself.

Just like every girl who falls in love with pink satin pointe shoes, I dreamt of being a principal dancer for the prestigious New York Ballet company. To make it as one of ninety dancers is statistically less achievable than a high school player hoping to make it into the professional leagues of any sport.

I can forget all about my New York Ballet dreams. After struggling in Nevada, I now hope simply to pay my share of the rent.

I thank the judges nicely, with as much of a pleasant smile as I can muster. With my carriage upright, and my neck extended, chin high, I turn out my toes in an exaggerated ballet walk, always the picture of elegance on the outside, while inside I'm dying.

Once I'm out of the room, down the hall, around the corner, and locked in the bathroom stall, I collapse against the wall, shoulders slumping. My chin lowers to my chest, and I let the tears fall too easily for my tastes.

Only I don't have time to dwell on my problems. If I'm late again to work, I'll have more problems to deal with.

I untie the pink satin ribbons from around my ankles and remove my shoes. "Better luck next time," I whisper, and toss them into my bag.

Out comes my skimpy server uniform of red velvet with a plunging neckline and a hemline that rides up my ass too much; in goes my new pastel blue leotard. My white ballet tights get traded for black. Oversized pink sweats and a t-shirt with the Bellagio logo on the front cover up the entire ensemble.

There's always that audition next week for a holiday Radio City type of ensemble at one of the casinos on the strip. I've been practicing my high kicks ever since I saw the call for dancers, and surprisingly, it's marketed as a family-friendly show, which in Vegas terms means the dancers won't be topless. And those jobs are few and far between and the competition fierce among dancers to audition for it.

If I wanted to take my clothes off, there'd be fifty jobs for me tomorrow, but I don't.

I was born to be a dancer, and somehow, someway, I'll make it. But right now, I need to make a paycheck.

When I arrive at work, I rush in and punch the time clock with a minute to spare. I catch a glare from the boss, Eddy. "I'm here, so don't give me that look," I spout before I duck into the dressing room.

Calista rushes in after me. "Becca, there you are. How'd it go?" asks my gorgeous redheaded best friend, well, the only friend I have. When I left home in New York, I left no ties to anyone.

Most of all, to my parents.

I frown at her, keeping the tears at bay as I change out of the sweats.

"Oh. Not good, huh? Well, we can commiserate over Ben I can't give them the satisfaction.

She happened to be the part-time receptionist back then for the fledgling ballet company, and watched it all go down when they told me I wouldn't get the soloist position after all. I had nowhere to go and little money. She offered to put me up short-term until I figured out my next move. We're still roommates in her one-bedroom apartment.

"You had another fight? Is this the kind where he shows up at three in the morning groveling at our door then you two fuck all night long, and I have to lie there on the couch with the TV volume up and pretend I'm not listening?" My current living conditions aren't ideal, but it's cheap.

"Is that what you do?" She giggles. I love her and I'm grateful for the couch in her one-bedroom apartment. But I need my own place. As soon as I can afford it. "Nope. This is the kind where I've had enough of him."

"Hm." We'll see; I don't trust that this is the end for them. I know this is how they like it, the push of the fight, the pull of sex to make it all better. Of course, these are simply my observations since I've had few long-term relationships.

Being passionate about dance has made me single-minded. Not to mention that I eat like a bird to maintain this figure, and boyfriends in the past hated that. It's getting harder to maintain the perfect ballet figure the older I get.

People expect a ballerina to have a long elegant neck, lean lines, a lack of curves, and practically no chest. If I eat a carb, my curves explode, and I usually wrap my chest to flatten it more when performing ballet. I didn't in today's audition and probably should have in order to get the role.

"How's the crowd tonight? Any big tippers? I sure could use the money. I bought a new leotard and pointe shoes for this audition, and regret it now," I lament. The receipts are in my bag, and I'll try to return them tomorrow.

That's the other problem with pursuing dance and going my own way in life—getting cut off from my parents' support. To them, my dancing was supposed to be nothing more than an expensive hobby, not a suitable career for the daughter of Robert Brooks, CEO of Falcomm and an aspiring politician.

Nothing in my formerly privileged life prepared me for being on my own in this seedy town, but Calista has been there for me every step of the way. Without her offering me a place to stay and this job at her uncle's Piazza Gentlemens Club, I don't even want to think where I'd be.

"It's getting rowdy. There's a few tables of hockey players who just arrived from their afternoon game. From bits of conversation, I think some are from the Denver Aspens, and some from the new Vegas team, the Gamblers." She wiggles her brows. "Get your flirt on, Becca. Aside from tips, maybe you could snag a man tonight."

"Oh right. Because a man in my life is exactly what I need," I sass back.

"Actually, it is. Think of how much easier your life would be with a sugar daddy. And I'll bet there's nothing like sex with a hot hockey player." She bumped me with her hip. "Ooh, the stamina those boys must have. Mm."

"Sounds like a great time," I laugh—a fake one—because I haven't had the heart to tell her I'm still a virgin. Her thing for hot hockey players lately grates on my nerves, constantly on the lookout for the guys from the new team. At least in his hellish hot town, the ice arena would offer some respite, but I don't intend on seeing a game. I roll my eyes as Calista leaves me and I finish getting ready.

Although a man in my complicated life is the last thing I need, I take a few minutes more to take my hair out of my tight ballerina bun. I tease it and spray it, and darken my makeup, anyway. Red lipstick is the final touch.

In the mirror, I shift my breasts and pinch my nipples so they perk up, which always results in better tips. I could pass for a Vegas showgirl as opposed to the spoiled, sheltered woman from wealthy parents. But this is my life now. I'm used to it. Oh, the things I've seen and heard since living in sin city—my old self would never have believed I'd be here.

As I exit the dressing room, I glance at the strippers getting ready. I've talked with a few of them, and I could easily join them, clear thousands in tips just showing off my assets. The dance part would be easy; the ogling from men would be difficult, knowing they'd only look at me as a thing to play with, with no regard for the artistry I'd put into my choreography.

As tempting as it is, I don't go there. I'll make it in dance without removing my clothes, thank you very much.