chapter 19

Lillian saw hurtfill Blue’s face, and then it was gone. Like trading out a stage set, the sweet, blushing woman who’d rambled about Mount Everest was gone, and in her place was a blue fire, a woman who could entrance an exhausted audience, a woman who carried a pen so she could sign women’s bodies because women wanted her to mark them.

Lillian reeled on the camera operator.

“You will not put that in the show.”

Lillian hadn’t meant it. Or maybe she had. Sort of. But with sociocultural context. The oversexualizing of the Black body. The expectation that Black dancers find their African roots no matter how many generations of their family lived in LA. Everything her mother had fought for, that she’d fought for, that she’d sacrificed everything for was on the line. And Lillian had messed up and spit out words that were near the truth but not the truth.

“Erase it,” Lillian hissed.

Blue’s pain was not for Middle America to enjoy over a Hungry-Man dinner. The camera operator’s weary expression said Lillian would never win on that front.

Sarah, the red-haired woman who was supposed to fight with Imani, glared at Lillian. Blue didn’t return. Lillian longed to say, I didn’t mean it like that. Tell her I didn’t. But Sarah’s expression said Lillian would do as well with her as with the camera operator. The rest of the afternoon dragged on, one artificial conflict after another. Lillian messed up the choreography and forgot to spot and got dizzy in a simple pirouette.

Finally, Imani pulled her aside.

“Are you okay?”

Lillian barked, “Yes,” then “no, I’m not,” and then “your cabriole is stiff.”

Talk about mixed messages.

And distraction. Lillian couldn’t have this. She was messing up because she had inadvertently hurt the feelings of a woman who was eavesdropping on an argument Lillian had to win. Pascale would have had to explain twerking to her children. Someone would make a GIF of Imani’s ass. And Lillian would have to face Eleanor, who’d lecture her about not letting the media control the narrative. Eleanor would be too classy to state the thesis out loud. You were in charge and you didn’t protect them. And the fact that Blue wanted to make that about herself and her troupe was not Lillian’s fault.

Except it kind of was.

After the show released them, Lillian went back to her apartment. Kia was out. Lillian lay on top of the covers on her bed. Not her fault. They barely knew each other. Blue shouldn’t care what Lillian thought. Except it wasn’t about fault. Lillian wasn’t the defendant in a court case. She just needed Blue to feel better. And she needed to focus, and Blue would be less of a distraction if Lillian could erase the flash of hurt she’d seen in her midnight-blue eyes before Blue stepped back into character. Lillian would apologize, not for caring about her dancers’ reputations but for phrasing it so crassly. She should have summoned Eleanor’s cool authority and given Bryant a lecture on the legacy of racism in modern film and television. Then she could have told him about the Brassavola orchid until he locked himself in a yurt to escape.

Lillian sat up. What was she doing lying on her bed? This was not an unsurmountable problem. She’d find Blue. Explain. And it’d be fine. If Blue stayed pissed, that was on her. Actually, that’d be for the best. She and Blue would stay away from each other. Except not right now, because right now she needed to find her.

Lillian rose, put on a white blazer over the T-shirt and jeans she’d changed into when she returned to her apartment. The only pair of jeans she’d brought… no, the only pair she owned. Did she own another T-shirt too? Of course she did. Somewhere. She should change into a suit. She heard Eleanor in the back of her mind. A Black ballerina’s standards must be higher than anyone else’s in the room. Whatever. She put on the sneakers she wore to work out.

The halls of the Lynnwood Terrace were empty, but Lillian could hear voices coming from the apartments. A blast of hip-hop music suggested she was walking past Effectz’s rooms. There was laughter coming from inside the apartment assigned to Imani and Pascale. She paused at the door before knocking. Their laughter died down as soon as Imani opened the door.

“Quick question.” Lillian gestured to Imani to follow her into the hall.

Imani looked curious as she followed Lillian.

“Do you know which apartments are Velveteen Crush’s?” Lillian asked as matter-of-factly as she could.

“I think they’re above us.” Imani cocked her head. “Why? Is this about rehearsal?” Imani took in Lillian’s sneakers and jeans. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Lillian snapped.

“You’re wearing sneakers.”

“You’ve seen me in sneakers three hundred days out of the year.”

She should have worn a suit.

“Yeah, but not in public.” Imani looked genuinely concerned, as if Lillian had shown up drenched.

And suddenly it felt like a lot of work to find something curt to say to remind Imani that Imani didn’t have to be concerned about her. That wasn’t Imani’s responsibility, and Lillian’s life was not her business. Lillian sighed.

“I pissed off Blue Lenox.”

“I guessed. Weren’t you supposed to?”

“Not like that.”

“Like how?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lillian turned to go.

“Did you hurt her feelings?” Imani said, as though it was hard to process the idea of Lillian caring about someone’s feelings.

“Yes.”

Imani shouldn’t look that surprised. Lillian wasn’t a monster.

“Are you going to go apologize?” Imani asked.

“Yes,” Lillian snapped. As unbelievable as that is, I’m going to apologize.

“Cool.” Imani’s expression settled somewhere between surprise and approval. She pushed open the door to the apartment and called in. “Hey, Axel, where’d you say Blue was?”

Her dancers were hanging out with Axel from Velveteen Crush. Lillian peeked in. The man who dressed like he was perpetually ready to give legislative testimony—see, wearing a suit wasn’t that odd—was there too. And the woman with the dark eye makeup.

“She was bummed out about something,” Axel said. “She went to get dinner alone. Try the Neptune.”