chapter 39

The next day,Izzy stood in front of the members of Velveteen Crush and the Reed-Whitmer Ballet Company in the large rehearsal space allotted to them for the group challenge. Two camera operators circled them. Izzy had to glance at Lillian every few seconds to take in just how beautiful she was and that she was still real because their nights together had been the most magical of Izzy’s life. If only she could talk to her, touch her. Anything. But the cameras were on them.

“Blue. Blue.” Arabella’s voice drifted into her consciousness. “Are you listening? Shape of You Dancewear uses child labor. I’m not going out there unless I’m covered in the CEO’s blood.”

“She doesn’t mean it,” Axel said.

Tock said, “We have plausible deniability.”

“Blue,” Sarah said and elbowed Izzy. “Blue, weigh in here.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Izzy said.

“You aren’t listening.” Sarah tapped her again. “Arabella wants to cover her shapewear in blood.”

“Real blood?” Izzy asked.

“The CEO’s,” Arabella said.

“Of course not,” Sarah said.

Lillian stood several paces away, watching Izzy with an amused half smile.

Malik pulled a pair of peach-colored tights from Jonathan’s hand.

“We can’t wear this. Look at these colors. Only one skin? These are like Aryan Nations tights.”

“I dyed my pointe shoes when I started dancing,” Pascale ventured in a peep. “My teacher said I had damaged them. They weren’t damaged. They were mine.”

“Give me neon,” Elijah said. “Magenta. My clothes don’t have to match my skin, but they better match my soul.” He gestured dismissively. “And my soul is not white-person Band-Aid color.”

Then everyone was talking at once except Izzy and Lillian.

“Make it bleed,” Arabella said.

Elijah said, “Those leotards wouldn’t cover my—”

“We don’t want to know.” That was Imani.

“Ms. Jackson?” Pascale said in much the same tone Sarah had said, Blue, weigh in here.

The voices intensified. No one was listening, but the number of hell yeahs suggested they all agreed on something.

As long as Lillian was watching Izzy, they were the only people in the room. And the weak winter sun coming through the high windows held all the magic of summer. If they could just stand here forever… if they weren’t about to enter a competition that could send one or both their troupes home. Home? Where would that be if Lillian was in LA and their connection dwindled to a few texts? How could Izzy be so elated and terrified and exhausted and energized? She should have taken Sarah’s advice and processed some feelings, because now she had too many.

Suddenly, Izzy felt laughter welling up from deep inside. Like one of those soda machines that shot CO2 into whatever beverage you wanted. A bubble of laughter broke through all her other feelings. Lillian was trying to keep her serious face on too. Izzy snorted. Lillian lost her last bit of composure. No one paid attention. Izzy hurried over and put a hand on Lillian’s shoulder. For a moment, they bent over, Izzy’s forehead to Lillian’s shoulder, Lillian’s cheek resting on Izzy’s hair, and they just laughed the kind of laugh that made you feel like the world would never end.

The debate over Shape of You Dancewear got louder. Axel’s voice rose over the rest.

“The coat is a prison, if the cat is still cold.”

Everyone stopped.

“What?” Imani said.

“The coat is a prison, if the cat is still cold,” Axel said like it was obvious.

“What coat?” Elijah asked.

“What cat?” Arabella raised her eyebrows in an explain yourself look.

And then everyone was laughing.

“I don’t want to do blood,” Pascale said when the group had caught their breath, “but I don’t want to wear this stuff the way it is.”

“We can’t fit it.” Sarah’s gesture took in herself, Arabella, Izzy, and Axel.

“They’re not even good capitalists,” Tock added. “They could make ten times the money if they made inclusive sizes.”

“There’s no such thing as good capitalists,” Arabella said.

“We could show them what these things should be,” Pascale piped up.

Sarah looked at the camera operators and then at Izzy. “You make half our costumes.” Sarah motioned for everyone to come closer. They huddled like a football team. “Let’s go back to your house. Dye the leotards. Tailor the clothing. Make this stuff fit us, not the other way around.”

“I’m up for that,” Malik said, “but would the show let us do it?”

“I don’t think we can let them know,” Sarah said.

The huddle moved in closer.

“The Prime Minister is always saying he wants realness. What’s more real than making something that fits us?” Sarah said.

It really should be Blue giving this speech, but Izzy couldn’t do it.

“It’s a risk,” Pascale said.

“I’m in,” Elijah said.

Imani said, “We can pretend to be working on whatever today, with the cameras. Tonight… where do we go to do this?”

“Blue’s got all the stuff we need, right, Blue?” Axel said.

“Perfect,” Imani said. “We fake doing it their way today. When we get out, we go to your house, Blue. We rip this shit apart and dye the hell out of it. Tomorrow’s a day off, so we can practice the real act in secret. Then another day in front of the cameras and then show time.”

There was a chorus of whispered yeahs and it’s worth its.

“Wait. Lillian.” Izzy grabbed Lillian’s hand and pulled her into the hall. “You haven’t told them about Reed and Whitmer pulling their sponsorship.” Izzy clasped Lillian’s other hand. “They don’t know what’s at stake.”

“Have you told them that you need the money for your theater?”

“No, but that’s just me. That’s not them. If we ripped up the Shape of You Dancewear… it’ll be our star performance or our last. They could vote us both off.” Izzy squeezed her eyes closed. “Everything I did”—starting Velveteen Crush, welcoming the worst performers, buying the theater, getting on the show—“I did it so some girl in Broken Bush would see us and think, I can be myself.”

“Not I have to squeeze myself into some size two body shaper.”

“Yeah.”

Lillian didn’t go pale, but something vibrant drained from her face.

“Everything I did,” Lillian echoed, “was so my dancers would belong in ballet, not just shove themselves in around the edges.”

“Basically we’d be endorsing a brand that refuses to recognize us.”

“Yeah.”

Izzy let go of Lillian’s hands and drew her into an embrace.

“We have to tell them.” Lillian rested in Izzy’s arms for a moment longer, then pulled away. “I’ll tell them about Reed and Whitmer. You tell your friends about the theater.”

“And it should be unanimous. If anyone doesn’t want to do this, we won’t.”

“Agreed.”

Back in the rehearsal space, Lillian drew her company to one side. Izzy drew Velveteen Crush to the other.

“We’ll only do this if everyone wants to,” Izzy said. “We’re family. You can say no.” She looked at each of her people in turn. Everyone nodded.

“What about you, Blue?” Sarah asked. “Do you want to?”

Izzy had to want this. Every time Velveteen Crush performed, she’d told her troupe that they were reaching people they’d never meet, representing diversity in gender, race, size, sexuality, and aesthetic. She couldn’t turn around now and go along with Shape of You Dancewear’s brand image.

“We’re not going to treat this fabric like some sacred thing that can’t be changed,” Izzy declared, loud enough that Lillian’s dancers looked over, “just like we don’t take society’s expectations and treat them like some sacred thing.” She was Blue Lenox doing what Blue did best. Rallying. Inspiring. Standing on top of the mountain at dawn saying, Follow me! “We define beauty.”

Lillian walked back, flanked by her company. They looked somber, but Lillian nodded.

“Let’s do this.”

An Uber van let the Reed-Whitmer Ballet Company out in front of Izzy’s house. Lillian wasn’t sure what she expected. A trailer covered in glitter? A high-rise with framed posters of famous strippers? In real life it was a small bungalow on a narrow street lined with terraced gardens and enormous oaks. Patches of daffodils sparked out of mossy rocks. Judging by the music pouring out from the front door, Izzy’s people were already there.

Izzy stepped out, framed by the light of the open door, just as she had been silhouetted in the door of the cottage on the coast.

“Welcome to my house!” she said with a theatrical bow. She beckoned the Reed-Whitmer dancers inside. “Make yourselves at home.”

From inside, Lillian heard cheers and greetings.

Izzy stepped outside and closed the door behind her. They stood on the dark porch.

“Welcome to my home,” Izzy said quietly, without the bow.

Shadows hid them from the street.

“I don’t usually invite women home,” Izzy said.

Lillian wore a sleeveless hoodie she usually used as a warm-up jacket. Izzy had told her this one time she’d have to sacrifice her principles and not wear a white suit. Now Izzy traced her fingers up Lillian’s arm. How could such a delicate touch light her up like this?

“You’re so strong.” Izzy’s fingertips lingered on Lillian’s bicep.

Lillian was stronger than all the women she slept with, even the other dancers. She didn’t think much about it. Now she felt a surge of something sweet and primal, her body flexing to say, I can protect you. Although the things Izzy needed protecting from weren’t physical, so instead she asked, “How are you holding up?” and they talked until they heard a roar of laughter from inside.

Inside, the house felt more like a craft party than the night that might make or break their careers. Someone had brought a tray of vegetables, and someone had set out bowls of dark chocolate. Three sewing machines were set up in front of the windows.

“Look at this, Ms. Jackson.” Pascale held up a leotard twice the size of Shape of You’s largest XL. “Malik fixed it. Did you know he could sew too?”

“My gram taught me,” Malik said.

Lillian glimpsed a home office. Three large desks held six large screens. A giant office chair sat in front of one of the computer stations, an enormous set of headphones hung over the top of the seat.

“My work,” Izzy said.

What did Izzy look like when she worked? Hyper-focused? Restless? Did she listen to music on her headphones or use them for gaming? This was Izzy’s everyday life. She sat at that desk. She drank from the Darth Vader head mug on that table. What would it be like to wander into the office and rub her shoulders when she’d been working for too long? Lillian snapped herself out of the domestic scene in her mind. She wasn’t moving into Izzy’s house.

“Elijah and Jonathan are out back, dyeing Shape of You Dancewear actual human colors,” Malik said.

“I suppose we’ve got to pitch in,” Izzy said, glancing longingly at the staircase that probably led to the bedroom.

Lillian wanted to go straight upstairs, but even if that had been an option, she didn’t want to miss this part. Malik showing Pascale how to use Izzy’s machines. Jonathan singing Boyz II Men. Pascale catching a drink before it tipped over with the grace of a well-trained mother. Arabella and Imani seemed united in quality control, checking fit on the altered garments and comparing skin tone until Jonathan and Elijah had perfectly dyed outfits. They even ran Izzy’s leotard through a light bleach bath to capture her moonlit complexion.

Izzy and Lillian helped out where they were needed, both of them hanging back a little, touching as they moved around each other. Lillian brushed a smear of glitter off Izzy’s face.

“How did you get glitter on you? We’re not even making anything with glitter,” Lillian whispered, loving the feel of Izzy’s warm skin beneath her fingertips.

“Hazards of being in a burlesque house.”

Lillian tucked a strand of hair behind Izzy’s ear. Behind them, she heard Elijah’s knowing “I called it” and Imani say, “Did you see the picture on Instagram?” They all knew. It felt good. Lillian turned around.

“Gossiping about your dance master is the first step to… to…”

“Having fun,” Imani called out.