All Bets Are Off

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Ella Fordman: End of the Line

WARNING: I am not a dancer. Do not expect a masterpiece with the choreography displayed garishly below. You will be sorely disappointed.

I don’t know what I expected when I stepped out into the glaring spotlight of the stage and in front of the waves of people.

The crowds were a lot louder and bigger than I expected, and at least five hundred people sat in the rows of plush, overstuffed seats. I had expected two hundred at the most, and the crowd was stifling, to say the least, creating a hot, vibrant and utterly buzzing atmosphere that sent a coil of adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream.

And all of their eyes were on me.

A polite smattering of applause filled the auditorium, and I skimmed the toe of my heel against the ground, sucking in a deep breath and letting the heavy red velvet curtain fall away. I ignored the eager, jealous eyes of the onlookers; the heat of the lights and the thick tension in the air. All that was left was the stage, my improvised dance, and myself, who was nearly shaking with the nervous tension tightening all of my muscles.

As I counted the beats in my head, I began the dance, the one I’d had to make up within the last forty minutes. I twirled around the stage, doing grand jetes, pirouettes, and just about any other fancy flip I’d been taught in my customary dance classes. I added in the fancy footwork I’d had to edit out for Phoenix’s sake, and ran across the stage, flipping and performing jumps. Right now, it was less about a perfectly crafted routine and more about impressing the judges with dancing skills, since that was all I had to offer them.

A routine I’d once been so proud of—the one I’d spent hours with Phoenix deliberating over to make sure it was utterly perfect—had now gone to hell, and I had no idea what I was even going to do for the most part of this dance. Hoping for the best seemed like the better option—if not the only one.

The music built to the crescendo, making my heart immediately beat faster in my chest. This was the part where my normal, shy self turned into a beautiful, confident girl (in the dance I mean. I was still the nervous, quaking girl I’d been since the beginning of the night. No changes there.) This was the end of the part I’d been able to choreograph solely. From hereon in I was by myself, just me and my brain, which was shorting out like a keyboard ruined by spilt coffee.

Definitely not a good combination.

Just as the music reached its climax, I grabbed my white dress and tugged as hard as I could. There was a deafening, yet oddly satisfying, screech as the Velcro unlatched itself, and as I threw the heavy garment to the edge of the stage, there was a collective gasp from the audience—obviously this was a trick they hadn’t been privy to yet tonight. Well, points for originality then.

Underneath I wore a tight, lacy, sequined black and red dress. I spun around to begin the next—totally improvised—part of my play, and unexpectedly landed in the warm arms of Phoenix.

I choked in surprise, but his face was set with a grim determination, and he spun me around and continued the routine we had originally devised, as if he were a robot on autopilot. As if nothing was wrong and he had been doing the right thing all this time. Rage seethed inside of me, and I put all of my anger at him into the dance, and channeled those emotions. Hopefully this would make the dance more passionate. Right now I’d use anything as inspiration to stop myself from murdering him right here on the stage in front of all these people.