I trade this upsetting thought for another one. When I get to the hospital, Beau Landry will be there. And if he didn’t like me before, he probably hates me now. I really don’t want to face him again. If what Mr. Hebert said is true—that Beau would be my substitute dance teacher—I don’t know what I’ll do.
Please, God, let Mr. Hebert be just fine.
Maybe it’s not a broken elbow. Maybe it’s just a bruise or a sprain, and in a day or two, he’ll be fine. And we’ll be able to pick up right where we left off.
Which was still on the very basics of Cajun dancing. Because I’m a total klutz. I have the coordination of a newborn giraffe. For the three seasons ofHexed, I was able to keep my ungainly ways from holding me back. Yeah, everyone knew I was accident prone and made jokes about how all they had to do to find the trip hazards on set was to let me loose for five minutes. But that was no big deal. I don’t have a problem laughing at myself.
And while fight choreography was my very least favorite activity, it didn’t happen often. Mostly, I could get away with jump cuts and rely on my stunt double. Plus, with a fight scene, looking tough is more important than looking graceful. Even so, I’m lucky that Raven Blackwell isn’t usually called upon to fight. Most of the time, she just has to run and jump and fly on a broomstick, which really just involves me leaning forward awkwardly on a prop. Frankly, it’s easier than the running and jumping.
But nothing is as bad as dancing. Yet Mr. Hebert was really helping me. I was at least more relaxed when he taught me. I can’t see being relaxed with Beau Landry. No way.
In the thirty minutes I’ve known him, he’s been judgy, rude, and impatient—everything I hate in a teacher.
This is going to be a disaster.
I shut my eyes against the despair. But instead of imagining Beau’s scowl, I see his back. And it’s not my imagination. It’s a memory.
I see the outline of his shoulders, the spread of his stance—and the way his butt excels at the art of wearing jeans—because he planted himself right in front of me when that junkie recognized me.
He didn’t even let that guy put a toe on the porch steps, and I’m grateful.
Even if he doesn’t much like me—and I’m not a big fan of his—I’m grateful. And maybe I can remember that if Mr. Hebert can’t teach me for a while. Besides, what choice do I have? I’ve got to learn these routines. At least the dance scene is one of the last to be filmed, thanks to Moira and her negotiating skills. So I have two months to get it together, and if Beau Landry is the one who’s going to get me there, I’ll have to make the best of it.
The Uber driver pulls up to the emergency room entrance. I thank him and get out, texting Ramon to find out where to go. But my phone rings before I even step through the automatic doors.
Moira.
I slink to the side of the entrance and answer. I’d rather take this out here instead of in front of an audience.
“Why did you hang up on me?” Her voice could shave glass.
“I didn’t hang up on you. I told you I had to go.” I just didn’t tell her it was because a street person was hassling me.
“What was so urgent that you couldn’t answer my questions?”
“What was so urgent?Moira, we’re in the middle of a medical emergency.” I think I learned to deflect when I was about four. The skill has served me well over the years. “I’m standing outside the hospital right now. Can we talk about this later?”
The line goes silent.Uh oh.
“Where’s Ramon?”
I have no idea where Ramon is. Or Sally. Or Mr. Hebert. Or even Beau Landry. But I can’t go with that. “He’s parking the car.” I learned to lie when I was about two. I don’t like to do it. I’d rather act. But desperate times and all that.
Dropping me off somewhere and parking the car is something Moira would approve of Ramon doing. So, as far as she is concerned, that's where he is. Who knows? He might really be parking the car. I’m sure he had to park it at some point, I rationalize.
“Where’s David?” At first, I don’t know who she means, but then I realize she’s talking about Mr. Hebert. I don’t get how she could refer to him by his first name. He’s like someone’s grandpa. The kind of gentleman who makes you realize why you should respect your elders.
But Moira doesn’t respect her elders. She respects money, and I don’t think Mr. Hebert has too much of that.
“Uh, I think he’s inside.”
“Youthink?”
Shit.
“W-well,” I stammer, “in admitting, I mean. Not in the actual ER yet.” I think this is right. Itsoundsright. I mean, if you’re not, like, bleeding out or in cardiac arrest, they make you go through admitting, right?
I’m taking a gamble that Moira doesn’t know for sure either.
