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“Suuuuper hot weather today,” Moma says. Moma is the mom who drove me to all of my lessons while Mama B critiqued the fuck out of them over dinner. “We took the boat out but made sure to set the timer so we could watch you.”
“Are you getting rest, honey?” Mama B asks. “You looked a little lackluster out there. We think that you—”
I tapEndbefore they can say anything else and turn the shower on. I’m an expert at blocking things out, but I’m not good enough to allow my parents’ harsh critique to affect the rest of my night.
I have pre-show and post-show rituals and it wrecks my mood if I don’t do both. I rub the cold cream on my face and get some of the heavy makeup off while the hot water sluices over my tired muscles. A fusion of colors from makeup, blood, soap—the essence of a prima ballerina—swirls down the drain. Soaking my feet comes later, once I’m home.
With my hair turbaned in a towel, I pop three almonds into my mouth and get the rest of the makeup off. I debate whether to put any on for the after-party. My skin is clear and rosy from exertion and the scrubbing; I decide to re-apply mascara and leave it at that.
Twisting my wet hair up in a messy topknot, I then secure the towel around my body and walk to the scale where I weigh in. Satisfied, I tell my Silverbook to play Lindsey Stirling and then walk to the large picture on the wall. Tilting it up with one hand, I open the safe with the other, and once it clicks, I reach in and pull out the latest score. This bracelet should bring in several thousand, easy. I run my fingers over the smooth stones and nearly lift it to my wrist to try it on. They’d all been so enamored with the End Man, it had been an easy steal. My fingers barely flicked at the clasp before it dropped off her wrist. I wonder how long it took her to notice it was gone. I tuck it in my clutch, a faint smile on my face, and finish getting ready for the party.
Part of our duties with the company require us to attend the after-parties.
The taxi lets me off in front of the hotel lobby, and I take my time walking to the ballroom, plucking a glass of champagne off the tray of a waiter who passes. It’ll have to do until I can get to a little more vodka; I need one glass each night to dull the pain.
Mrs. Fiore stops me, her hand on my arm. I smile through my dislike, trying not to look at her belly, which is swollen gracefully beneath her dress. I once heard her telling a friend that she struggled to decide between a six or seven-month swell; she wanted to look ripe, but not too ripe. Since the dawn of time, women have made a trend of strange fashion statements. Japanese women dyed their teeth black in a tradition known asohaguro, and in medieval England, they plucked their hairlines to make them appear as if they were receding. In my time, women disfigure their bodies to look pregnant.
It’s tragic really, that we can go to all of this trouble to appear pregnant, and yet, there is still something miraculous needed to actually produce a viable pregnancy. There’s more to it than an egg cell and sperm cell combining and fertilizing or we wouldn’t be having trouble keeping the Regions populated. But, by all means, let’slookfertile!
“Lovely performance tonight, Phoenix,” she says, resting a hand on her belly.
“Thank you. How is Leon?”
“Ah, he’s well. Painting his way to the top, he tells me. I can barely pull him from the studio.”
Mrs. Fiore’s husband was born in the Black Region as Leona Fiore. She was going to inherit her family's oil business until she decided she wanted a sex change. With the Black’s new ban on sex change, Leona gave up her right to the family business and escaped to the Blue to become Leon...and a painter.
“Excuse me, I see someone I very much need to say hello to. Have a wonderful night, Mrs. Fiore.”
There is no one, of course, but I move through the crowd quickly, trying to appear as if I am on a mission. I see the same bag of wind who tries to feel me up at each party and skirt to the left, diverting her. She’s old enough to be my mother and then some. These motherfuckers think if they throw enough money at us we’ll bend. I only bend for the stage.
Lex and Bellange round the corner in front of me and I inwardly groan. It’s too late to go in the other direction. They’ve already seen me. I dated Lex for a while after he completed his change, but it got too complicated dancing for the same company. He wanted to get serious; I didn’t. We’re still close, but now that he’s sleeping with Bellange, it’s harder to be around him.
Her grip tightens on Lex’s arm when they get closer. It takes all of my willpower to grit my teeth and not bare them.
“Lex, Bellange,” I greet them first. High road, yada yada.
Lex’s eyes roam over my face and go down, getting stuck on my breasts before meeting my eyes again. I give the two of them three weeks, a month, max, before he moves on.
“Your dress is cute,” Bellange says. “Is that last year’s Vega?”
She tries for a double put-down, as if wearing anything “cute” or last season is the worst.
I frown. “I’d never shop Vega. Their warehouse practices are despicable. Basically, a sweatshop being run right out of the lower end.”
Her mouth opens and closes, momentarily shut down. She perks up when she sees my glass. “Are you really drinking champagne? You’ll be so puffy tomorrow.” She shakes her head and puckers her lips.
“One glass won’t hurt,” Lex says, smiling at me.
I smirk at Bellange and she huffs, pulling on Lex’s arm. I lift my glass to them both and walk away.
“She’s such a bitch,” I hear her say. I don’t stick around to hear Lex’s response.
“Hello, little thief,” I hear behind me.
A tiny jolt surges through my body, heartbeat pulsing in my head. A hand on my arm stops me and I twist around, coming flush with Jackal Emerson. He lifts my chin up to meet his eyes and it looks like he’s studying them. He laughs and I glare at him.
“What are you doing? Let go of me,” I snap.
