Read Shall We Dance? Chapter 1 for free!

Copyright © 2022 by Caroline Frank

The dirty New York City rainwater cascades down the subway steps.  It’s pouring outside—one of those early morning freezing March showers that flood stations and cause sick accidents. Dark-gray water sluices down the right side of the stairway, and I do my very best to dodge the likely bacteria-infested water. I press myself up against the opposite wall as I make my way back to civilization, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world up in here. People keep shoving me aside, and I think longingly back to the days where I would have been able to just skip the crowded subways and afford an Uber. 

I used to be somebody.

I know it’s awful and obnoxious, but for half a second, I think it because, six months ago, I never would have had to take the subway during a torrential downpour. I would have checked the weather app on my phone and ordered a car to pick me up from the comfort of my 2,000-square-foot apartment on the Upper East Side. I would have walked out with my head held up high, not a care in the world.

But that was before I lost all of my money—or rather, before someone stole it.

I sigh and stop myself before tearing down this rabbit hole again.

It could have been worse. You still have your friends. You have a plan. You will survive. 

It could have been worse. You still have your friends. You have a plan. You will survive.

I repeat the words—my mantra—over and over again in my head, holding onto them for dear life, pushing myself through the crowd. When I’m finally on street level, I take a deep breath through my mask, stretching my chest, my lungs, filling them with as much air as possible, holding it in for a few seconds before exhaling. 

It will all be okay.

Thankfully, the entrance to the building where the dance studio is located is just at the end of the block, so my commute won’t take much longer. The rain is so bad, though, that I still need my clear, bubble umbrella. I struggle to pop it open and set out to the next phase in my life—an unexpected, yet welcome one, considering the circumstances. So what if I lost all my money and I’m absolutely broke? A lot of people go through worse and recover. At least my old agent was able to get me a job last minute, even after not having worked in years. Sure, it’s on one of those dance shows where D-list celebrities or washed-up former child actors (like yours truly) compete against each other. Where they take the opportunity to try and claw themselves back into the limelight in a super-obvious way. 

So what if it’s not very well-regarded in the acting community?  A gig’s a gig. And I desperately need one.

Celebrity Dance Battle is one of those guilty-pleasure shows you watch just to see how badly your favorite child actors have aged. Or how low reality stars will stoop to extend their fifteen minutes of fame.

When I stopped acting, I swore to myself I would never do anything like that—no celebrity cooking shows or sing-offs—especially since fame was never something I wanted. To me, it was a price I had to pay if I wanted to act (which, at the time, I did).

I used to watch trailers for those shows and snort derisively at them, making fun of the ridiculous things these “celebrities” would put themselves through. I’d feel sorry for them and wonder where their career went wrong.

Oh, God. Is that what people will think of when they see me out there doing the mambo on live television? 

My stomach turns, the nerves finally hitting me. This never would have happened if—

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, stretching my arms up a bit, repeating the same mantra—out loud this time.

“It could have been worse. You still—"

“Watch it!” Someone runs into me, nearly knocking me over.  “Jesus!” I hear a man yelp. “What the hell are you doing waving an umbrella around with your eyes closed on a crowded street like that?”

My eyes pop open, and I meet his gaze. He looks just about ready to kill me.

Stunned, I try to collect myself to apologize, but his eyes distract me. Half his face is covered by a black KN95 mask, so I can barely make out his features. But his eyes…damn. They’re hypnotic—blue fire, blazing in frustration. I’m positively caught in them while he seems to be completely unaffected by my presence. I blush just imagining what I must look like—very damp. I wish I looked more like a glistening siren, and less like a wet dog.

“Do you have no sense of awareness whatsoever?”

Irritation finally breaks through the hypnotism. 

“Are you going to get out of the way, or are you going to stand there all day?” he asks, his black hair wet from the rain. Ha! He doesn’t have a super-cool, clear, bubble umbrella to protect him.

“Sorry!” I say. I mean, what’s the big deal? “But there’s really no need to get so worked up. It was just an accident.” I roll my eyes, doing my best to keep my voice level. “I was just trying to ground myself.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. 

He frowns at me, giving me a once-over before shaking his head. “Yeah, well, try to not be literally grounded. You’re blocking the sidewalk for the rest of us.” He snorts, shaking his head disapprovingly at me. “I hate New Yorkers,” he mutters under his breath before squeezing by me, bumping me in the side with his massive bright-blue gym bag. “You’re all so weird.”

My jaw drops. “Yeah, well, you’re a—" I stutter. “You’re like a—just plain rude! So, yeah!” I call after him in the world’s worst comeback known to man. He looks over his shoulder at me with a smirk, and I want to die. 

So embarrassing.

Grumpy Sexy Eyes guy keeps walking ahead, and I realize begrudgingly that we’re headed into the same building. I see him disappear through the main entrance, behind the brass-colored doors, and decide to take a beat. The last thing I want is to be stuck in an elevator with that guy. I don’t need his negativity affecting the rest of my day. Staying focused and calm is of the upmost importance for today. I can’t let the stress of my situation affect my career’s recovery, and I certainly cannot let it affect my medical recovery. I’ve had enough issues with my epilepsy in the past year, thank you very much. I’m supposed to be making strides to improve it, not make it worse. 

I sigh, checking the time on my phone. It’s only a couple of minutes until eight. Assuming the first day will probably just be about my partner and me getting to know each other and possibly strategizing about our first dance, I figure I can afford to be a few minutes late. We’ll probably just be reviewing the basics.

Resolving to put a few minutes between myself and Grumpy Sexy Eyes, I stand a bit to the side of the sidewalk, clearing the way for other passersby, and shoot off a text to Liza, my best friend. 

Barbara: Got run over by ass with huge gym bag, but now OMW to first day of practice. Wish me luck!

Liza: You got this, girl! Send videos!

I hop on Instagram to browse what people have been up to, sharing a few memes here and there. I wouldn’t consider myself to be a social media person, but I have a pretty decent following, considering I haven’t acted in years. By the time I’m oversaturated with content, I realize fifteen minutes have gone by, and I am officially late.

“Shoot!” I pocket my phone and jog to the building entrance, pulling on the heavy brass doors before scrambling through my bag to show the security guard my ID. Once he has all my info, I rush to the nearest available elevator and press the button for the eleventh floor. 

“Stupid Instagram,” I mutter under my breath. That’s the thing about social media: it’s all fun and cat videos until it sucks you in and spits you the hell out. I don’t know why I’m still on the thing.

* * *

The first thing I see when I get off the elevator is a buzz of people running around the hallways. Everyone seems to be operating on DEFCON 1, jogging from one room to another with dance shoes or heaps of fabric in their hands. 

I sigh and resign myself to look for my contact, but the email I received from the network lacked any type of useful information. According to the message, I am supposed to, “Look for the dancer who always frowns.” What type of info is that? I understand that many consider brevity to be the soul of wit, but sometimes brevity can be the soul of laziness. They couldn’t even give me a first name? Nope, just a vague physical description—if you could even call it that.

“Okay, so we’re looking for a guy who frowns a lot,” I tell myself under my breath. 

I adjust my bag over my shoulder and start checking every dance studio for a man matching that vague physical description, but they’re either occupied by couples already practicing or empty. 

Ugh. 

Checking the time on my phone, I grow anxious. It’s twenty-past, and I still have no idea where I’m supposed to be.

I try another door and find a shirtless man standing alone in the room by a stereo system. His, um…physical attributes momentarily distract me. The man’s tan skin glistens under the harsh bright-white lighting overhead, and his dark-brown hair is wet with sweat and slightly disheveled. My eyes travel down his chest and—holy eight-pack, Batman!

I don’t mean to objectify this man, but this moment right here calls for a two-syllable daaaaaaa-yummmmm.

Eight-Pack catches me ogling at him, and his brown eyes light up with mischief, throwing a smile in my direction.

Definitely doesn’t look like a guy who frowns a lot.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice laced with a thick accent and intent.

“Um,” I stammer briefly. “No, I’m good. I’m just looking for my dance partner.”

Eight-Pack runs his fingers through his sweaty hair, casually flexing his muscles. I’d be really annoyed if I weren’t so distracted. 

“I could be your dance partner.” He walks toward me, and I’m snapped out of my trance. “I could be whomever you want me to be.” His sudden forwardness is completely off-putting, and I immediately regret ever having opened the door to this room.

Ew, gross.

Do women really fall for this stuff?

“Um, no thanks. I don’t think you’re the one I’m looking for.” I quickly back out of the room, accidentally crashing into something.

“Oof!” I hear a high-pitched voice behind me say. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I apologize to the person I just turned into roadkill. Today is definitely not my day. It’s like I’m a magnet for chaos.

The girl on the floor looks up at me, an explosion of pink, and blows her blush bangs off her face. 

“It’s okay,” she squeaks. I extend my hand out to her, helping her up. “I’m Rosie. Rosie Castillo.” She smiles. 

Rosie adjusts the hem of her fuchsia dress before bending over to pick up some items that must’ve fallen from her arms during impact.

“I’m Barbara, and again, I’m so sorry,” I say from underneath my mask. Am I allowed to remove it now? Can I dance without it? I mean, she’s not wearing one and neither is Eight-Pack.

Sigh. I hate this post-Covid world. I never know what the right protocol is.

“I was just in there, and the guy, and his abs, and…” I trail off, waving my hand in the air.

“Oh—you just met Nico.” She nods in understanding. “He’s a charmer.”

I laugh. “Not really. I was just momentarily distracted by his whole thing, you know?”

Rosie chuckles, totally understanding what I mean. “Fair warning, he is somewhat of a lady killer. Not the nicest guy in the bunch—unless you’re looking for something casual,” she adds quickly, no judgment in her voice.

“God, no. Not looking for anything.” I snort. I need to sort out my personal life before I can even begin to consider reviving any sort of romantic life. And that’s if I even decide to. 

“Um, okay?” She laughs.

Desperately wanting to change the subject, I ask, “Actually, do you mind helping me out? I’m so late, and it’s my first day. I have no idea what I’m doing or where I need to go, and you look like someone who knows her way around.”

“I should! Been working here long enough. This is my sixth season on the show.” She smiles, readjusting the heavy fabrics in her arms. “What do you need?”

“I’m actually meeting with my partner for the first time and don’t even know his name. All the information the network gave me was that he frowned a lot.” I snort.

“Oh, sure.” She smiles immediately. The fact that she already knows who this person is by the identifier the network used cannot be a good sign. “You want Theodore.” She frowns slightly, checking the time on her watch. “You’d better hurry, though. He won’t like that you’re late, and I’m pretty sure rehearsals were supposed to start a half hour ago. His studio is the last one down the hall,” she says, throwing a thumb over her shoulder.

“Uh, thanks.” I force a smile and hesitantly turn away from her.

“Good luck!” she calls enthusiastically. But as she walks away, I hear her mutter, “You’re gonna need it,” under her breath.

Oh, boy. 

Positive thoughts, Babs. Keep it positive. 

It can’t really be all that bad. I’m sure that Rosie and the network execs are all exaggerating. Right? Right???

Determined to make the best out of this situation, I take a deep breath and open the door to the last studio down the hall. Three of the four walls of the studio are mirrored with a barre running across them, and the artificial lemony scent and the glossy wooden floor leads me to believe the room has recently been cleaned. I am fully braced to meet the wrath of my dancing partner, but the room’s empty. No scary frowny man to be found. All I can see is a stereo system and, atop a bench pressed against the far back of the room, a large, bright-blue gym bag.

Perfect.