The Devil of DiRisio Page 5

  “Why would you think I am crazy?”

  “I can’t dance hip-hop. Have you seen me in here? I look ridiculous.” Don’t look at his chest, don’t look at his chest, don’t look at his chest. Damn it, I looked. My God, he was cut. My breath caught in my throat. Good thing it was his turn to talk.

  “I have seen you in the class. That is why I am asking you. You have the steps down perfectly. It is like you can imitate anything you see. The only thing you are missing is the passion behind the steps. You have to feel it like you do when you dance ballet.” His accent was different today. He kind of sounded British with a hint of Russian.

  I stared at him, incredulous, wondering if he was just trying to hit on me. Anna Marie had been completely right when she said I was clueless and oblivious. It was hard for me to decipher flirtatious from friendly. Then again, this was Damian Karl. He flirted with everyone. He was certainly making his rounds at the academy. From my count, he had already been with five different girls. Not that I was counting.

  “Look, you just need to loosen up a little,” he said when I didn’t say anything. He went over to the iPod and chose a song. It was a bit slower than the music we had been using in class.

  “Close your eyes and improvise. Feel the music,” he instructed. I obeyed and started to dance. After a few seconds, he paused the music and said, “You are doing ballet moves to an R&B song. You do not look so bad, but you are stiff. Loosen up and try to use some of the moves you have learned from me.”

  He put the music back on and I continued. Suddenly, I felt a pair of hands on my waist. I jumped. “Relax,” he said. “Just pretend you are dancing with your basketball player boyfriend.” So, we danced. We just improvised and it was just as magical as it was at The Spanish Fly. It amazed me the way I could follow him and spontaneously create this great, funky, rhythmic routine. What we did together transcended a specific genre of music. We were completely in tune with one another. We could anticipate each other’s moves. At one point, he lifted me with ease and without prep. He raised an eyebrow and I knew exactly what he planned to do.

  We danced for the entire break, going through song after song on his iPod. Every once in a while he would stop, show me a few steps, and then we would try it with music.

  “I have to go,” I announced when I noticed it was almost noon. “I have pas de deux class. Madame Mara hates it when we’re late.”

  “It’s okay. She knows you are with me.” I gave him a skeptical look. Why was it okay? I decided not to question it, though. I was having so much fun dancing with Damian, I wanted to delay going back to Pierre for as long as possible.

  So, we kept dancing. We danced for hours, exploring and experimenting different types of movements. We would both explode with excitement when we stumbled upon a brilliant combination or laugh with abandon when we tried something completely wrong for the music. We did fast songs, slow songs, rap songs, and love songs. I was so lost in the moment, in the beauty of this genre of music, which I had never given credence to before.

  But then he had to go and ruin it by sticking his tongue down my throat.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled as I pushed him off me.

  “Oh, come on. You had to feel that. We are perfect together. There is something between us. You know you felt it.”

  “I’m practically engaged.”

  “But you are not. I hear your basketball player has proposed twenty times and you have not said yes. Admit it. You do not feel this kind of magic when you are with him. You have a dancer’s soul and you will only feel complete with another dancer.” Then he kissed me again. I pulled away, slapped him as hard as I could, and ran out of the studio.

  I couldn’t believe he would do that. How dare he put his lips on me! What was worse was that I enjoyed it.

  Chapter 9

  The Silicone Siren

  Will had really started to make a name for himself on the team. Even though he was the youngest member of Lottomatica, he had led the team in scoring for the past eight games in a row. Every day, I would pick up a local paper and see Will’s name. The critics were all predicting a long successful career for “El Matador.”

  At least one of us would have a successful career. I always said that as long as I was dancing, I’d be happy. But I had to admit, I wanted more. I wanted to have my picture in the newspapers. I wanted people to be clamoring to interview me. I wanted people to come up to me on the street and ask for my autograph like they did with Will.

  I felt silly at Will’s games now. At first he always wanted me there as his good luck charm. He said it made him play better to be able to look into the audience and see me. But he played so well now, I really didn’t feel he needed me anymore. I felt like one of those annoying, trampy groupies who stalked players. I was just a girlfriend, and the player’s wives constantly reminded me of that. They always gave me these sneering looks of disapproval, like I hadn’t earned the right to sit in the family section yet. They were so sure that I would be replaced soon.

  After one particularly successful game in which Will scored a record-breaking thirty-eight points in one half alone, I waited for him outside the locker room. I was just lumped together with all the frenzied fans waiting for an autograph or the horny groupies waiting for more. When Will came out, people started applauding and a reporter began asking him questions. I waited patiently as Will stumbled over the Italian phrases I’d taught him to say. Finally, after signing a few autographs, he spotted me. He was walking toward me when this massive black guy stepped up to him and whispered in his ear. Will smiled and then signaled to me that I should wait one more minute. I rolled my eyes. I had already been waiting forty-five minutes.

  Will walked over to a black limousine just as some girl stepped out. I squinted to see who it was, but I couldn’t quite tell. Whoever it was, she had to be important because there was another massive black guy standing on the other side of her. Two massive bodyguards? Who was this chick?

  I tried to throw daggers with my eyes at Will as he playfully chatted and chatted and chatted. He didn’t notice. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I started to approach the limo. Immediately, one of the truck-sized bodyguards seized my arms and informed me that Miss Valerio was not signing autographs at this time. Valerio? Where had I heard that name before?

  “Um, yeah, I don’t want her autograph, I want my boyfriend,” I said with stinging politeness as I pointed to Will. He didn’t seem to care what I wanted as he pulled me away from the limo. “Will!” I yelled. He didn’t hear me. “Will!” I yelled louder.

  Finally, I got his attention and he said, “What? Oh, no, she’s with me.” Will called to the human truck that had me by the arm. The bodyguard reluctantly let me go, and I shot him an evil look. I went over and possessively entwined my arm in Will’s and got a good look at his admirer. She was a petite brunette with not-so-petite breasts. Her hair was a long, gorgeous mane of reddish-brown locks that hung down to her tiny waist, and her cute little stomach revealed a sparkling navel ring.

  I wondered what preschooler’s closet she raided to find that little red shirt with the white kitten on the front. It looked like she was wearing a bull’s eye right on top of her enormous breasts. Really, they were huge. How did she keep her balance with those things? And why was she pushing them out even more? They were already big enough.

  I looked down at my own miniscule lumps. They were practically invisible compared to hers. Was that what Will wanted? I could never be a ballerina with breasts that big. I would knock Pierre unconscious with one of them every time I did a pirouette. How could I compete with that? It was like I wasn’t good enough no matter what. I was too fat for Alejandro’s taste, but from the way Will was drooling over these double Ds, I was too thin for his taste.

  I took a look at her face and noticed her cute, fairy-like features. She was really pretty, but that really didn’t matter because her breasts were so huge! She could’ve had a face that looked like road kill and she would still have
been able to get any man she wanted with just a quick jiggle of her boobs. Suddenly, I realized who she was. Veronica Valerio, the eighteen-year-old, Italian pop princess the tabloids were obsessed with. This girl couldn’t fart without someone writing about what flavor it was in the next day’s newspaper.

  “This is my girlfriend,” Will said after I pinched him for the fifth time. “Sonya, this is Veronica Valerio. She just wanted my autograph.” Veronica gave me a quick once-over and decided I was of no consequence as she continued trying to convince Will to go out for drinks with her.

  Will was saying something about having to get up early to catch a flight. Why didn’t he just tell her he didn’t drink?

  How long could I put up with this flirting? She just wouldn’t stop fawning over him with her annoyingly-cute accent. I let out a heavy sigh as a sign of my quickly-evaporating patience.

  “Maybe next time,” Will finally said in a vague noncommittal way as he put his arm around me. She must have realized she wasn’t getting anywhere because she relented and agreed to this ambiguous ‘next time.’ She better be happy, too, because I was just about to kick her in her obnoxiously perfect teeth.

  Chapter 10

  Brazilian Nut

  Will took me out to dinner after another dismal performance with the DiRisio Ballet Company. I was so disappointed in myself I couldn’t eat the rack of lamb I’d ordered. Even though it looked delicious, the thought of putting it in my mouth made me nauseated. I sat silently sipping club soda and pushing my food around my plate as Will talked about his team.

  “It wasn’t that bad, Sonya.” he said when he finally tired of my pouting.

  “Oh, so you admit it was bad.”

  “No, it was fine. It just wasn’t … I’ve just seen you do better. Your solos were great, but every time Pierre touches you, you cringe. You two really just don’t have the right chemistry.”

  “Tell me about it.” I set my fork down and pushed my plate away. Will frowned.

  “Maybe I should learn to dance so I can partner you,” he said jokingly, trying to cheer me up. I didn’t even crack a smile. “Come on. Don’t let it ruin our evening. We barely get to spend time together,” he pleaded.

  For the rest of the night, I tried to put on a brave face and be pleasant company for Will’s sake. Before he dropped me off, he proposed again, but only got tears as a response. How could he even think about marriage at a time like this? Our relationship wasn’t as solid as it used to be. I still had doubts about Veronica and him, and he still seemed suspicious about Damian. On top of that, the state of my career left me miserable and depressed most of the time. Marriage was the last thing on my mind. Sometimes, Will just didn’t get it.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” he said as he pulled me close to him. “Don’t cry. Things will get better. I promise. Do you want me to beat up Alejandro for you?” he teased.

  That actually made me smile a little. The thought of Will pounding Alejandro to a pulp was quite amusing to me. Alejandro would probably run and scream like a little girl. It would be hilarious. Encouraged by my laughter, Will tried to convince me to come to his place, but I told him I just wanted to sleep.

  I stood in front of the dorm and watched Will drive off in his red sports car.

  As I climbed the cramped stairs up to the second floor, I heard people yelling in another language. I loved languages. I spoke Spanish fluently, and after just a couple of months I was proficient in Italian. Now, I was practically fluent. Finally, there was something I was good at since I apparently wasn’t a good dancer anymore.

  Sometimes when I wanted to relax, I went to a café, listened to people speak, and tried to pick out what country they came from. I’d gotten pretty good at it. I had a little more trouble than usual with this language. It sounded like the people were from Holland, but it could have been Sweden. When I reached the top of the stairs, I was even more confused. It was Damian Karl arguing with Cynthia’s roommate Gita, who was from Sweden. How did he speak Swedish as well?

  I tried to avert my eyes and not stare at them as I reached in my purse to grab my keys. Except I couldn’t find my purse. All I had was my dance bag. I tried to think back through the night. I didn’t have my purse at dinner, either. I must have left it at the performance hall. I knocked on the door, hoping Anna Marie would answer before Damian and Gita noticed me, but then I remembered she went to Madrid for the weekend. I slammed my head against the door in frustration just as Gita slammed the door in Damian’s face. The ever-smooth Damian didn’t even look frazzled. He turned my way and smiled.

  “Locked out?” he asked in Italian over the rock music Gita started blaring. I nodded. “You can stay the night with me if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I responded coldly in English. “If I spend the night anywhere, it will be with my boyfriend.”

  I reached in my bag to grab the cell phone Will bought for me until I remembered it was in my purse. So there was nothing I could do but stand there hoping Damian would leave soon so I could knock on Gita’s door and use her phone. But he didn’t leave. In fact, he sat on the floor, leaned on her door and got comfortable. What was he waiting on?

  “You were excellent tonight,” he said in English with almost an American accent.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Now I know you’re a nut case.”

  “You do not believe me?”

  “You’re just hitting on me. I see your plans with Gita failed and you need a back up. I was horrible and you know it.” For some reason, I sat on the floor as well. Maybe I wanted to talk and bare my soul to another dancer. Of course, I could talk to Will, but sometimes he just didn’t get it. Like that comment about him learning to dance? That didn’t make me feel better. It was like he was trivializing my problems. Did he think dance was something so easy, anyone could learn to do it?

  “No, Pierre was horrible. You were excellent.”

  “Well, what does it matter? We’re partners. If he’s horrible, we’re both horrible.”

  “Don’t worry; I think everyone can see the difference. You are such a mesmerizing dancer, sometimes I forget Pierre is even there.” His accent changed again. He was laying on a thick Italian accent, trying to sound sexy. Now I knew he was just hitting on me. I was not as completely naïve as everyone thought. I could tell he was flirting with me, and I was quite annoyed by it.

  “Where are you from?” I snapped, tired of his pick up lines and his ambiguous accent.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Every time I see you, you’re speaking a different language. Your accent is muddled and sounds like it’s from several different countries. I can’t even tell what race you are. You have an afro, but blue eyes.”

  “So you have been thinking about me?”

  “I was just wondering,” I huffed. Damian looked at me as if weighing his chances of getting me into bed. Once he decided he probably didn’t have a chance, at least that night, he seemed to let his guard down.

  “All right, I will tell you,” he said taking off his leather jacket and getting more comfortable. I guess this was going to be a long story. “My father is darker than you are and he is from Brazil, which is where I get the … how you say… kinky hair,” he said with a thick Brazilian accent. “I also get the turquoise eyes from him. My mother’s eyes are a light blue. She is from Russia,” he said with a heavy Russian accent as if he just stepped out of Dr. Zhivago. “But I get my coloring and my love of dance from her.”

  It made me laugh out loud the way he could capture the essence of each dialect so exactly.

  “Why do you speak so many languages?”

  “My mother is a world-famous dancer, and my father is a pilot. So, I don’t really have one place that I am truly from. I spent all of my life traveling. Along the way, I’ve learned a few languages.”

  “How many?”

  “I can get laid in seven languages,” he smiled. “I can at least get a date in about five more.” Damian chuckled and, despite myself, I
laughed, too. I found him charming when he wasn’t trying to talk his way into my pants. “I’m fluent in Portuguese, Russian, Spanish, French, Italian, English, and German. And I can get by in Romanian, Greek, Hungarian, Dutch, Danish, and Swedish. Although, I apparently need to brush up on my Swedish,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Gita’s door. I laughed again.

  Damian proceeded to tell me the story of how his parents met. His father was the personal pilot for his mother’s dance company. They saw each other nearly every day, but couldn’t speak to each other. His father felt his mother was the woman of his dreams and chased her relentlessly even though she was only sixteen. They had a passionate affair despite the language barrier, but once they learned to communicate they realized they didn’t have anything in common and that a relationship wouldn’t work. By that time, however, his mother was already pregnant. He spent the next eighteen years being shipped back and forth between his parents.

  “I would spend two days in St. Petersburg with Mother, just to be swept off to spend three days with Papa in Portugal, and then he would drop me off to spend the day with her while she was dancing in France, and then he would pick me up again and fly to Germany for some reason or another. It was crazy. Sometimes, I would wake up and not know what country I was in. Once, when I was ten, I visited seventeen countries in one week. After that, I stopped counting.” He seemed bitter for a moment. Then he shook it off and smiled.

  “Why do you call your mother, Mother, but your father, Papa?” I asked.

  He sighed, once again deciding whether he wanted to share an important piece of information with me or not.

  “I guess I am more close to my father than my mother.” From his tone of voice I could tell he wanted to leave it at that, but I was not about to let him off that easy.