“I feel robbed sometimes.” I sigh, expelling my frustration. “All the things we don’t know, are never taught. Have to dig around to find out.”
“History is so picked over, by the time you get to the tree, there’s barely any fruit left.” Her grin is sudden and bright. “When you get home, look up Hellzapoppin’. Watch that clip. I know you’ve looked at tapes of swing. My fault for not mentioning this clip sooner. You have the steps technically, but dance is more than execution. It’s possession. You gotta give your body over. Your whole spirit has to surrender. The people who can teach you what I’m talking about are all dead.”
Her phone lights up and she grimaces at the text on her screen. “Watch that last run-through. They think one of the dancers may have sprained an ankle. I need to go check.”
“Oh, no. You go. I’ll be out and ready before the next run.”
She nods absently, a frown worrying her brows, and leaves the tent. Before watching my next run-through, I’d love to see the Hellzapoppin’ clip. Our phones aren’t allowed on set, so we usually leave them in our trailers.
“Excuse me,” I call out to the tech, who lifts his head. “Can I borrow your phone for a sec?”
I watch the clip on his phone and instantly understand what Lucia meant. The dancers’ movements are liquid, their limbs loose and flowing like water. And there is a madness to the energy, but there’s also control. The ease is undergirded by so much discipline and skill. When I watch myself, I see the difference.
“Lucia got you watching tape?” Jill asks, sitting down beside me. She’s blonde, around forty, with a dozen or so tattoos graffitied on her arms. Chunky silver rings adorn most of her fingers.
“Oh.” I pause the tape of our last run-through. “Yeah. She was right. I needed to see myself to know how I could do it better.”
“You’re doing great, but Lucia knows how to get that last drop of greatness out of her dancers. Even when it looks perfect to us, she sees room for improvement. That’s why Canon chose her.”
At the mention of Canon, I stiffen and want to change the subject. What if Lucia isn’t the only one who’s noticed my fixation on the director?
“So, you have big plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“Just dinner with my family. My husband and kids, I mean. We’ll go see family in Chicago for Christmas. It’s such a quick turnaround; we’ll save that trip for next month when we can stay a bit. How about you?”
“Same. I mean, about the quick turnaround. My family’s in North Carolina. I don’t want to do cross country for just a few days, but also, we’ve been going nonstop. I need to rest and prepare. We have so many big scenes coming up.”
“And you’re in every one of them.” Jill pats my hand, her green eyes kind, sympathetic. “It’s a lot of pressure, and you’re doing amazing work.”
“Thanks. There are two scenes next week after the holiday break that I don’t feel ready for. I’ve been so focused on the dance, I haven’t memorized those lines. So that’s how I’ll be spending Thanksgiving.”
“You’re welcome to come to our house for dinner. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Does it sound crazy that I kind of want to be alone?” I shake my head and scratch under the itchy wig. “My roommate is going home to Texas. She invited me and so did some of the other cast, but I would love to just have the house to myself for a few days and see no one. I know it sounds antisocial, but—”
“Not strange at all. This is a long haul. Whatever self-care looks like for you, do that.” She looks at me speculatively. “Tell you what. There’s a great little family restaurant in Topanga Canyon that does a crazy-good Thanksgiving dinner. Fantastic view. You’d love it. I always try to convince my family that we should go, but every year I end up slaving over an undercooked bird.”
“I don’t actually eat turkey.”
“This place serves faux turkey, or you eat fish? They do a smoked salmon crepe that’s to die for.”
“Now that sounds incredible, but do you think they’d have a table this late with Thanksgiving only two days away?”
“My agent knows one of the managers. I bet I could get him to reserve a spot for you.”
She digs through the Post-its and mangled scripts cluttering the table until she finds a notepad and pen.
“Honestly, the scenery is as good as the food,” she says, jotting down the name of the restaurant. “If I can swing this table, promise me you’ll try it.”
“Promise. I’m actually really looking forward to it. Thank you.”
“Good. You won’t regret it.”
Her smile is almost sly, secretive, but I’m probably paranoid and take her kindness at face value. The only thing I plan to cook is Mama’s apple cobbler because even though I don’t often go back to Clearview for the holidays, it makes me feel a little closer to home. Letting someone else handle the rest sounds good to me.