If Ever(3)

I explore and start noticing the other pros and stars. It's easy to pick them out as they're beautiful specimens of humanity, or more likely because they all have a tiny dog or an entourage of yes people. There's no sign of Dominic.

No one seems to know who I am, and I don't want to barge up to a music legend and introduce myself while her groupies stare down their noses at me. So I sidestep by and eventually discover the Craft Service table. I gaze over the chafing pans of eggs, bacon and fried potatoes, to gorgeous platters of strawberries, mango, and pineapple. There are candy bars, coffee, tea, juices, bottled water, yogurt and oatmeal with all the toppings.

My stomach rumbles, so I take a plate and get behind an old fellow with gray hair and slouched shoulders. He piles his plate high, tucking a bottle of orange juice under one arm and holding coffee with another. Just as he turns to leave, a young production assistant, I can tell by the walkie-talkie and panicked expression on his face, bumps right into the old guy, sending the coffee flying. I reach out and save his plate with my free hand.

"I'm so sorry," the headset-wearing rookie glances around to see if anyone important witnessed his gaff.

"Aw, that's all right. I've had too much coffee today anyway. Get on to wherever you're late for." He turns to me and I offer him back his plate. "That was a mighty good save, you play ball?" He grins through wizened old eyes and a web of crow's feet.

"No, I just hate to see good hash browns go to waste."

He admires the large mound on my own plate. "You must be the mystery girl, Chelsea."

It dawns on me that he's the oldest contestant on the show, a country singer from well before my time. "Yes, and you're Hank Curdy. My grandpa died listening to your music."

Hank raises a bushy gray eyebrow.

"Oh my God. That sounded horrible. I meant we played your music so he could die."

He stares at me, either offended or trying not to laugh, I'm not sure.

"Shit. I'm sorry. He loved your music. It was comforting to him." I hope I haven't just alienated myself in front of this legendary figure.

He chuckles, causing his ample belly to jiggle. "Nonsense. I was once told my music drove a woman to attempt murder on her husband." He pops a crispy chunk of hash brown in his mouth. "So where've they been hiding you? I've been to that damned studio five days a week for three weeks now and all I've met are Botox, boobs and brawn."

I laugh. "I'm none of that. Dominic and I are at an annex. Probably because I'm so bad he's embarrassed for anyone to see."

"Nonsense. A pretty thing like you, I don't believe it."

"Can I get you a new coffee?"

"Nah, I'm so jittery I'll never be able to pull myself together to do this damn thing. Maybe I'll start on the bourbon instead. That ought to calm me enough to prevent a coronary on national TV."

"You're nervous?" He seems like the kind of guy who can't be rattled, unlike me, who over thinks everything.

"Hell, yes. Prancing around a stage in sequined boots is the last thing a man my age should be doing, but we all have our reasons for putting ourselves through this public humiliation." He eyes me curiously, probably wondering what my story is.

"I don't know why I agreed to do this except maybe to shake up my life. Now if you'll excuse me. I'm off to my trailer to stuff myself and probably throw up because I'm so nervous."

Hank gives me the side-eye.

"No! That's not what I meant. I'm just so nervous, I don't know if food will stay down. You must think I'm terrible.”

Hank chuckles and pats my shoulder. "You, my dear, will be just fine. You're too normal not to be."

There's a kindness to his voice, so I know it's not a put down. "I'll catch you later at that blasted dress rehearsal where I'll be trussed up like there was a sequin factory explosion at a country hoe down."



When it's my turn at dress rehearsal in the gleaming ballroom, Dominic snaps, "Chelsea. Focus."

I am, just on everything except him. The house band in the corner eyes me curiously, and there are numerous cameras aimed at us from every direction. Other dancers watch from the safety of the cheap seats as they size up the competition.

He takes me by the shoulders and leans close. "Get your head in the game. We have one shot at dress rehearsal. Do you want to embarrass yourself?"

I shake my head, trying to focus on his steady voice and steely eyes.

"Good. Now take a breath and follow my lead."

The lights glare brightly, the sound of the band drowns out all thought. Our cue hits and Dominic pushes me through the number, feeding me each move as we get to it. My legs are stiff and uncoordinated and my brain has turned to mush. The music ends, and I've blow the entire number.

Horrified, I turn to him. "I am so sorry. My mind went blank."

He can't hide his grimace. "Don't worry about it. It's dress rehearsal." He leads me to the judges' table where three production assistants make random comments so the dress rehearsal will time out the same as the live show tonight. I'm such an idiot. Why did I think I could do this?

Minutes later we're backstage surrounded by glamorous dancers who look confident and avoid my eye contact. I don't know these people yet, but I'm pretty sure they know exactly who I am—the girl, famous for nothing, who stumbled through her number. My hands start to shake and go clammy. I see the EXIT door and bolt into the bright light of day.