Temple eyed the “thermometer” graphics board. Despite no personal onstage mishaps and therefore no sympathy votes, Matt had edged out José. Temple would bet his working against type was winning over voters. Olivia and Glory B. were neck and neck on the women’s side.
The dance order would be Salter and Glory B., José and Motha Jonz, CC and Wandawoman, and Matt and Olivia last. Some thought last was the best position in a competition. You stay on the judges’ minds better. Yet mostly call-in and e-mail voters counted these days.
Zoe Chloe would only be onstage at the end, to award the junior dance studio scholarship. That vote board showed Patrisha and EK at the top.
Temple crossed her fingers for EK as she eyed “her girls.”
The four wore glittery tops and short skirts, less trashy but a mirror of what older teen celebrities wore. Molina had sprung a mint for Temple to take Mariah and EK to lunch at the Fashion Show Mall on the Strip and on a shopping spree that midday, so Mariah was looking successfully “teen queen” too.
Temple had welcomed the outing. It took her mind off Matt, his rehearsal demands and physical condition. Although by early this morning he had been remarkably ready to, ah, rise and shine.
“What are you grinning about, ZC?”
Crawford Buchanan had breezed close to whisper in her ear. He loved taking these hit-and-run liberties and could play his fingers across his victim’s neck if he didn’t think she’d call him on it. ZC would. She was wearing the radically high, platform wedge, black satin ballet-style shoes she’d splurged on at the mall for Zoe Chloe’s final appearances, so she could stomp him like a bug if she wanted to.
“Just thinking,” she said, “that my junior dance corps look darling but age-appropriate. Even the Los Hermanos Brothers are giving them a new look.”
“Eh. They’re okay. A little mousy, maybe. Never your problem,” he added with a patented leer at her black-and-white polka-dotted hose. She also wore a kilt-length fuchsia plaid taffeta balloon skirt and white, puffed-sleeved cropped jacket with a giant fuchsia silk peony on the shoulder that hosted a black rhinestone spider pin as big as a teacup.
On this last competition night (and because Molina and Rafi refused to watch from the greenroom), the ZCO party had seats along the front row on the judges’ side.
Sitting in the audience was so different from watching on a TV screen in the greenroom. They still had their little “family” row: Rafi, Temple, Molina, and Mariah.
The final introductions began as the band played the first couple on stage.
Tango music was sophisticated, like the dance, sometimes brighter and jazzy, sometimes darker.
Wisely, Glory and Keith had been given a quick, intense routine, with lots of dips, leg wraps, and intricate steps for the agile and petite Glory. Keith wore men’s formal black and she sparkled in vibrant orange taffeta. Keith pretty much functioned as the pole in a stripper club. That quieter role enhanced his dignity, so the applause was warm when the couple finished with Glory doing the splits in front of his upright figure.
“Your best dance,” Danny could honestly tell Keith. “A subtle job of supporting your partner so she could perform some very demanding moves. Fabulous job, Miss B. You’ve come far. I expect to see you in a High School Musical touring company shortly.”
“Really?” Glory B. radiated new confidence even while panting hard.
“Nine,” said Danny, looking at Glory B. so she’d know the rating was hers, not theirs.
The audience went wild. Glory B. grinned and waved at them as she left the stage.
“There’s one contestant whose self-esteem has visibly soared during the competition,” Temple whispered to nobody in particular, her eyes glued on the stage.
“Actually,” said Molina, “you’re right.” She glanced at her rapt daughter, visibly reconsidering.
Audible breaths were drawn in when Crawford announced “José Juarez . . .”
“. . . and his partner, Motha Jonz.”
Their held breaths whooshed out like a disappointed tide at the news of his partner, a cumbersome dancer at best.
This was another dance opening that placed the partners at opposite ends of the stage.
Jose wore the tight, chest-baring black shirt and pants of male ballroom dancers in sexier routines. His rolled-up sleeves showcased forearms muscular from fencing. A tilted black fedora with a crimson band shadowed his chiseled features.
Motha Jonz glittered in basic black studded with bloodred rhinestones, but she still was shaped like a saguaro cactus, round and fully packed. They stalked each other around the dance floor, their steps measured between intricate twining moves and sudden hip-to-hip turns. They’d break apart to pose, then resume the tease.
The audience was whooping at every sexy move now, with pockets of applause bursting out. In this light and this dance, Motha Jonz looked like a contender for the first time.
The judges thought so too.
“Your best dance, both of you,” Danny said while awarding them a nine.
Leander was almost in tears. “A terrific recovery from the sad mishap last night. Motha Jonz, you looked ‘mahvelous.’ And, José, you are perfection in this dance.” He awarded them his first ten of the competition, which had the audience in an uproar.
“What was with the hat?” Savannah Ashleigh complained. “We want to see all of Mr. Juarez, don’t we, ladies?” she asked the audience. “Even his face!” Her raucous laughter was echoed by approving shrieks from the female audience members.
The shrieks died fast when the Cloaked Conjuror strode out in a Darth Vader mask, wearing a long black leather coat slashed open along the sides and back so every stride cracked like a whip or the flap of giant batwings. Wandawoman stalked after him in a Spider Queen outfit, a spandex catsuit slashed open more than it concealed, accessorized with torn net and tattoos, working a red-satin lined cloak like combination train and tail.
Some nervous high-tech music emphasized both the robotic rhythm of the tango and the simmering passion beneath it. It was a mad, bad dance and the audience loved it.
The judges, not so much.
“Power, yes,” Leander said. “Physically, you two are the most powerful of the men and women. But . . . finesse, my friends! The tango does not celebrate the birth of the Death Star but the intimate, dangerous dance of the sexes. Your footwork did indeed live up a military march, not a dance, and despite the magnificent visuals, no underlying feeling came through.”
He waved a “seven,” with Savannah and Danny brandishing “eights.”
So far no “mishap” had marred the evening. Temple hoped Matt and Olivia would make that a record of four couples unmolested.
Tension in the ballroom was tangible. Matt’s paso had knocked them dead. How could he improve on it? Those few who knew what a harrowing night he’d spent were figuratively nibbling their nails. Temple could sense the tension from Rafi and Molina on either side of her, not only for Matt, but for knowing that if the evil luck that had dogged the contestants was to strike again, tonight, now would be the last chance.
Temple had felt the mood in the audience and among her “posse” heightening with every dance. Even Rafi and Molina stopped scanning the audience like presidential bodyguards and applauded the end of José’s number. They better not be disloyal to Matt, Temple thought. Her nerves were twitching inside of Zoe Chloe’s faux adolescent little body while waiting for Matt’s tango.
She tried to remember her new platform shoes made her almost five-and-a-half feet tall and Crawford would look like a total shrimp when they were onstage together for the junior award later and at tomorrow’s adult award show. Matt had called her cell phone before the show began to tell her he felt fine and ready to rumble. She’d semi-punned back that the rumba wasn’t the dance of the day.