The Dancer

Part One

“Hey, Bella?”

A vaguely familiar voice was on the other line, but I couldn’t quite place it. Especially since I was still hungover from a super late Christmas party the previous night. I sat up a little bit in my bed, adjusting my loose tank top and brushing the hair out of my face.

“This is she,” I answered, after clearing my throat, “Who is this?”

“It’s Autumn!” the girl’s chipper voice gave me a slight headache in itself, and I held the phone away for a moment, “From East High?”

“Autumn, right,” I said. From high school. The two of us both graduated last summer, and had moved on to completely different colleges. Either way, we barely knew each other. We were classmates, not friends; the former wasn’t even true at this point.

“Yeah, Autumn Davis,” she said, just as cheerfully, “I got your number from Victoria. You’re still dancing, right?”

“Of course,” I replied, rolling my eyes. The phrase ‘still dancing’ is an iteration of phrases I hear all the time from relatives. It’s the most ridiculous understatement. I’m halfway through my freshman year at Oklahoma City University, working on a dance performance degree. I worked my ass off to get into the program, but I try not to brag about it. All I want is for people to understand that it’s an amazing opportunity, and that dancing IS a career—not just a hobby.

“Oh, perfect! Victoria was telling me you might do parties? She said one of her dancing friends in college does something like that to make some extra money around Christmas,” Autumn explained, as I woke up a little more. Victoria and I were in theatre together in high school, but I also hadn’t really heard from her in forever.

“Like a Dance Host?” I asked. One or two of my upperclassman friends at Oklahoma told me about being ‘dance hosts’ for a little extra spending money, where they’d show up and dance at different events and classy gatherings. Everyone thinks they’re just another guest, a friend of a friend, but they’re really attending as a paid employee. Contract worker, technically. Essentially, the job is to dance all night without taking a break. It keeps bodies on the floor, and makes the place look more popular and lively. Personally, I didn’t really like the idea—using my body and my skills to dance with strangers seems inappropriate and undermines my career aspirations.

“Yeah, our dancer totally bailed. I just got the call this morning,” Autumn explained further, before I could tell her I might not be the right girl for this, “So we’re a little desperate. We can offer you $800 for the night, if that sounds fair?”

Wait, $800?? With a small gasp, I quickly grabbed a notepad off the side of my desk. Hopefully Autumn didn’t hear my surprised reaction. The best hosting jobs generally offered $300 at most per night, or so I had heard. Though, once I stopped to think about it, Autumn’s family was rich. Grabbing a pen, I tried to ask calmly, “Can you give me the details, Autumn?”

“It’s a New Year’s Eve party,” she told me, which I wrote down, to my displeasure. I already had a party I was excited to go to, but this sounded be too good to pass up. I wouldn’t have to scrounge as much next semester with that chunk of cash padding my bank account. “It’s about what you’d expect. You have to dance, give dances, and a lucky boy might get a midnight kiss!”

“Wait, what?” I paused from my note taking.

“Bella, relax,” she giggled, “Loosen up. It’s a New Year’s party! You know how to flaunt your body, right?”

“I mean . . .” I hesitated, not quite knowing what to say. I had done advanced jazz and modern dance, so I’m much more fluid than I was in high school. I knew how to move my body. But ‘flaunt’ isn’t the word I’d use, personally.

“Look, if you can’t flaunt it, I’ll have to find someone else. Any recommendations?”

“No, I can flaunt it!” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up as I said the ridiculous phrase. Saying it out loud was so much worse than hearing it. But the money tempted me too much. It was just a night of casual dancing. I could survive a few hours of that.

“Good!” she exclaimed, “You can show up at 11 PM. And make sure you wear something sexy, okay? None of those outfits you used to wear in high school.”

“Wait, can’t I just-“

“Parties at my house are fun,” she said. I was a little annoyed that she was cutting me off, and more annoyed that she was implying that I’m not fun. But it was hard to argue when she was the one offering me the job, “Look, if you don’t want to, just say so.”

“No, it’s fine,” I told her, already decided. My older dancing friends did it. It would be a good experience. And, of course, it paid really well. “Dress sexy, dance sexy. Got it. 11 PM?”

“You got it, Bella. See you there!” she said. I heard a light giggle, but she hung up before I could say anything else. I got out of bed, dropping the notebook back on the desk. Thankfully, I still had two days to practice my club dancing, something I rarely do. After calling through the house to make sure I was home alone, I changed into a more revealing outfit and put on some dance music. Even if it was a casual night of dancing, I had no idea how many familiar faces would be there, and I didn’t want to seem awkward to any of them.

Much like a recital or choreography, I started to practice for the weekend.