Part 13 (1/2)

MERRI-LEE MARVIL'S NEW YEAR'S YVES PARTYBACKSTAGE HALLWAYFriday, December 31st11:33 P.M. P.M.

The swerving motion of the wheelchair was slightly nauseating. Or was the shame that came from being pushed pushed by Mrs. Fossier through a crowd making Alicia's stomach churn? Maybe it was her throbbing ankle? b.l.o.o.d.y knee? Destroyed reputation? Stolen Marc Jacobs bag? Or the fact that Skye Hamilton had clogged her voice mail with a barrage of by Mrs. Fossier through a crowd making Alicia's stomach churn? Maybe it was her throbbing ankle? b.l.o.o.d.y knee? Destroyed reputation? Stolen Marc Jacobs bag? Or the fact that Skye Hamilton had clogged her voice mail with a barrage of I have never met anyone more pathetic than you in all my life I have never met anyone more pathetic than you in all my life messages? messages?

”Hurry!” Alicia whined. The world had seen her wipe out. Did they need to see her puke, too?

”We're almost in our dressing room,” Mrs. Fossier cooed, trying to sound compa.s.sionate. But it was obvious from her jerky driving that she was upset Alicia had taken down the troupe too.

Mrs. Fossier hit the brakes in front of room C. Brooke and Andrea had gone home. Once Alicia was inside, she could break down in peace. Hot tears stung her brown eyes as the dance teacher jiggled the doork.n.o.b. It was locked. She tried it again, this time with more force. Her body odor, a mix of baby powder and canned peaches, was doing nothing for Alicia's delicate condition.

”Coming!” called a phlegm-filled male voice from inside. A second later, the door clicked open. ”Can I help you?” He coughed.

An elderly man wearing a tall chef's hat and a white ap.r.o.n that said HERSHEL'S BAKERY HERSHEL'S BAKERY across the chest smiled pleasantly. across the chest smiled pleasantly.

”I think you're in our dressing room,” Mrs. Fossier said slowly and clearly, in case the mix-up was dementia-related.

He glanced at the big letter C C on the outside of the door. ”Nope, this is the one.” on the outside of the door. ”Nope, this is the one.”

Mrs. Fossier folded her arms across her flat chest. ”And you are?”

”Hershel Blum.” He smiled proudly. ”This year's record holder for Biggest Peach Scone. Came in at sixty-one pounds.”

”Are you on on the show?” Mrs. Fossier snapped. ”Or catering it?” the show?” Mrs. Fossier snapped. ”Or catering it?”

”On it.” He put his hands on his hips like a satisfied superhero. ”Right after the Orlando girl gets her kiss.” He shook his head. ”She seems a little young to be kissing though, don'tcha think?”

Entertainers hurried by, amped on the adrenaline rush that comes after a live performance. Alicia lowered her gaze, unable to relate. Dogs had replaced her act, and her dressing room had been given to a giant-pastry maker. This captain's s.h.i.+p had sailed. ”Let's just go.” She sniffed.

”Good idea.” Mrs. Fossier kicked the brake release and hurried away from the dressing room like a ticked-off driver who'd just lost a parking spot.

She pulled up beside the performers' food table next to a plate of a.s.sorted cheese and a vine of picked-over red grapes. Popping a cheddar cube into her mouth, Mrs. Fossier began to chew-talk.

”I remember a girl...” She leaned against the corner of the table, her tongue sweeping the orange cheese bits off her front teeth. ”A real dance talent. A starrrrrr.” She reached for another cube. ”One night, during an opening night performance of Swan Lake Swan Lake, she insisted on wearing her new toe shoes. They hadn't been properly worked in and-”

Alicia looked away. The only thing more depressing than wiping out on TV during a once-in-a-lifetime dance performance was listening to a cheese-gobbling grown-up try to make her feel okay about it.

Two cute boys Alicia's age hurried by tugging a pack of dogs toward the backstage exit. Forgetting for a second that she was tear-soaked, swollen, and confined to a wheelchair, Alicia flirt-smiled at them.

”I think she's falling falling for you,” said the s.h.a.ggy blond. for you,” said the s.h.a.ggy blond.

His handsome friend cracked up and the blond wiggled his b.u.t.t with glee.

Alicia felt that sick feeling come back with the force of a fire hydrant.

Mrs. Fossier was still yapping about some dancer who found real joy in teaching, not performing. She was still chewing. And still smelling like powder and peaches.

Was this really happening?

The world began to swirl. Pa.s.sing people blurred. Alicia began shaking. Her ears rang and her mouth filled with saliva. A deep-throated burp burst out of her mouth and next thing she knew, her insides turned inside out. All over Mrs. Fossier's Danskin.

”Ahhhhhhh!” The teacher jumped back, slamming into the food table.

”I'm so sorry,” Alicia sobbed, tasting bitterness. Her worst nightmare had been realized. She was more pathetic than a washed-up dancer. She was a washed-up dancer in a wheelchair with puke chunks in her lip gloss.

”I'm absolutely covered.” Mrs. Fossier splayed her arms and legs like a starfish and waddled to the bathroom like someone who'd just peed her pants.

”There you are!” Len Rivera hurried toward his daughter, his warm brown eyes gleaming with pride.

”Dad, what took you so long?” Alicia sobbed, cleaning herself off with a black-and-gold Merri-Lee napkin. A mix of relief and shame overcame her. ”Where's Mom?”

Len leaned down and put an arm around his daughter. He pulled her into his Hugo Boss suit. ”They would only let one of us back here.” He loosened his navy-and-lavender-striped tie. ”And even that that took a lot of convincing.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips, implying that the convincing hadn't come cheap. ”Are you okay?” took a lot of convincing.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips, implying that the convincing hadn't come cheap. ”Are you okay?”

”No.” Alicia sobbed harder. ”I feel like such a loser.”

He lifted her gently out of the chair and pulled her close. She buried her face in her father's lapel and inhaled his spicy scent. As always, he put his hand on her back and tapped like he was burping a baby. In Alicia's head, the rhythmic beats always seemed to say, You're gonna be fine... you're gonna be fine... you're gonna be fine... you're gonna be fine.... You're gonna be fine... you're gonna be fine... you're gonna be fine... you're gonna be fine....

She lifted her head and breathed deeply. The fresh air helped her throbbing head.

Just then, a man wearing a Merri-Lee Marvil Staff hoodie breezed by and grabbed the wheelchair.

”What are you doing?” Alicia called, hating the desperate sound of her voice.

”I need wheels to move that giant scone to the set,” he explained with the urgency of an EMT. ”It weighs a ton!”

Alicia opened her mouth to protest but Len pressed a finger against her lips. ”Let it go.” He took a photo of the man with his free hand. ”This will only help our case.” He winked a dark brown eye.

”What case case?” Alicia asked, scooting onto the edge of the table.

Len dangled a Ziploc baggie under his daughter's pouting lip. Inside was a tiny gold shoe, no bigger than a fingernail.

”Thanks.” Alicia tried to seem pleased with the cute(ish) get-well gift. But it was pointless. This pain pain would haunt her long after her ankle healed. And no amount of gold would stop it. would haunt her long after her ankle healed. And no amount of gold would stop it.

”It's evidence evidence, my darling.” Len gave her the bag. ”This is what you slipped on. I intend to send it out for DNA testing, find out who the owner is, and sue them for dance sabotage.”

Alicia threw her arms around her father's neck. ”Thanks, Daddy.” She beamed, finally feeling rescued. ”After we win the lawsuit, the papers and news channels will do a story on the scandal. My name will be cleared!” She leaned forward and hugged her father again. Was there anything he couldn't fix?

”Wait...” She released him. ”Why would anyone want to sabotage me me?”

”'Scuse me,” called a brunette, sauntering toward them like an actress playing a supermodel. Her black-and-silver dress was Agnes B.'s latest and the perfect choice for a New Year's party. But what promoted her outfit from a ”fas.h.i.+on do” to a ”fas.h.i.+on debut” were her black (cashmere?) kneesocks with the gold initial pins fastened to the side. Were they doing that in j.a.pan? Whoever this M. B. was, she had the kind of style that made regular girls try harder.

”Are you the one who fell?” M. B. asked, stopping at the table. The stranger's amber eyes held Alicia's with what felt like horizontal gravity.

Alicia lowered her gaze. Was this her new ident.i.ty? ”The girl who fell”?

Len held Alicia back with his arm, like a driver making a sudden stop. ”Let me do the talking,” he advised.

”Are you a witness?”