“But will you be by yourself?” she asks, a frown dipping her blonde brows.
“I hope so.” I laugh. “Maybe I’ll come by on Friday after Thanksgiving. How’s that sound?”
“Come on, Sin. Mommy’s working.” Kimmy shoots Jill an apologetic look.
“It’s fine,” Jill assures her. “Okay, baby. Run on and I’ll see you in a little bit. I need to look at one thing with Uncle Canon.”
“Did Seth have anything to do with her?” I ask as they exit the tent. “She looks exactly like you in every way.”
“He got the other two, so it all evens out.” She laughs, running a hand through the disorderly hair flopping into her eyes. “Thank you again, on behalf of all the working moms, for the on-set daycare. I wish more directors did it. I mean, Sin’s just out of school today, but for the moms in the cast and crew with babies, it’s a lifesaver.”
“Not a big deal.”
“If it wasn’t, everyone would do it. Don’t get me started on the things that hold women back in this business. You adopting French hours for this film is huge, and I hope more directors follow suit.”
“Well, not perfectly. Some folks are still here fourteen hours a day, sometimes more, but I hope the ten-hour workday for most has helped.”
“So much. There are a lot of really talented women who give up on this business because they can’t disappear for literally sixteen or eighteen hours a day, and can’t afford care for their kids that long.”
“The adjustments haven’t actually been that hard. I’d do whatever it took to get you on set. You’re my secret weapon.”
I’m not exaggerating. She is, which is why I use her whenever I can. The only projects she’s missed were when she was having a baby.
“Well, the ladies say thanks.”
“Hey, my mom was a working photographer. A single mom at that. I know how hard it can be.”
“Are you spending Thanksgiving with her family? Sienna’s right,” Jill says, licking the forgotten popsicle, grimacing and tossing it into the trash can beside the table. “I don’t want to think of you alone.”
“Nah. I’ll do Christmas with them. I want to be alone. I want one meal that isn’t shoved down my throat between takes or in front of a laptop, and I’d like to eat it in peace.”
“You’ll swing by on Friday?” Her worried frown remains unmoved by my explanation.
“Sure.”
“But what will you eat on Thanksgiving?”
I shrug. “Takeout.”
“No. So I have this great place my agent told me about. I’ll give you the info.”
“Okay.”
“I’m just concerned.”
“I think you’re spelling smothering wrong.”
“And I think,” she says, turning back to my laptop and pinging a knowing smile between me and Neevah onscreen, “she’s fantastic.”
So much for keeping anything secret around here.
26
Neevah
I’m soaring.
Tossed through the air, wind whipping the skirt past my knees and thighs. A blur of legs and flying feet. My partner’s strong hands anchor at my waist, whirling me to his right and then his left. Propelled through his legs, I glide across the floor on my back, hopping up for a flying run into his arms again.
Caught.
Held.
Lifted.
Spun.
I’m a weightless wonder. One in a kaleidoscope of hand-painted butterflies taking flight, our way made straight to a chorus of trumpets. The band blares “Flat Foot Floogie” as a hundred feet stutter through the intricate steps of the lindy hop. Electricity crackles the air, charging our bodies into frenetic rhythm. We move, we dance, clothes clinging to our bodies with the sweet juice of fervor. Sweat drizzles between my breasts, coats my neck and arms like dew. In the thrall of this dance, a syncopated stomp, I drip the wine of winding hips. I dip. I sway in an intercourse of jazz and blues and swing.
“Cut!” Kenneth calls.
The fifty or so dancers roar and clap and laugh, triumphant. We’ve been practicing this number for hours. Days, really, and finally, it’s falling into place. It’s one of the dance centerpieces of the movie, and Lucia, the choreographer, has been relentless.
“That was great, Neevah,” my partner Hinton says, walking with me over to a table loaded with water. “Best so far.”
“I hope so.” I accept a water bottle and down a long, refreshing gulp. “It took me long enough to get it.”
“Most of us are trained dancers. I know you dance, but it’s not your primary discipline. You’re a natural, though.”
I swipe the sweat from my forehead. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Well, you’re doing great.”
“You could be better,” Lucia says, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.
The woman is a phantom. She haunts my dreams. I’m surprised I don’t wake up every night screaming get that leg higher. I know I’m the lead, and I feel the weight of that responsibility, but she rides me harder than everyone else. At four feet, eleven inches, with a nest of dark Medusa curls and a plethora of expletives, she’s the most intimidating presence on set, second only to Canon himself.
“Something is missing,” she says to me now, Puerto Rico and New York thick in her accent. “You got the steps—now I need you to feel them. Stop thinking and just let ’em take you.”
I swipe at the sweat sliding from beneath the wig and down my neck, afraid to admit I’m not sure how to do that. “I’ll get it. Sorry.”
“You are verrrrry close, and much better than when we started. You need to see. Come on.”
She walks off without another word. I shoot a startled glance at Hinton and scurry to catch her. She dances like a swan, but walks like a tank. The sea of brightly clad dancers part in her wake. You’d think, since her legs are half a foot shorter than mine, I could easily keep up, but I’m scampering after her like an eager Chihuahua.
“Where are we going?” I ask, waving at members of the cast as we plow through the crowd.
“Video village. It will help to see yourself on camera.”
She strides confidently into the large white tent. It’s usually a hive of activity—command central, with mounted screens covering the walls, 3D prop models on the center table, and laptops scattered seemingly on every available surface.
The first thing I see when we enter is a digital diagram of the Savoy Ballroom plastered to the wall. The production team recreated the famous ballroom to such exact specifications, you’re transported to Lenox Avenue, what Langston Hughes called the Heartbeat of Harlem, as soon as you step on set.
The Savoy spanned an entire city block on Lenox Avenue and could hold up to four thousand people. The team carefully recrafted two flights of marble steps bordered by mirrored walls leading up to a smaller replica of the original ten-thousand-square-foot, mahogany, spring-loaded dance floor. The floor saw so much traffic, the owners had to replace it every three years. The production team left no detail undone, even adding the ballroom’s cut-glass chandeliers, rose-pink walls and two raised bandstands where legends like Benny Goodman and Chick Webb dueled before record crowds.