Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

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.

Being in the room, working for hours and focusing on getting the steps right, I lose sight of how massive the set is. The sketch taking up the entire wall reminds me.

Canon, wearing a frown, stands at the other end of the tent with Jill and Kenneth. He pokes the digital illustration on the wall and grasps the headphones draped around his neck. Everyone teases him about the beard he grows during a movie, but damn, if it doesn’t look good on him. It lays close to his face, framing his full lips and scraping the sharp angle of his jaw.

He glances up, the frown deepening when his eyes collide with mine. We’re two days from Thanksgiving, and we haven’t really been alone since the Halloween party. And why should we be? Because he said he didn’t mind my company? Because we shared a few innocuous moments on a secluded balcony serenaded by Luther that felt more intimate than every kiss I’ve ever had?

Girl, get a grip.

“Hey,” Lucia says to a tech scrubbing through footage. She points to the jigsaw of rectangular screens on the wall. “I need to show Neevah something from that last run.”

“Sure,” he replies. “I’ll cue it up. Just let me know where.”

“We need to see the whole ‘Flat Foot Floogie’ sequence,” Lucia mutters, eyes already fixed to the screen.

“I think the camera’s positioned wrong,” I hear Canon say.

I need to pay attention to all the deficiencies Lucia wants to show me, but I can’t help it. I glance over to the wall. He’s tugging at his bottom lip, something he does when he’s working out a problem. He looks up, catching my eye, and I turn back right away like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“I’m going to check,” he says, walking out without acknowledging Lucia or me.

I release a long breath, able to focus now that he’s gone, and tune into what Lucia’s saying. She pauses the tape, though, and stares at me for long, disapproving seconds.

“What? Why’d you stop it? I thought you wanted to show me what I’m doing wrong.”

“Not wrong. What you can do better.”

“Semantics.”

“You seemed to be more interested in him,” she says, tipping her head to the wall where Canon stood seconds ago, “than in the dance. I’ve caught you looking before.”

“Excuse me?” I hope I sound confused and indignant instead of caught. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I send a furtive glance around the tent to see who might overhear this mortifying conversation. Jill and Kenneth are still engrossed in their discussion about the diagram and the tech is at a laptop on the other side of the tent, leaving us to our own devices.

“Look, you’re obviously the real thing,” Lucia says, her words lowered so only I hear. “As much talent as two Jacksons and an Osmond, but no one’ll notice that if you start screwing your director before your first film even releases.”

“I’m not,” I grit out.

“This crush, or whatever it is you have—squash it. It will only distract you, and if he figures it out, which, knowing Canon, he already has, it’ll compromise your working relationship. He’s not gonna ruin his movie over some pussy.” She runs assessing eyes over me, head to toe. “No matter how good it might be.”

Each crude word congeals my insides into embarrassment. My hands screw into the wide skirt of my swing dress. “It’s not like that.”

“Good. Don’t let it be.” The hard, red-painted line of her lips softens. “Look, I get it. That is a man. Like, they don’t make ’em like that anymore. Every room he walks into, he becomes the center, even when he doesn’t mean to.”

She’s right. There’s a reluctant charisma to Canon. Like he doesn’t ask for everyone to be drawn to him, but he can’t not be the thing that draws them.

“He the honey and we the bees,” Lucia says. “But he ain’t looking for a queen bee. Ya feel me? Quickest way to get your heart stomped is to sleep with him and expect something he never gave a girl before. Canon is loyal, and when he finds someone he likes, he sticks with them. Evan, Kenneth, Jill, me. Through the years, he’s built a team of people he trusts. He’s just as serious about keeping out the ones he doesn’t trust as he is about keeping close the ones he does. You make them eyes at him every time you walk into a room, and guess which side you’ll be on?”

“I don’t mean to . . .” I want to deny it, but she just peeped me so thoroughly, I can’t. I want to tell her I can’t help it—that I’m trying my damnedest not to feel like this—but she either wouldn’t buy it or wouldn’t care, so I settle for the only thing I hope she’ll believe. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

She smiles, nods, and restarts the tape, eyes once again fixed on the screen. “Now let’s look at your footwork. I want more Frankie Manning from you, less Megan Thee Stallion.”

“Megan Thee . . .” I laugh at the teasing glint in her eye, grateful for her attempt to ease the tension of our conversation about Canon. “You better stop, and I don’t even know who Frankie Manning is.”

“Most don’t.” Lucia nods to the monitor. “That air step you do when Hinton flips you over his back and you land on your feet? Manning did that. The lindy hop was created right in the Savoy by him and his crew before other folks took it and renamed it the jitterbug. He should be a household name, but whereas Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly went on to Hollywood, he went to work in the post office for ’bout forty years ’til somebody ‘revived’ him when he was seventy years old. Least he did win a Tony before he died. A little of the recognition he shoulda got. Girl, the way they do us.”

“I feel robbed sometimes.” I sigh, expelling my frustration. “All the things we don’t know, are never taught. Have to dig around to find out.”

“History is so picked over, by the time you get to the tree, there’s barely any fruit left.” Her grin is sudden and bright. “When you get home, look up Hellzapoppin’. Watch that clip. I know you’ve looked at tapes of swing. My fault for not mentioning this clip sooner. You have the steps technically, but dance is more than execution. It’s possession. You gotta give your body over. Your whole spirit has to surrender. The people who can teach you what I’m talking about are all dead.”

Her phone lights up and she grimaces at the text on her screen. “Watch that last run-through. They think one of the dancers may have sprained an ankle. I need to go check.”

“Oh, no. You go. I’ll be out and ready before the next run.”

She nods absently, a frown worrying her brows, and leaves the tent. Before watching my next run-through, I’d love to see the Hellzapoppin’ clip. Our phones aren’t allowed on set, so we usually leave them in our trailers.

“Excuse me,” I call out to the tech, who lifts his head. “Can I borrow your phone for a sec?”

I watch the clip on his phone and instantly understand what Lucia meant. The dancers’ movements are liquid, their limbs loose and flowing like water. And there is a madness to the energy, but there’s also control. The ease is undergirded by so much discipline and skill. When I watch myself, I see the difference.

“Lucia got you watching tape?” Jill asks, sitting down beside me. She’s blonde, around forty, with a dozen or so tattoos graffitied on her arms. Chunky silver rings adorn most of her fingers.

“Oh.” I pause the tape of our last run-through. “Yeah. She was right. I needed to see myself to know how I could do it better.”

“You’re doing great, but Lucia knows how to get that last drop of greatness out of her dancers. Even when it looks perfect to us, she sees room for improvement. That’s why Canon chose her.”

At the mention of Canon, I stiffen and want to change the subject. What if Lucia isn’t the only one who’s noticed my fixation on the director?

“So, you have big plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask.

“Just dinner with my family. My husband and kids, I mean. We’ll go see family in Chicago for Christmas. It’s such a quick turnaround; we’ll save that trip for next month when we can stay a bit. How about you?”

“Same. I mean, about the quick turnaround. My family’s in North Carolina. I don’t want to do cross country for just a few days, but also, we’ve been going nonstop. I need to rest and prepare. We have so many big scenes coming up.”

“And you’re in every one of them.” Jill pats my hand, her green eyes kind, sympathetic. “It’s a lot of pressure, and you’re doing amazing work.”

“Thanks. There are two scenes next week after the holiday break that I don’t feel ready for. I’ve been so focused on the dance, I haven’t memorized those lines. So that’s how I’ll be spending Thanksgiving.”

“You’re welcome to come to our house for dinner. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Does it sound crazy that I kind of want to be alone?” I shake my head and scratch under the itchy wig. “My roommate is going home to Texas. She invited me and so did some of the other cast, but I would love to just have the house to myself for a few days and see no one. I know it sounds antisocial, but—”

“Not strange at all. This is a long haul. Whatever self-care looks like for you, do that.” She looks at me speculatively. “Tell you what. There’s a great little family restaurant in Topanga Canyon that does a crazy-good Thanksgiving dinner. Fantastic view. You’d love it. I always try to convince my family that we should go, but every year I end up slaving over an undercooked bird.”

“I don’t actually eat turkey.”

“This place serves faux turkey, or you eat fish? They do a smoked salmon crepe that’s to die for.”

“Now that sounds incredible, but do you think they’d have a table this late with Thanksgiving only two days away?”

“My agent knows one of the managers. I bet I could get him to reserve a spot for you.”

She digs through the Post-its and mangled scripts cluttering the table until she finds a notepad and pen.

“Honestly, the scenery is as good as the food,” she says, jotting down the name of the restaurant. “If I can swing this table, promise me you’ll try it.”

“Promise. I’m actually really looking forward to it. Thank you.”

“Good. You won’t regret it.”

Her smile is almost sly, secretive, but I’m probably paranoid and take her kindness at face value. The only thing I plan to cook is Mama’s apple cobbler because even though I don’t often go back to Clearview for the holidays, it makes me feel a little closer to home. Letting someone else handle the rest sounds good to me.