Cat In A Topaz Tango

“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.

“And now,” Crawford finally crowed, sensing his reign as emcee peaking, “our last couple of the night performing the . . . Last Tango in Vegas! The glamorous Olivia Phillips and her partner, new Latin king Matt Devine!”

Oh, wow. Temple’s eyes were glued on the staircase. She wanted someone’s hand to grab. She looked right past Molina and saw that Mariah had scrunched down on her mother’s other side and was staring raptly at the stage. “He’s gonna be okay, he’s gonna be okay,” she was mouthing, as if making up for her unguarded and selfish blurt when she saw Matt streaming blood in the wee hours of this morning.

Kids have to learn to deal with shock; it doesn’t come naturally.

No couple arrived at the top of either stairway in the wings.