Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

And poor Mariah was both.

Terminal Tango

Temple had only one more night after this to don Zoe Chloe Ozone garb, the awards show on Friday.

She could hardly wait to dump the annoying little spotlight-grabber.

What had almost happened to Matt made this entire competition, for charity or not, seem trivial. She knew she should lighten up, and would later. People just want to have fun, and that’s very good for the human race.

Someone, or several someones on these premises, didn’t.

Temple glanced around. She saw Dirty Larry and his camcorder plying the aisles along with other pro and amateur videographers. Hank Buck stood at the far stage wing, arms folded, eyes scanning the audience. His gaze met hers and he gave a little nod. Other discreet, safari-uniformed hotel guards dotted the back of the house. One was seated almost invisibly behind the judges’ table.

Molina had insisted Leander Brock give her a list of the dancers in order.

When Temple saw it, she knew she was still enough of a competitor to rejoice that Matt had been paired with Olivia Phillips again. By the fifth show and final dance, repairings were inevitable.

Olivia was an ideal partner for Matt. Their heights were right for the cheek-to-cheek tango, and they liked and therefore enhanced each other. Olivia’s tall, slender frame was made for the tango, and Matt had proven he had Latin cojones in the pasodoble. (And even later in the Paso Duel with “Zorro.”)

Temple wasn’t sure that the dance partners were “drawn” for this final performance night. Glory B. was paired with Keith Salter, not the greatest dancer but a good height match. The tango was built on sharp head motions and close body contact by both dancers, facing each other, then apart. Matched heights made it work. So CC had “drawn” the statuesque Wandawoman and José was stuck with Motha Jonz. Giggle.

Temple eyed the “thermometer” graphics board. Despite no personal onstage mishaps and therefore no sympathy votes, Matt had edged out José. Temple would bet his working against type was winning over voters. Olivia and Glory B. were neck and neck on the women’s side.

The dance order would be Salter and Glory B., José and Motha Jonz, CC and Wandawoman, and Matt and Olivia last. Some thought last was the best position in a competition. You stay on the judges’ minds better. Yet mostly call-in and e-mail voters counted these days.

Zoe Chloe would only be onstage at the end, to award the junior dance studio scholarship. That vote board showed Patrisha and EK at the top.

Temple crossed her fingers for EK as she eyed “her girls.”

The four wore glittery tops and short skirts, less trashy but a mirror of what older teen celebrities wore. Molina had sprung a mint for Temple to take Mariah and EK to lunch at the Fashion Show Mall on the Strip and on a shopping spree that midday, so Mariah was looking successfully “teen queen” too.

Temple had welcomed the outing. It took her mind off Matt, his rehearsal demands and physical condition. Although by early this morning he had been remarkably ready to, ah, rise and shine.

“What are you grinning about, ZC?”

Crawford Buchanan had breezed close to whisper in her ear. He loved taking these hit-and-run liberties and could play his fingers across his victim’s neck if he didn’t think she’d call him on it. ZC would. She was wearing the radically high, platform wedge, black satin ballet-style shoes she’d splurged on at the mall for Zoe Chloe’s final appearances, so she could stomp him like a bug if she wanted to.

“Just thinking,” she said, “that my junior dance corps look darling but age-appropriate. Even the Los Hermanos Brothers are giving them a new look.”

“ Eh . They’re okay. A little mousy, maybe. Never your problem,” he added with a patented leer at her black-and-white polka-dotted hose. She also wore a kilt-length fuchsia plaid taffeta balloon skirt and white, puffed-sleeved cropped jacket with a giant fuchsia silk peony on the shoulder that hosted a black rhinestone spider pin as big as a teacup.

On this last competition night (and because Molina and Rafi refused to watch from the greenroom), the ZCO party had seats along the front row on the judges’ side.

Sitting in the audience was so different from watching on a TV screen in the greenroom. They still had their little “family” row: Rafi, Temple, Molina, and Mariah.

The final introductions began as the band played the first couple on stage.

Tango music was sophisticated, like the dance, sometimes brighter and jazzy, sometimes darker.

Wisely, Glory and Keith had been given a quick, intense routine, with lots of dips, leg wraps, and intricate steps for the agile and petite Glory. Keith wore men’s formal black and she sparkled in vibrant orange taffeta. Keith pretty much functioned as the pole in a stripper club. That quieter role enhanced his dignity, so the applause was warm when the couple finished with Glory doing the splits in front of his upright figure.

“Your best dance,” Danny could honestly tell Keith. “A subtle job of supporting your partner so she could perform some very demanding moves. Fabulous job, Miss B. You’ve come far. I expect to see you in a High School Musical touring company shortly.”

“Really?” Glory B. radiated new confidence even while panting hard.

“Nine,” said Danny, looking at Glory B. so she’d know the rating was hers, not theirs.

The audience went wild. Glory B. grinned and waved at them as she left the stage.

“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.