Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (6 page)

Before long, I moved up in the ranks, rising to the top like cream, eventually even replacing Skye as the most famous of all fairies. In addition to taking over her Sugar Plum role, I played Princess Aurora (Sleeping Beauty) in
Sleeping Beauty
, pricking my finger on the spindle of the spinning wheel and falling dramatically to the floor. I played dead for so long before Prince Charming awoke me with a kiss that my leg actually did go to sleep, and I was well into my solo before the feeling in my appendage returned.

There were plenty of talented girls at the studio to play the female characters in our ballets, but it was such a struggle to find qualified dancers for the lead male roles that sometimes, at great expense, Skye even shipped in a professional. With such a dire shortage of testosterone around the place, the Dallas women were always on the lookout for unsuspecting guys they could lure in and snatch up for partners. Dads, brothers, the mailman, or any able-bodied male, for that matter, didn’t dare set foot in the door of the studio, or the next thing they knew they were on stage in tights and a dance belt (the equivalent of a jock strap) bench pressing a teen ballerina. Watching a grown man attempt to do ballet wasn’t half as shocking as seeing him wear tights. I never did get used to that; it was impossible not to stare at that bulge. It takes a secure fellow to tiptoe around on stage for an audience with his rear end and private parts shrink-wrapped for all to see.

That was the terrible fate of Roger, a poor, unwitting, thirty-something, long-distance runner, who made the mistake of joining our ballet class to improve his flexibility and, much to his wife’s dismay, ended up as the Fairy King Oberon in our production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. Luckily, with his taut and toned physique, he looked about as good in tights as could be expected of any man.

Playing Queen Titania, I was Roger’s partner in the ballet, and although he couldn’t dance to save his soul, he was tall, muscular, strong, and could grab me by the waist and lift me over his head on cue. He held me with a death grip; my back had the bruises of his fingerprints to prove it, but at least he didn’t let me fall. As King Oberon, Roger had to do some of that ballet-pantomime-acting in the show. I never did figure out what he was communicating, but I think he was supposed to be mad, because he shook his fist a lot. We attended the same church, and, when I saw him there, I blushed under the eyes of God, embarrassed that I had a pretty good idea what his family jewels looked like, having seen him in tights.

Roger also danced with Belinda, another one of our prima ballerinas, and was partnering her on stage the day it happened. No one could stop talking about it. There she was, spinning in circles, her back to his stomach, legs wrapped around his waist, arms high in the air and back arched like a hood ornament, when her breasts just plopped right out of her costume. Skye laughed hysterically. Belinda seemed to take it all in stride, but I knew if that ever happened to me I would keel over and die. Perhaps the cortisone shots she received to assuage her aching feet had numbed her feelings of modesty as well.

Like Belinda and the rest of the Dallas elite, I practically lived at the studio, taking classes four nights a week and attempting to teach tap to rambunctious toddlers on Saturdays. Dance was now my life. It gave me a place in the world. To me, the human race could be separated into two categories: dancers and normal people. Once I dubbed myself a dancer, I never wanted to be normal again.

*******

The Dallas School of Dance closed its doors during the summer, so, in order to get our dance fix, a couple classmates and I attended a two-week Cecchetti ballet conference held at Michigan State University. We lived in dorms and took ballet classes all day long except for the one allotted jazz class. Jazz dance was the dessert at the end of a healthy meal of ballet. We knew it wasn’t really good for us but it was a special treat after a hard day of “real” dancing.

The ballet classes were stressful and required full concentration at all times. Unlike at Hattie’s, where we repeated the exact same exercises all year and could perform them in our sleep, at the conference, we were taught new and different combinations for every class, so we had to focus, pick up, and execute the steps with lightning speed. Some teachers would demonstrate the choreography using their hands as feet. Others would just tell you the moves in French without demonstrating at all: “Jeté, temps levé, jeté, temps levé, glissade, brisé, assemblé, changement!” We were separated into small groups to perform the combination for the rest of the class. You couldn’t let your attention wane for a second or you’d be in the center of the room, fumbling about, looking like a numbskull in front of all the others.

The guest teachers patrolled the rooms, hunting for sickled feet, poor posture, and other violations. I got busted. “You must SEW the elastic bands to your ballet slippers. Never PIN them,” scolded ballet mistress Madame Martinez. Petrified and ashamed, I completed the lesson and then ran in search of needle and thread.

My ballet classes made me so uptight I could no longer absorb the combinations and was paralyzed with fear of making a mistake. Something had to be done to put me out of my misery, or I’d never last the full two weeks. Reminding myself why I started dancing in the first place, I decided to lighten up, have fun, not worry, and try to enjoy the experience. My method worked, and soon I was dancing with more joy than fear.

Scholarship auditions to attend the next workshop were held; to placate Skye, I reluctantly entered for my ability level. Even though I hated the idea of competing and dreaded being judged on my dancing, I smiled and made the best of the situation.

The conference culminated in the Awards Ceremony and Performance during which the winning contestants were announced. Skye and Hattie attended the event, which was held in a large auditorium at the university, and we all sat together awaiting the verdict. As my category was called, my heart pounded, and my legs turned to jelly. I didn’t expect to win, but, confident I had done a good job at the audition, I allowed for the possibility. “And the first runner-up is … Kristi Davis!” I could hardly believe my ears. Another ballerina was awarded the scholarship, but I didn’t care, because I had won
something
. It was the first time my abilities had been acknowledged outside the Dallas School. Maybe I do have talent!

My prize was only a bouquet of flowers and prima ballerina Margot Fonteyn’s autobiography, but I couldn’t have been more proud. They noticed me! At our celebration dinner, I called home to tell my parents the good news, and it took a long time to convince my mother I was telling the truth.

The following fall, I took first place in a Dance Masters of Michigan competition, where we were judged not only on ballet but tap and jazz as well. Second place went to another Dallas student, Dorissa, a champion baton twirler who could spin like a top. She’d throw her baton miles up to the heavens, turn a dozen times in a second, like a blender on high speed, and catch that whirling stick without batting an eye. This girl could even maneuver her baton using only her elbows and lips!

My winning streak made me a star at the studio, but, still shy and insecure, I never felt like one. My change of status was apparent, as Dorissa and I were pictured for free in the Dallas recital program along with a caption listing our titles. In addition, Skye and Hattie requested a solo picture (also gratis) of their new celebrity. In my sequined, snow-white tutu, I posed on pointe in a beautiful attitude derriere. Hattie wrote the accompanying text, and I knew I had finally made it to the top of the Dallas School of Dance.

Having proven my competition potential, Skye and Hattie decided I should enter the Miss Suburbs Pageant. There wasn’t much in this world they loved more than a beauty queen, and even I was mesmerized at the thought of garnering my own sparkling rhinestone tiara. After all, my lovely mother had been Homecoming Queen in high school, my winsome Aunt Wilma Jean had been the Iowa Beef Queen, and my darling Aunt Nancy had been crowned Iowa’s Favorite Farmer’s Daughter. Royal blood flowed through my veins! My dad quickly squelched the idea, however. “You’re NOT wearing a bathing suit on stage?” His stern inquiry made it clear this was a rhetorical question. Ah well. I was never much interested in competing anyway, so I didn’t press the issue. Ninny Boil, another girl from my class, entered, won, and had her picture (in gown, crown, sash, and with trophy) added to the collection of photos on the studio’s Wall of Fame. The Dallas pair had now fostered royalty, and my measly Dance Masters triumph was a distant memory.

Unless you were being crowned something prestigious enough to get your picture in the paper along with a statement about hailing from Hattie’s, the Dallas gals were not big on their students skipping class for non-dance-related activities. Missing for track meets, piano concerts, cheerleading, or anything that didn’t resemble a coronation was frowned upon. So when in my junior year of high school, I landed my first lead role in a musical (Ado Annie in
Oklahoma
) and would have to forgo a few ballet company rehearsals, Skye adamantly said, “NO!” I was forced to choose between the Southeast Ballet Theatre and the Rogers and Hammerstein show about cowfolk.

Quitting the ballet company that meant so much to me was a horrifying prospect. I lived and breathed pointe shoes and tutus. But this was a LEAD ROLE IN A MUSICAL! How could I turn down the opportunity? Having already played the best fairies and other prima ballerina parts, I opted to stretch my wings and try singing and acting as well as dancing. This difficult decision did not go over well with Skye. Not at all. One thing led to another, and I realized I needed to leave the Dallas studio for good. Leaving my dance home and the teacher I had idolized for so long was heartbreaking, but it was now Oklahoma or bust.

Playing a main character in a musical was foreign territory for me. I’d waltzed around with the ensemble before, had the odd line here and there, even danced the dream ballet solo in
Carousel
, but this was real responsibility. I had pages of dialogue to memorize. I had to sing alone. Sure, I had been singing in choirs for years but not solo. And I knew nothing about acting. I begged my best friend’s mom, a community theatre actress and director, for private coaching.

My character, Ado Annie, was a promiscuous, goofy, simple country girl who was always ready for a romp in the hay. This floozy sings about how she “just cain’t say no” to men and ends up “in a terrible fix.” The performances would have gone off without a hitch if it weren’t for the not-keyed-in musical director. Perhaps his mind had wandered off to wondering why in God’s name he’d relinquished his fantasy of being a famous jazz musician to teach insolent teenagers and where to numb his despondency with a stiff drink. I couldn’t say for sure, but he was not paying attention and forgot to give me the starting note for my solo, which began a cappella. I waited. And waited. And waited for that critical, guiding tone. It never came. Finally I gave up hope of any musical help, and commenced breaking the awkward silence by singing. Regrettably, when the orchestra started playing, we were in different keys. Horror! Hot flash! Eventually, after some vocal floundering, I was able to sync up with the tune. I was beyond embarrassed but had to snap out of it quickly. That’s part of the excitement of live theatre: Stuff is bound to go wrong, and you just can’t get too keyed up about it for the show must go on.

The best part of the performance was curtain call. Lining up the length of the stage, the entire company held hands and took a bow together. The curtain lowered while the crowd was still applauding, and we all cheered. I held back tears. It felt so good! This was a team effort and a lot more fun than sitting in the corner alone after a dance recital, patting myself on the back for a job well done.

My senior year, I landed another choice part, Hedy La Rue in
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.
My best friend was cast as Rose, the serious, female ingenue, and I played the sexy, dumb, funny sidekick who spoke in a squeaky voice and flitted about in high heels. Fearful of opening my mouth and releasing discordant notes in public again, I took a couple of voice lessons from a local voice teacher. Luckily, I only had one solo in the show, and it was corny so I could ham it up and hide my lack of training. I truly loved the musicals.

*******

Although devastated about quitting Hattie’s, I couldn’t bear to stop dancing, so I moved to her rival studio, Priscilla Prescott’s School of Dance. You couldn’t be more of a traitor than to leave Hattie’s for Priscilla’s, but Priscilla was the only other good teacher in town. I felt I had no choice. Still, the decision was difficult to make, as changing studios is like denouncing your citizenship to your native country. The instant you register for lessons somewhere, you swear an automatic allegiance to that place. You know not to become too friendly with a kid from another dance facility, and if one were to corner you at school, to reveal only your name, rank, and serial number. “They tortured me, and I told them about plies and shuffle-off-to-Buffalos! Dear God! I told them about Buffalos!” There was no telling the dance secrets you might spill if bullied, so it was best to just avoid dancers from other studios, if at all possible.

It was common knowledge that Hattie and Priscilla were arch enemies. The competition between them was so fierce, if the two somehow ended up in the same room they would surely pull each others’ hair out in a down-and-dirty catfight. Back at Hattie’s, Priscilla’s name was spoken in hushed tones if someone dared ever speak it at all. When one of you-know-who’s best students, Ninny Boil (yes, the same Ninny who won the Miss Suburbs Pageant), defected to Hattie’s, the Dallas gals were more than happy to offer her asylum. Acquiring the competition’s
crème de la crème
was a major coup, and there was much rejoicing. For her treason, Ninny was rewarded with the red carpet treatment and lead roles, but she could never show her face at her former studio again. So, as a deserter entering Priscilla’s for the first time, I felt like I had to look over my shoulder to make sure the Dallas clan didn’t have spies following me.