Naughty Little Secrets. Mary Wilbon

before she let Blair oversee another one of her projects.

      And Sindee had plans to do a lot of projects here.

      Sindee didn’t much care for Blair’s assistant, David Castrato, either. He was always buzzing around like an annoying little gnat. He was forever singing show tunes as if to let everyone know that he had a good voice and that he wanted to do more than be assistant stage manager.

      Sindee didn’t think he was as brain dead as Blair, but she didn’t like David because he was perpetually and relentlessly chipper. He was always smiling. It wasn’t normal. No one was as happy all the time as David seemed to be.

      But there was nothing Sindee could do. These were the people she had to work with.

      Next, Sindee checked the cables for all the mechanicals that were a part of the show.

      Above her, the ceiling was a riot of ropes, pulleys, and other rigging.

      Right now Sindee was concerned with the large mechanical champagne bottle that was used in the finale. The cables were crossed inappropriately. This could cause the bottle to malfunction and ruin the whole effect.

      Damn it, Blair! she thought. Like I really need this right now!

      This officially marked the end of Sindee’s fleeting moment of Christmas spirit. If poor little Tiny Tim had been in the room with her right now, she would have snapped his good leg like a twig.

      God bless us, every one, Godammit! Crack!

      Sindee had always been the type to obsess over minutia. She understood that it was the attention to every little detail that gave a show its unique look and feel. Blair didn’t seem to get that.

      Blair was too slack for Sindee’s liking; especially for this show.

      Sindee had too much riding on this show to allow even the smallest item to be overlooked. She wasn’t going to tolerate Blair’s incompetence.

      Sindee was too busy babysitting the director and the playwright, and too busy trying to give this turkey of a play all the glitter and razzle dazzle she could muster.

      Sindee was making every effort to save Sorry I Missed Your Birthday from a trip to the musical trash heap.

      After years of attempted persuasion by several actors in the company, Sindee had been the one to finally convince Addison and Karson to stage their first musical and they were apprehensive. The Taylors had built the reputation of their theater on classic comedies and dramas. After seven seasons, the theater was about to start showing a profit.

      Now the production was way over the budget Sindee had projected, and they still had three weeks of rehearsals ahead of them.

      The backers, many of whom were beginning to think that they were throwing their money into a bottomless pit, were cringing at the escalating extras, the most exorbitant being Sindee’s insistence that Addison hire her old friend, Dale Mabrey to choreograph. It had been costly to bring him back from Florida, but he was the only one she could trust to give the dance a professional touch. Besides, Dale was desperate for work and Sindee could use that to her advantage.

      Sindee finished her inspection of the stage, then walked to the rehearsal piano. She picked up her Zippo lighter with the masks of Comedy and Tragedy on it.

      She let her fingers run over every inch of it. She lit a cigarette.

      It was a good touch, she thought. Dale had given her this lighter years ago. He had it inscribed with the words “To my Bud, S from D.” When he saw it, she hoped he would remember and get sentimental.

      Sindee tried to look casual as she watched Dale rehearse the finale.

      It had been a while since they worked together. They would always be friends, but now Sindee had to be businesslike and completely objective. She wanted to make sure he was worth all the trouble it had taken to get him here.

      Sindee had seen the earlier rehearsal. The second act was slow. Lines were dropped and it was obvious the actors didn’t have a clue to what was going on. Sindee could only hope that Dale was doing his job and the songs and the dance numbers were coming together.

      She looked at him as he rehearsed the chorus line. Since she’d last worked with Dale maybe a line here or there had appeared on his handsome face. Maybe he was a little gray at the temples, but other than that, he was the same friend she had known for over fifteen years.

      “No! No! No! Unacceptable! Totally unacceptable! Those are not the steps I just did! You Tinkerbells are giving me a fucking President Kennedy memorial headache! Look! Half my scalp has been blown off! I’ve seen better arabesques from a line of ‘Jerry’s Kids’! What the fuck was that, anyway? ‘Look at us, we’re dancing’?”

      One unfortunate young man made the mistake of laughing. Dale turned to him swiftly and without mercy. He got as close as possible to the hapless chorus boy without touching him.

      “What are you laughing at, ‘Lord of the Dance’? If you would spend more time concentrating on your movements and less time worrying about what the size of your package looks like in those tights, we might be able to get some work done here.”

      The young man felt his legs go rubbery.

      “And take that sock out of there,” Dale ordered, tapping his pointer on the young man’s crotch. “We all know you’re not Cockzilla.”

      The red-faced young man did as he was told.

      Dale turned away from the chorus line ostensibly to take another sip of his Diet Coke.

      Actually, he was replaying the last few moments in his mind. Inflicting shame and humiliation were talents he had honed to perfection.

      He took a long, thirst-quenching drink. It went down well with his self-satisfaction. He was working on his third bottle.

      God, he loved breaking balls. And to be able to break them on Christmas Eve! What a present he had been given! His joy was boundless.

      He crossed his eyes and flashed a clownish grin at Sindee, who had witnessed everything. She returned his grin, then quickly tamped out her cigarette in an ashtray on the piano. She pretended to be absorbed in some sheet music to keep from giggling audibly.

      By the time Dale turned back to face his scared and tired dancers, he had resumed his usual scowl. He spoke to them in a detached tone.

      “If you want to dance, and I assume you do, then work with me. Follow me. I want you to reach beyond yourselves. Become the music. Become the dance.”

      The chorus line fell into place, hypnotized by him.

      He lifted his pointer.

      “Again, ladies. And this time thrill me.”

      He looked back at Sindee.

      “Sindee, if you please…”

      Sindee started the intro. Dale started his countdown.

      “Focus…eyes front…and…5,6,7,8.”

      The dancers went into motion. Dale walked among them watching their every step, calling out the dance combinations.

      “Remember…together, unified, dancing as if you were one…

      “And…kick, step, kick, step.

      “Turn in, turn out.

      “Back step, pivot step.

      “Arabesque, arabesque.

      “Double pirouette…and rest.

      “Not bad. Again…

      “And…kick, step, kick, step.

      “Turn in, turn out.

      “Back step, pivot step.

      “Arabesque, arabesque.

      “Double pirouette, and…

      “Hold it…hold it…,” he said, drawing it out,