Free Joplin's Ghost by Tananarive Due Page A

they dance at the Osiris, with only a week of rehearsals left before that show?
    Olympia sighed. The lithe, short-haired woman was twenty-two, but something officious in her voice made her sound like a Student Council president moonlighting as a B-girl. “Guys, was that your way of telling me it’s time for lunch?”
    That was the first good idea Phoenix had heard today.
    Sarge was waiting for them in the club’s tiny conference room, standing against the wall with his arms crossed as they filed in with their bags of lunch from Wendy’s across the street. Sarge was always her watchman and taskmaster, with his shaven head, trademark skullcap, and mole-splotched face that hadn’t changed since her childhood. The only part of Sarge that aged was his temper, which had gotten more brittle. Sarge gave her a look: What’s the problem?
    Phoenix shrugged. She wasn’t in the mood for Sarge on an empty stomach. While she waited for the dancers to negotiate whose food was whose, Phoenix’s eyes studied the room’s wood-paneled walls, which were plastered with concert posters dating back a decade. Everybody had been through here, apparently. Nelly, of course. Chingy. Ginuwine. Lauryn Hill, from forever ago. Even Gloria Gaynor, still surviving on a long-ago comeback tour. This room reminded Phoenix of the Gallery of Greats in the Silver Slipper, before her mother sold the club like she’d always promised to. There was even a piano against the wall, like déjà vu.
    “I have a migraine after that sorry display,” Sarge told the group, as the dancers took their seats in the plastic chairs, crowding the table. “Maybe since this isn’t New York or L.A., you think this show doesn’t mean shit. Well, there’s no such thing as a small show . Maybe I need to call my friend R.J., who’s doing Ronn a solid even having you on his stage, and tell him my crew isn’t ready for Le Beat…”
    Sarge could go on all day.
    Arturo sat sullenly beside Phoenix, stirring his chili with a plastic spoon. The other two dancers were Olympia’s contacts, but Arturo was Phoenix’s friend from high school, and she always hired him when she had a chance. He was a great dancer, perpetually underemployed. Arturo was six-four, a colossus who could leap over a horse.
    “Maybe you need to learn to let people eat without all this noise,” Arturo muttered, and Phoenix slapped his thigh under the table.
    Sarge pierced Arturo full force with The Ray. “You know what? You’re the first one I’m sending home. And don’t think I’m gonna have you in that video or on my stage at the Osiris if this is the best you’ve got. I’ll send you back delivering those damn pizzas, or whatever the fuck you were doing when Phoenix begged me to call you. You’re not ready for this level, son.”
    Arturo’s ego must be screaming, Phoenix thought. She’d met him at Miami’s New World School of the Arts when they were both fourteen, and he was still one of the most dynamic dancers she’d ever seen, able to make his body defy physics. After studying dance on a college scholarship, he’d somehow ended up back in Miami managing a Domino’s Pizza. She didn’t want Arturo to blow this chance. She could take him with her, if only he’d get out of his own way. Under the table, Phoenix squeezed her friend’s hand. Chill, sweetie. It’s just Sarge.
    As Sarge beckoned Olympia through the door to tell her something privately, Arturo spoke close to Phoenix’s ear. “He’s got it twisted if he thinks I’m a sissy queen shaking in my shoes. I will take him outside to throw down, whether he’s your father or not,” he said. Arturo had a low-pitched, satiny voice that had always made Phoenix wish he weren’t gay.
    “No stress,” Phoenix said. “It’s just trash talk, Arturo. You know Sarge.”
    He pecked her lips, standing. “Only for you do I tolerate this, chica . Believe that.”
    The dancers rushed their lunch, since no one wanted to wait for Sarge to come