At Your Service (5 page)

I peek in first, then grab Marie and move her up beside me. She's acting all matter-of-fact, but I'm betting underneath the layers of brat, she's impressed. How could she not be?

About forty girls cluster to one side, either watching the group dancing, chugging from water bottles, or slipping off thin wrap sweaters. In the right corner, to the side of a long stretch of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, are a small piano and a drum crammed against the wall. Jammed tight into the other corner is a table where a man sits making notes. In the very front, with
her back to the mirrors, a super-elegant lady dressed in a black flowy tunic sweater, black tights, and black lace-up boots is standing on a small wooden box and calling out to the dancers.

Two of us watch transfixed (the third assumes her standard crossed-arm stance) as the Rockettes move in unison across the floor, kicking and pivoting gracefully. After a minute the man at the table spots us and calls for a break. Forty legs lower as one, and the ramrod-straight line goes all wiggly as dancers drop their form and head for their water.

Wow.

The man makes his way through the sea of dancers. “Hi, girls. I'm the stage manager, Eddie. You must be from the Saint Michèle. Are you Marie?” he asks Paisley, who giggles.

“
I
am Marie.” She pushes Pay aside and steps forward. Geez, could her nose stick up any farther?

Eddie looks a little taken aback as he turns to face Marie. I'm sure he expected gushing and maybe even some tears of delight. I know I did.

“Well, Marie. Uh, welcome. We thought maybe you'd like to watch from up front, so you can get a sense for the way the line works.”

Marie looks like she's being told the average rainfall in Peru or something equally uninteresting.

“If you zink zat eez best,” she says, examining her nails. I truly want to slap her. And I'm not a violent person. Paisley has a panicky look on her face like the one I'm trying to mask on mine. How could all this amazingness still not be amazing enough? When I get back to the hotel, I'm totally in for it. I was so sure this would save the day. Now Wimpy is breathing down my neck, who knows where Mr. Buttercup stands on things, and, worst of all, Dad will be bummed.

I'm sure he won't actually
blame
me or anything, seeing as how he didn't have any better ideas, but I hate to think I let him down. And what does this mean for my goal of being the brightest star in the concierge world if I can't even make one nine-year-old happy in a city as magical as New York?

Well, one thing's for sure. I'm not going down without a fight. The number one rule of concierges everywhere: Remember, it can't hurt to ask.

“Eddie?” I call as he begins leading Marie up front. He turns and I gesture him over.

“I know this is a lot to ask, so please feel free to say no, but this is a very, verrrrrry special guest at our hotel and, well, we're a little desperate to make her stay memorable. She's a bit . . . tough, on the exterior, but inside she's just so excited to be here, ya know?”

Yes, I realize I'm babbling.

“Anyway, what do you think the chances might be of letting her, um, participate in the rehearsal for a little while? Just to give her a taste of what it's really like to be a Rockette. We'd be soooo grateful. I know I will personally tell everyone at my school and, of course, in the hotel, to buy tickets to the show this year. Really. Positively everyone.”

Pay is behind me, nodding like one of the Yankee bobbleheads she collects. “Me too.”

Eddie hesitates, eyeing Marie's cheetah-patterned jeans. “I . . . She's not really dressed for it.”

Oh, Eddie. You clearly have not met me before. The
C
stands for Capable, my dear man. I slide the backpack off my shoulder and hold it up. “I had some dance gear in her size sent to the hotel this morning. You know, just in case.”

Eddie looks cornered. “Um, okay, I . . . I guess it would be fine. I'll show you where she can change.” He retrieves Marie from her slouching spot against the mirror and returns her to me. Marie's butt print on the glass lingers.

I fill her in and I swear, for one tiny second, I see a flicker of something in those dull shark eyes of hers. She actually looks like she's rushing when we point out the ladies' room.

Score one for me!

W
hen we return, the next group of dancers is lining up on the grid lines taped to the floor. Pay and I move aside a jumble of the girls' street shoes and find a spot among the girls sitting this session out. They all smile to welcome us. It's official: I love the Rockettes.

Marie moves directly to the center of the dancers, like she's a queen surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. I hold my breath.

The glamorous woman who was calling out moves from atop a small box when we first arrived raises her hand, and all talking stops. About eighty pairs of eyes, plus mine and Paisley's, swivel to her. Marie studies her nails again.

“Oh boy. Joyce isn't gonna stand for that. She's all about respect, respect, respect,” whispers one of the dancers to me.

Joyce's hair is pulled so tight into a bun that you would think it would yank the corners of her mouth up, but no—her expression looks like she just popped a Sour Patch Kid into her mouth.

She walks—check that, she
glides
—to Marie and stands motionless in front of her until Marie lifts her eyes. Marie looks like she's about to say something snide, but she doesn't. Anyway, I'm putting my money on the choreographer lady in this showdown. She doesn't look like she's ever lost ground to anyone. Of course, Marie did once get our chef to make her gumdrops on his day off. I wouldn't have thought that was possible either.

“Bevel position, please,” she instructs.

Marie stares back at her. “What eez zees bevel position?”

“Ah, so you are not a trained dancer. Imagine my surprise. We welcome you here, but I suggest that someone who is not an expert at least learn to take instruction like a professional. Now then. Shoulders back, stand tall, heels together, this knee bent softly, toes pointed, hand on hip. There. Better.” The Rockettes assume the same position without prompting.

“Okay, so we will show our guest here a kickline, shall we ladies? Your name is Marie?”

Marie is holding her position so stiffly, she seems hesitant to nod. Ha! So rich, French brat is no match for elegant, intimidating choreographer. Good to know.

“Well, Marie. Let's have some fun. These girls will be practicing for six hours a day, six days a week until opening night. And then they work harder. They will perform sixteen shows a week, up to four shows a day. And do you know why they do this, Marie?”

Marie's head moves back and forth.

“Because they love to dance. Do you love to dance, Marie?”

“I like to kick,” she answers, a tiny question mark in her voice.

“Well, good enough. Kick we shall. Girls, toe the line. Marie, I will tell you what we are doing as we do it. Now. See how the girls are lined up with the tallest in the middle and the, well,
less
tall on either end? On stage it will present an optical illusion. They will all look the same height. Theater is magic. Always remember that.”

The girls on the floor with me hide their giggles, but the dancers in line hold their positions gracefully, all business.

Joyce continues. “We are very mathematical here. There
are numbered grids on the floor, and each girl has coordinates she follows when she moves. If a dancer steps on her proper lines, she will always be the correct distance from the others. We are all about precision. It wows our audiences. When we toe the line, it means we stand two numbers apart from the girls on either side, with our toes on the line. The fingertips on your right hand will just brush the shoulder blades of the girl on your right, and the fingertips of your left hand will brush the waist of the girl on your left. Understand?”

The dancers assume the position to demonstrate.

“Wait, so they don't actually touch?” I whisper to the dancer next to me.

“Fingertips to fabric,” she answers. “That way if one girl loses her balance on a kick, she doesn't take the whole line down with her.”

“Cool,” Paisley says.

I know today isn't about me, but I'm totally fascinated with everything I'm learning and seeing. Pay and I keep poking each other, letting our elbows speak for us instead of shouting, “Can you even believe we're here?” like we want to.

Joyce physically maneuvers Marie into a spot at the end of the line.

“We'll begin with strut kicks. Marie, lift your right knee
up so your toes are level with your left knee. Now kick straight out.”

Marie does this easily. I'm a little impressed. Joyce gives a smile, and the one Marie answers her with is so unexpected it's as shocking as when it snows overnight and I wake up to a totally silent city.

Holy cow. We did it. We did it. We did it! We got Marie LaFou to smile. I want to call the Channel Seven TV crew to cover the breaking news.

“Good, now an eye-high. Marie, feet together, kick, feet together, kick, all the way to your eyeballs. Ready—and a five, six, seven, eight . . .”

I'll give her this, the girl definitely wasn't lying about her kicking skills. She can practically touch her nose with her knee when she wants to, and she actually keeps up perfectly with the kickline. Plus she's doing it all with a genuine grin stretching her face. It makes her almost pretty. For once Marie's kicking (minus the “and screaming” part, of course) is actually enjoyable.

The way I'm feeling, I'm fairly sure
I
could kick for the sky at the moment.

Everything's perfect, until the end, when Marie loses her balance on a kick. Her left leg goes all wobbly and her arms
spin like a pinwheel, trying to hit the floor before her butt. They don't.

The other girls crowd her to make sure she isn't hurt and I sit stone still, certain she's broken and my career is over before it began.

Luckily, she struggles to her feet. Her legs shake a little, and for a second I think she's going back down, but she recovers. Whew. No permanent damage done. Although she does look like she might be about to stomp her foot or—please no—blame one of the Rockettes for tripping her. Joyce is quick to take charge.

“This is nothing to worry about. Falls happen. We have an expression here. What is it, girls?” Joyce cups a hand to her ear.

Eighty voices answer the same way they dance—as one. “Go big or go home!”

Marie smiles in appreciation and actually, actually
thanks
every girl she danced with. She even—wait for it—hugs Joyce. And me. And Paisley. I half expect to see flying pigs swooping around when we push out onto Fifty-First Street.

As the limo carries us back to the hotel, I relive the afternoon.
Go big or go home.
I like it. Les Clefs d'Or's “In Service through Friendship” saying is sweet and everything, but I think I just found my own personal concierge motto.

Interoffice memo:

Attention: Chloe Turner

From: Xavier Hemsley Buttercup, Hotel Owner

Dear Ms. Turner,

I am pleased to officially welcome you to the staff of the Hotel St. Michèle as junior concierge. As we discussed in our recent meeting, you will be responsible for tending to the needs (and often whims) of our youngest guests. As there are frequent occasions when we do not have children or young adults among our guest roster, your hours will not be regularly scheduled; however, your
father has agreed to determine a work routine that will allow you to perform your duties alongside your other responsibilities, such as schoolwork. We're most excited to be the only hotel in New York City to offer this type of personal, peer-to-peer concierge service and hope you will wear the mantle of your role well and with pride.

Sincerely,

Xavier Hemsley Buttercup

Phone message from front desk:

Chloe—Peanut Butter & Co. called @ 11:11 a.m. Heard about your new job & would like to introduce you to their restaurant in hopes you'll recommend it to guests. You + friend invited to dinner at their expense any night this month. Call manager, Steph, at 212-555-1421 to arrange.

Voice mail:

“Hi, Chloe. This is Jack from Macy's department store. I'm Elizabeth Eifler's assistant. Just wanted to let you know, we're all squared away. You'll need to arrive by
nine a.m. on Thanksgiving morning, and we've got you and your guest assigned as handlers for the Elf on a Shelf balloon. Wear comfortable shoes—the parade route is two-point-six miles. Oh, and we begin inflating the balloons Wednesday night, so if you wanted to bring your guest over to see that, too, we'd be happy to have you. Your balloon will get inflated on Seventy-Seventh Street between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue, so you can just meet the rest of the handlers there. Call if you have any questions. Thanks! Bye!”

Interoffice memo:

Attention: Bartholomew Whilpers, Hotel Manager

From: Xavier Hemsley Buttercup, Hotel Owner

Bartie,

While I certainly appreciate your taking the time to express your concerns about the recent appointment of Chloe Turner to junior concierge, I'm afraid I do not share them. Furthermore, I fail to see why spotting Miss Turner at the ice machine outside of her apartment in footed Hello Kitty pajamas reflects
poorly on the St. Michèle. For one thing, that hallway is not accessible to hotel guests. For another, even if it was, I'm sure many of our guests would share my opinion that Hello Kitty is, well . . . rather adorable. Thank you for your note and please feel free to reach out to me with any future issues.

Fondly,

Xavier

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