Dead On The Dance Floor

Waiting in a nerve-wracking situation. Following Lara would never be easy.

“Excellent,” Ben admitted. “Every step perfectly executed.”

From the crowd, a collective “Ahh!” arose.

And then, suddenly, Lara Trudeau went poetically still. Her hands, so elegant with their long, tapered fingers and polished nails, flew dramatically to her left breast. There was a moment of stillness, with the music still playing a Viennese waltz as sweet and lilting as the cool air.

Then, still graceful, she dropped.

Her fall was as elegant as any dance movement, a melting into the ground, a dip that was slow, supple….

Until her head fell to the dance floor in perfect complement to the length of her body and she did not move again.

“That wasn’t in her routine,” Gordon whispered to Shannon.

“No,” Shannon murmured back, frowning. “Do you think it’s something she added at the last minute for dramatic effect?”

“If so, she’s milking it too far,” Gordon replied, frowning as he stared at the floor.

At first, there was a hushed, expectant silence from the crowd. Then, as Jim Burke remained standing at her side, the room began to fill with the thunder of applause.

It ebbed awkwardly to a hollow clap here and there, then faded altogether, as those who knew dance and knew Lara began to frown, realizing that they hadn’t witnessed a dramatic finale but that something was wrong.

A collective “What…?” rose from the crowd.

Shannon started to move forward, frowning, wondering if Lara hadn’t decided to make use of a new ploy.

Gordon caught her arm.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “I think she needs medical help.”

That must have been apparent, because the first person to rush forward was Dr. Richard Long, a handsome young surgeon, as well as a student at Moonlight Sonata. He fell to his knees at Lara’s side, felt deftly for a pulse. He raised his head, looking around stunned for a split second, then yelled out hoarsely, “Call an ambulance!” He quickly looked down again and began performing CPR.

The room was still for a second, as if the hundreds of people in it had become collectively paralyzed with shock. Then dozens of cell phones were suddenly whipped out from pockets and purses.

Whispers and murmurs rose from all around the dance floor, then went still.

Richard valiantly continued his efforts.

“My God, what on earth happened to her?” Gordon said, the tension in his eyes showing his inner debate on whether to rush up himself or not.

“Drugs?” Ben suggested.

“Lara? Never,” Jane said vehemently.

“No,” Shannon murmured, shaking her head.

“Yeah, right, no, never,” Ben said with a sniff. “Let’s see, drugs on South Beach? In Miami, Florida, gateway to South America? Right, never.”

“Never for Lara Trudeau,” Shannon snapped.

“There are different drugs,” Justin said.

“Maybe,” Gordon agreed ruefully. “She’s been known to swallow a few Xanax when she’s nervous.”

“Or maybe alcohol?” Justin said worriedly.

“When she’s dancing?” Rhianna protested, shaking her head.

“She truly considers her body a temple,” Sam informed them with complete assurance. “But sometimes the temple needs a few offerings, she says,” he added. “She must have taken something. I mean, look at her.”

“I hope she’s going to be all right. She’s got to be all right!” Shannon said, sharing Gordon’s concern regarding whether or not she should step forward.

Gordon set his hand on Shannon’s shoulders. “No,” he said softly.

She stared at him, puzzled.

“It’s too late,” he told her.

“What?” Shannon said, disbelieving.

Yet even as she asked the question, Richard Long rose. “Clear the floor, please. I’m afraid it’s too late,” he said quietly.

“Too late?” came a shout.

“She’s…gone,” Richard said awkwardly, as if sorry that his words gave the final ring of reality to the unbelievable.

“Dead?” Someone in the crowd said.

Richard sighed, dismayed that he couldn’t get his words to sink through the collective head of those surrounding him. “I’m afraid…yes.”

The sound of sirens filled the night.

Seconds later the crowd parted and medical techs swept into the room. They added emergency equipment and a desperately administered injection to the CPR efforts.

But in the end, no matter how hard they tried, it was over. Those watching kept their distance but could not turn away.

Shannon stared at the uniformed men, frozen in disbelief, along with the others. And as she watched, unbidden, a strange whisper filtered back into her mind.

You’re next.

Insane. Silly. Someone had mistaken her for the next dancer to compete, that was all. Everything was a mess, Lara had fallen, but would be all right in the end. The CPR would work. She would suddenly inhale and stand up, and soon they would all be talking about her again, saying that she would do anything to create the biggest impression of the evening. She meant to be remembered, to be immortal.

But no one lived forever.

As the crowd left the floor at last, still stunned, there were murmurs everywhere.

Lara Trudeau. Gone. Impossible. And yet, she had died as she had lived. Glorious, beautiful, graceful, and now…dead.