Page 9 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
Keira takes one more not-so-subtle glance in Eugene’s direction, then turns and walks out.
I whip my training notebook out from my backpack and tear off a piece of paper. As I welcome a few more members into the space, I start a to-do list:
Research beards.
Acquire a sexy Santa suit.
Create an epic exercise audition.
Eugene rushes back to the desk, pocketing his phone. “What was that all about? Is she gone?”
“Your mystery woman? Yeah, she’s gone.”
“She’s not my mystery woman,” he argues. “I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.”
“I pressed her for more info, but she got all skittish and said she had to go. Before she left, though, she just dropped one hell of an opportunity in our laps.” I thrust the flyer into Eugene’s hand.
He scans the sheet and snorts. “This has you written all over it.”
“Right!?” I smack him on the back. “What did I tell you, buddy? Money always works itself out. Also… brace yourself.”
“Why?” He looks at me skeptically.
“If I’m going to be a hot Santa? You, sir, need to be my elf.”
Chapter 3
Penny
As a kid, I loved Christmas. The lights. The music. The way our house smelled like pine trees and gingerbread cookies. Not that my mother allowed me to actually eat the gingerbread cookies—but still. It was my favorite time of year.
Everything changed when I got my dream job as a “Spectacular Kickette” in the world-famous New York City Holiday Extravaganza show. Three rigorous dance performances a day, dressed as a sexy elf or a sexy snowman or a sexy Christmas tree (yup, we even had sexy Christmas trees) would exhaust anyone, I’m sure.
But that wasn’t the issue for me.
The real issue was the daily weigh-ins and the constant anxiety about my body. The “magic” of that famous Christmas kickline depended on the dancers’ figures being nearly identical, so we were always on high alert about our bodies. At least I was. My brain got stuck in this endless loop of “Are my legs long enough? Are my breasts perky enough? Are my abs tight enough?”
I never felt like I was… enough.
Every insecurity my mother planted in me sprouted to life during my four years on that show. Now, Christmas just reminds me of how bad things got for me during my final season, and honestly, I’d prefer to forget that time in my life.
If someone told me ten years ago that I’d be back at Onyx Studios preparing for another audition, I would call that person a liar.
Yet here I am doing that very thing.
The place looks exactly the same as it did a decade ago. Framed Broadway show posters from the ’80s and ’90s line the walls. The hallways are crammed with performers stretching their limbs wherever they can find space. It smells the same, too, like tap shoe resin and sweat.
Memories rush back to me in full force. How many afternoons did I spend standing in these lines, my heart beating double-time behind the paper number attached to my chest?
Too many to count.
I remind myself that I’m no longer that nervous young dancer desperate to “get the gig.” I am on the other side of the table: the casting side. And as much as I am against this whole contest, I have to admit it feels good to be the one in charge this time.
Dottie comes barreling through the rehearsal studio door, a cardboard tray of coffees in her hands. “Did you see that line out there? Whew! There are sexy Santas everywhere, ladies! This is going to be fun!”
“Thank you,” I say as she hands me a cup. “This is decaf, right?”
“Yes. And for you, too, miss.” Dottie hands a cup to Keira, who is reviewing our list of auditioners. “I will never understand how you young people operate efficiently without caffeine pulsing through your veins.”
