food and drinks. An imposing podium is set up in the front, and thirty five brass trophies are proudly displayed on a makeshift table.
“They sure rolled out the red carpet for us,” Kars remarks, while slicing a fat piece of cake.
I fill up my paper cup with some virgin punch. “Not bad at all. Although I wish they would’ve told us this was a fancy soiree. I would’ve glammed up.”
“Oh, Mika!” Ingeborg gushes with childish delight. “You have that vary nice Italian suit. You could have vorn it today, yah? And I could’ve vorn my zequined dress. Babe! Ve vud have looked vanderful.” She does a little princess twirl.
Mika smiles at Ingeborg indulgently as she pirouettes, spinning around and around, like a ballerina in a musical box.
Karsynn inclines her head toward me and whispers, “What is Ingeborg smoking, and who is her dealer?”
I shrug. “She’s making me dizzy.”
Glenn clears his throat. “May I please have everyone’s attention?” He is standing behind the podium, beaming at us like a proud parent. “I just want you guys to know that I am so proud of you; I feel honored for having had the opportunity to be your trainer for the past six weeks. You guys are a fabulous group, and I’ve truly enjoyed getting to know you,” he says earnestly, almost choking up in the process.
Kars harrumphs. “What on planet Earth is he talking about? He doesn’t know me; he doesn’t even know my favorite ice cream flavor.”
“Mint chocolate chip,” I say without missing a beat.
Glenn concludes his speech, “Before I hand out these trophies, I have a little surprise for you guys. Now for those of you who don’t know, I used to be a professional ballroom dancer, and today I will perform a special stunt for you.”
There is a stir of interest through the crowd as Glenn struts like a peacock to an open area and assumes a dancer’s stance.
Other than the sound of him cracking his knuckles, the room is hushed. Everyone is silently waiting in anticipation.
Without further ado, Glenn breaks into a fast paced, zipping jive, showcasing his flair and fancy choreography, drawing cheers and laughter from the crowd. And then out of nowhere—BAM!
He executes two dramatic back flips. One after another!
We’re a little stunned at first, but soon the whole room breaks into rapturous applause.
“Holy mackerel!” I gasp. “His form and landing was sharp and clean! It was perfect. As effortless as Plushenko’s quad-triple-double toe loop combination.”
Kars gives a short hiccupping laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far; he’s more of a Johnny Weir. But this is better than anything I’ve seen on Dancing with the Stars.”
Glenn is in his element, taking a bow, preening and posing, clearly enjoying the limelight.
Presuming this whole shindig is over with, I trot to the punch bowl only to stop myself in my tracks. Glenn is fervently waving his arms in the air, motioning for Mika to join him in the front.
Looking surprised, although not very pleased, Mika shakes his head. “No, Glenn. I don’t want to do it.”
Glenn’s voice rings loud and persuasive. “C’mon on down here, Mika!”
Mika refuses to budge.
With an instinct for entertaining a crowd that rivals the likes of Letterman and Leno, Glenn turns to his audience for support.
“Class, since I’ve gotten to know Mika, I’ve learned that he too shares a passion for dancing. When Mika lived in Belgium, he was the founder of a street break-dancing group called the B-Force. So once again, c’mon down here Mika and show us what you’ve got!”
Mika shuffles his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. Suddenly, Ingeborg pumps her fists in the air and chants, “Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka!” Pretty soon, everyone is rallying and chanting for him, including moi.
Mika gives a half embarrassed smile and remains glued to the spot; but I can see his resolve slowly wavering. Resigning himself, he squares his shoulders and jogs to the front of the room.
He begins warming up with some simple three-step footwork. Seconds later, he drops to the ground and pops out the familiar coffee grinder move. A smile touches my lips; he’s visibly more relaxed now. Then while doing a fancy side step, he blazes into a suicidal back head flip, followed by a front head flip.
WHOA! That’s two headsprings with no hands!
He could be in the Cirque du Soleil.
A roaring applause breaks out, even mightier and louder than Glenn’s reception. I even hear a couple hoots and wolf whistles from the crowd.
“He did that trick so effortlessly,” I mutter,