Fake it 'till you make it

"Simone," my mother said to me when I was sixteen and bawling my eyes out because no one took my passion for dancing as seriously as I demanded they should; "Fake it until you make it." She smiled and squeezed my hands, then my cheeks knowing it would stop my crying. "The secret to success is locked in here." Her freshly painted fingernail dug into the crease of my frowning forehead and it took days before I understood the meaning of her words.

They were the most rewarding words she bestowed me with. At first I was a skeptic, because aren't we all, even the ones who claim to be open minded? Humans are more often not open minded, merely tolerant of behavior and actions that are not their own and will never be. Furthermore, people aren't keen to believe words without proof. They need to be convinced before they venture into the unknown. They need alluring words and promises and that's what my manager provides as he stands outside the saloon with his greasy curled mustache and ironed striped suit. His crimson red shirt, the color of passion, matches the fabric of my dress. Tonight will be its debut, its first night out on stage and it looks far more valuable than anything else I possess. The necklace around my neck that shimmers in the dim lights is a knock-off, but a brilliant one. None of the curious men or women in this neighbourhood will ever notice the difference.

And that's the key to my success.

In the doorway Daniel appears, signaling me to stand and twirl for him. I do as told, spreading my arms gracefully and feeling his hands slide from my shoulders to my wrists. I halt and allow him to perfect my opening stance. "Sloppy," he tells me, tapping me on my bottom as I respond with a roll of my eyes. What does it matter, really? The audience will be immediately enchanted by my appearance combined with the faux background story Daniel created for me when our partnership began a little over three years ago. Orphaned little girl with no desire to speak, only to move. Daniel, being the kind and generous man he claims to be, took me in and tamed my wild movements into gracious dancing. "Ridiculous, are you mad?" I told him at first. "I am not some animal to be tamed!" Back then it only occurred to me that if my act would gain interest I would never be able to respond vocally to all the fame and fans and would be seen as a reformed distraught young girl. Far from reality, I tell you, but no one would listen to the story of Simone Tatcher, Daniel told me that one day, born in a traditional family of four with parents too poor to pay for dance lessons. No one wants to hear of Simone Tatcher's housekeeping career and the dozens of wealthy upperclassmen I charmed my way into their house and into their household, providing them eye candy as I stole their riches right from under their noses. As long as the wives had no clue, my dance lessons could be paid for monthly. If they knew, if anyone knew, jail will be the only stage I will ever perform in ever again. And that just won't do.

So, on second thought I counted myself lucky. Daniel is far better with words, has far better persuasion than I. His skilled tongue convinced me of this charade and will pique skeptics' curiosity. I let him perform off stage while I shine on stage. Oh, and shine I do. They may not call my name (just yet), but I sense their impatience and feel their prying eyes as if capable of seeing through the thick green cloth before me. For now I am still hidden from their sight. Let them fidget, let them doubt, let them whisper, but don't let them leave. Daniel stands to the side a little behind me, hand on the curtain and dark brown eyes glinting with mischief as he observes the audience. Not yet, I see him gesture, but I'm growing impatient myself. I have waited far too long to perform in this prestigious saloon. It took Daniel nearly two months to convince the owner my performance would garantee a full house - "and think of all the drinks they'd order!" Daniel has a way with words and is stubborn enough to make you swallow them as many times as necessary for you to finally listen and obey. At first you might take him as a rude man, but he's all business when he forces a 'bargain' down your throat. Wonderful and disgusting to witness all at once, but who am I to judge?

I am simply Simone Tatcher. Poor girl with little valuables but a lot of desires and dreams. Tonight I am centered, I am in character and eager to astonish them with the grace and beauty they will never have expected. The red lipstick and black eyeliner add to the little charm I possess in my ordinary life. Without the make up, the dress, the necklace and the spot light I am but an average young adult, aspiring to become a professional dancer. Nothing special, nothing extraordinary for men and women of such class to sit and wait for me. However. To them I am so much more. To them I am a miracle.

Now focus, I tell myself as Daniel gives a low whistle and starts pulling on the rope to open the curtains. The live band to my left watches intently, its lead vocalist humming appreciatively into the microphone as our eyes meet. We are acquaintances, which is a synonym for 'they are part of the farce'. Their classic personality matches my dancing style perfectly, as expected. To the audience who suddenly fall silent and turn to face the front of the stage, the elegant harmony that fills the saloon is something unexpected and somehow magical. The raw image of a mute girl with no sense of manners or possible hygiene is suddenly met with a striking contradiction of beauty and elagance. It creates bafflement, it is the start of appreciation and leaves the lingering impression of an ugly duckling having turned into a stunning, graceful swan.

I know before the end of my first dance that the night will be a success. The men's eyes are greedy, the women's envious yet curious. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Daniel motioning towards my feet, but his instructions are no longer of importance to me. They have fallen for our carefully conducted plan and now it's my time to shine.

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Wordcount: 1,121
Prompt: What if there is no secret ingredient?