My ears buzzed before a shadow moved out of my peripheral vision. I looked around the magnificent theater dressing room, crowded with porcelain-faced, chiseled dancers. Not home, but close enough. The persistent ringing gave way to a sudden, overwhelming pressure in my head.

"Regresa al Batey ..."

The disembodied whisper from the colorful, bladder-like trickster fluttered into my ear. An electrifying shiver surged through my body, my heart beating in a syncopated rhythm. Vejigante’s baritone timbre raised the hairs on the back of my neck every time it materialized.

My childhood companion.

The one who disappeared the instant I boarded the plane to pursue my very European career. Gone once, now resurfaced at my most unexpected moment—my final preparations for a ballet competition that would decide the future I embraced long ago.

"Regresa al Batey ..." Its echoes reminded me of my abuela's Bomba studio. My humble childhood home, where my roots and rhythms merged as one in a chaotic cohesion. A home that always made sense.

The hectic noise of the dressing room returned after my mind regained clarity. Like a shadow, the horned vejiga slipped back into the hidden corners of my reality. The liner pen suspended between my fingers remained in the perfect position to strike. My eyes scrutinized my surroundings with determination. Doubt slithered into place like a plague. Invading my mind.

Was I doing the right thing?

"El Batey te espera."

My body stiffened with alertness while my eyes scanned the room, searching for the elusive figure that had been following me all week. I found it hiding in the farthest corner of the dressing room, its dark, angry eyes trained on me. Its colorful, shapeless body swayed back and forth, dancing. My surroundings quieted before the loud beats of bomba drums restarted the room's chaos of chatter and laughter. A dancer twirled and reached for her costume on the rack, blocking my sight for a heartbeat.

"¡Bomba!"

When the dancer moved to her vanity, the figure was gone. Again. Pale, I stared at my reflection and counted backward from ten. Inhale. Exhale. War paint on. The stage was a battlefield of two minutes and forty-five seconds. My heartbeat picked up, thumping like a fúa beating on the bomba barrel during an exciting sicá.

"Luzdemi, are you ready?" Rebecca's whispery timbre interrupted my dance-battle delight. "You seem prepared to conquer the world. It's giving me the chills."

"Yeah, I'm just—"

"Mamá ..." The last vowel stretched while the fúa set a hypnotic rhythm. "Cuídame a Belén ..." The ethereal music stopped, the name stretching before disappearing.

With my jagua eyeliner as my war paint of choice, I traced perfect cat eyes along my lids. "I want this. I've been working hard for months." With a careful sweep, I moved the softest brush under my eyes, the rich annatto stain tracing thick lines that whispered of loss and quiet sorrow.

The coordinator burst through the door—silence followed. "Last group in ten." Having delivered her message, she disappeared down the corridor, shouting instructions.

Bodies froze before excitement settled in. Movement jolted the room into chaos. Chatter filled the air as bodies piled out toward the stage. I resisted the urge to follow the flock of well-aligned dancers. Instead, I folded forward to stretch. My ribbons' crookedness nagged at me to no end. After adjusting my pointe shoes, I snatched my skirt from the rack. I bolted through the door, ignoring my surroundings—a foolish move. I walked straight to a group of dance officials and donors, late for stage prep. And him—Vejigante.

The mischief-maker slithered around the crowd before standing behind a towering man. Bright green eyes met mine as my heart thumped with a tumbao. Suddenly, Vejigante's black eye sockets shimmered with life, while green pupils pulsed with life. Tendrils of fear gripped my syncopating heart when it hit me. Vejigante had chosen my sponsor, mimicking the man’s build—his eyes.

An immaterial primo barril's excited beating crescendoed to a cry. "¡Habla!"

My cue to start. To forget the hungry headhunters lurking at the edges of the practice rooms. Avoid the unforgettable man, whose gaze burned into my back. The snickering Vejigante haunted the competition like malas vibras.

Time to danza.

I took a slow, steadying breath and smoothed my skirt. With my back straight, I wove through the crowd and moved past them. Curious stares and whispers followed my every step, but I lifted my chin, avoiding them, and looked ahead toward the prize.

"¡Bomba!"

The second intermission marked the start of the competition's remaining program. My path up the stairs was clear—an easy passage to my destination. At the landing, I took a deep breath. After pushing the door open, those lingering in the corridor greeted me. Some chatted about their performances, gushing about how well they did. Others sobbed, having bombed their program.

"Did you hear what happened?" The whispered question traveled far, luring dancers in search of gossip. "Cora sprained her ankle during her performance."

Gasps filled the hallway while the group huddled closer. "The company that was scouting her backed out. They left mid-performance."

My heart sank as I listened to Cora's misfortune. For a brief moment, I held back my fears and gathered my courage. Accidents happened often in this industry, and Cora did not deserve to be abandoned.

"Cora ..." The phantom sound of a chorus, mixed with the dancer's chatter. "Punta al doblón ..." The spectral song started a fast-paced sicá. Then, asynchronous and discordant notes, wrapped in staccato rhythms, fluttered into existence from the main stage.

Last warm-up, last stretch before stepping into the resin box. Crunch. The sound of preparation centered my unraveled focus.

"Number 4756, ready in five." A stage assistant, holding a colored clipboard, moved through the crowd with lithe poise. "Left wing."

Short and efficient.

"Si no bailo ..."

El Vejigante jumped into view as I waited my turn to dance. The green in the eye sockets pulsed with life. "Concentrate. Focus."

He twirled behind me, screaming, "¡Habla!" as I squared my shoulders, ready to dance.

Centered.

The previous performance ended with a final, resounding bang; the contestant took their bow. A coordinator tapped my shoulder, announcing that it was my turn. With grace born from years of practice, I moved to center stage and smiled. I elongated my neck and lengthened my arms into perfect lines.

Vejigante materialized next to me. Excitement oozed from its vibrating body. Its taunting green orbs fixed me in place, pausing my raging heart. "Melaza con ritmo," it bellowed, its voice rising above the recorded music from Loíza that pulsed through the speakers, laying the foundation for my performance.

The primo's sharp, high-pitched thuds reverberated across the stage as the lights faded and the show began. I hiked my skirt and glided into position as the music's heartbeat began, my initial steps neither planned nor coordinated.

Vejigante bowed before starting its piquetes with dynamic, improvised footwork. The mix of modern and traditional filled my soul with a fire to dance my heart out. I saluted my companion before flapping my skirt in time with the rhythm, launching into practiced improvisation. Our dance turned into a tantalizing display of a cat chasing a mouse.

Dancing with structure.

Injecting the spontaneous flow of Bomba.

We swayed with fevered passion, bewitching the crowd. My body moved to the beat of the drums and onomatopoeia. Vejigante's green eyes intensified as its piquetes turned demanding. I circled him, swaying my hips and arms in sync with the drums as my skirt billowed in beautiful arcs. We swayed around each other until we reached a frenzy as the music traveled toward its peak.

"¡Wepa!" Vejigante shouted as he circled me, euphoric and playful. Its body moved with erratic coordination, its jumpsuit flapping like a bat's wings. "¡La Morena tiene'l tumbao!" Its voice rose in hysteria as the drums raced toward their climax.

The audience sat on the edge of their seats, the room dead silent. Sweat trailed down my temples, tracking down my spine as my body moved, making perfect lines amid the chaos. The music morphed into a seis corrido—time to shine.

My arms extended, my back straightened, and I spun in time with the rising excitement. Vocalized cries filled my senses. Fouettés that rivaled the Black Swan, seducing my audience. I let my wrap go, becoming an angry hurricane spiraling while Vejigante vocalized its rapture.

"Huracán, Luzdemi, Huracán," Vejigante shouted, twitching with excitement and bouncing around the stage with hysterical energy.

My dance ended in a low dip as my lungs burned from the performance. I held my position for a handful of seconds, allowing my heart to settle into a steady rhythm. The performance ended with the same fire it started with.

Vejigane moved closer, bright green orbs pinning me in place. "Lo hiciste muy. Brava. Tus antepasados ​​estarán orgullosos." He jumped away, staring at something in the distance—past me. "Y él está feliz. Honraste tu arduo trabajo. Ahora disfruta de los frutos de tu esfuerzo."

I stayed put while my body crashed from the high, and the audience erupted in cheers. I smiled. No matter the outcome, I was at peace, satisfied. I bowed to my cheering audience and exited the main stage. Not paying attention to my surroundings, I bumped into a towering figure.

The sponsor.

"Ms. Negrón-Cardona." He extended his hand, a stranger in the middle of the hallway. "Mr. Cordoba. Glad we met. Heard a lot about you."

I reached for his extended hand in the middle of the hallway. "A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you, Mr. Cordoba?"

"The ABT spokesperson invited me to attend your performance. As a longtime patron of the arts, your performance blew us away, and we would like to invite you to dinner and discuss your future."

I examined the man, his gaze intent, not backing down. "Only if you're comfortable with a woman wearing Taino-inspired makeup. The stain will stay on for days."

I was not taking it off. Not for him, not for anyone.

"¡Bomba!"