“I promise you, if I can just do the combo again?—”
“I don’t want excuses. Words are meaningless, Bianca. I want to see action.” His voice is smooth but heavy. “Let’s go from the top of the ballet section. And don’t just do the steps. Feel them.”
I nod. I lengthen my spine, feeling the hum of my muscles in my calves and ribcage. I start the dance combo, sliding into a tombé, falling forward with weight and grace. I follow it up with a pas de bourrée, knitting the space beneath me—back, side, front—before I make a glissade outward and leap, my jeté slicing the air.
“Good.” Mr. Shippe circles behind me as I land. “But I want to see desperation in that leap. Like you're reaching for something that could save you.”
His voice is gruff, and he’s speaking directly into my ear, even though we’re the only two people in the room. But I keep my focus ahead, shifting into arabesque, my left leg reaching long behind me, arms stretched. Then into attitude, bending my body into a question mark shape, my hips level. My shoulder lifts ever so slightly and?—
Mr. Shippe touches my ribcage.
“Drop that shoulder,” he murmurs, his hand lingering a second too long. “Keep it clean, not collapsed.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. The correction is valid. The placement of his hands isn’t.
But I soldier on. The next move is a piqué turn—a sharp step onto pointe, my left foot snapping into a passé. I hold it, chest lifted, arms centered. Stillness. Control.
“Yes, yes.” He steps around me. His eyes scan me—not my form—in the mirror. “Hold it just like that… You have beautiful balance.”
I ignore the heat rising up the back of my neck and step into the pas de bourrée again—the one I screwed up during the audition. This time I do it flawlessly. Then sous-sus, legs drawn tight, lifted high. Then a quick échappé—open to second position, close back in. It’s clean. My breath is steady.
“You’ve clearly been trained well,” he says. “But I want to see the…sensuality. Lisa is a raw, earthy woman. Don’t be afraid of the space your body takes up.”
I continue the dance combo, gliding into balancé—side, back, front—and let the rhythm carry me, arms soft but sure. Twice through. I’m trying to keep the artistry, but my focus fractures when Mr. Shippe moves closer again, this time standing directly behind me.
“Feel the waltz in your chest,” he says, pressing two fingers to the base of my sternum. “Here. Let the breath move you from here.”
I shift slightly. “I think I’ve got it.”
He smiles. “Of course you do.”
I go into chaîné turns now, a tight, traveling series across the studio. The mirrors blur as I make each movement. At the last turn, I open into a controlled développé à la seconde, leg high, held. I ground myself. Solid. Not shaken.
I try not to look at Mr. Shippe’s reflection, but I can’t help it. He’s rubbing at his thigh as he watches me. Maybe it’s just a little quirk.
I finish with a smooth soutenu, landing in fifth position. I lift myself up on a relevé and slide into a slow rond de jambe, tracing an arc on the floor.
Finally, I close in fifth, arms in third, chest forward, heart quiet.
Mr. Shippe claps once—sharp and satisfied. “Now that, Bianca, is the kind of movement I’m looking for.”
“Thank you,” I say, my tone polite but cool.
“You know, Bianca…you’ve got something most girls in this business don’t. Discipline and heat. That’s rare.”
“Thank you,” I repeat. What else can I say to that?
He walks behind me now, gliding his fingers up my arm. “I wonder, though, if I can see more of that heat.”
“Mr. Shippe?”
He can’t possibly be insinuating what I think he is. He’s a bit of a creep—that’s par for the course in show business—but he’s not actually propositioning me, is he?
His lips curl into a grin. “I think you know that a million girls would kill for this role, Bianca.” He places a hand on my upper thigh, leaving no further room for interpretation. “What are you willing to do?”
And to my horror, I think it over.
I’ve been clawing my way into a career in New York for the better part of a decade. I’ve been go-go dancing, waiting tables, doing catering gigs, nannying for spoiled Upper East Side brats to keep myself afloat. And now, my Broadway debut is finally in my grasp.
