My cheeks are flushed, eyes bright.
I look… happy.
I can’t remember the last time I recognized myself that way.
Chapter Nine
KATERINA
The audition is exactly what I expected.
And worse.
Two hundred dancers cram into the studio, all long limbs and sharp cheekbones and perfectly disciplined buns. There’s a hum in the air, the collective buzz of nerves and focus and quiet desperation.
We line the barres. We move through class—pliés, tendus, dégagés. Then across the floor. Then combinations.
The first cut takes twenty people.
The second takes forty.
By the third, sweat slicks my spine and my thighs burn. My lungs feel like they’re lined with sandpaper; the wedding last night took more out of me than I thought. Actually, the stress of my father marrying a stranger, leaving my company and moving across the country… that’s what took it out of me.
Directors sit in the back with crossed arms as if they have never witnessed a group so uninspiring… basically, the typical response. They whisper to each other between groups.
The fourth cut leaves maybe fifty of us.
I keep my eyes off the door.
They throw a variation at us that I know in theory but have never performed before. I only have one choice: trust my body and myself or fail, and failure is not an option. The idea of coming back to the penthouse and telling my professional-level athlete of a husband that I got cut is not something I’m willing to endure.
Maybe I want him to be proud of me. Maybe I want to prove that Luka’s words were correct. Or maybe it’s that I want to prove that the New York company wasn’t a fluke and that I belong here. I belong in this world, living my mother’s dream… my dream.
That marrying a stranger and moving across the country to pursue my dreams instead of giving in and heading back to Russia to do as my father says, is the right move.
I land a series of turns and hear someone make a small sound of appreciation. It might be my imagination. It might not be.
Another cut.
Now we’re twenty.
“Final round,” the artistic director says. “Callbacks will be posted on the website next week. Thank you all for your time.”
Just like that, it’s over.
No handshake. No constructive feedback that might give me any indication of how well I did, and if I have a shot. Just a nod and a dismissal. Which means I have no idea how close I am to getting a sponsorship visa renewal from them. And with only four more weeks to go until my visa expires, I’m running out of time.
Waiting for a callback is nothing new, though. It comes with the territory.
“You’re used to this,”I remind myself.
I pack my things with numb fingers and walk out of the building into Seattle’s early October air.
My legs shake on the curb as I wave down a cab.
I have no idea whether I made the callback list. I don’t know whether I did enough. But I know this: I left everything I had on that floor. There is nothing else I could’ve given them. For once, this feels like it might be enough.
My phone rings halfway back to The Commons.
