The morning and early afternoon become a blur of more auditions and open classes, the way they always do—one studio bleeding into the next. Each director’s office is decorated with the same framed posters and rehearsal photos of dancers who have already made it. I can’t stand still and wait to hear from one company. I need to keep my options open. Being a working ballerina is better than sitting on the couch, and I don’t have long before my visa renewal is up.
Seattle’s dance scene might be smaller than New York’s, but it’s just as sharp. Just as hungry. Every studio I walk into is filled with women who look like me: long limbs, tight buns, eyes that flick over each other like we’re all problems to solve, obstacles to move past.
I dance until my toes throb inside my pointe shoes, until I’m faintly aware of the sting of rubbed-raw skin but keep moving anyway and think to myself how I wish Scottie were home for another foot rub, though I’m not sure I wouldn’t end up jumping him the second time.
His hands are talented, and I am curious about how talented the rest of him is.
“Thank you, we’ll be in touch.”
“Lovely lines, but we’re going in a different direction.”
“You have beautiful control, but we’re looking for something… fresher.”
By the third “no,” the words start to blend together until they all sound the same:not you.
I hold my chin up, thank them, and leave.
By two o’clock, my muscles feel like they’re held together with dental floss, and every breath makes my ribs ache. I limp home,drop my bag by the bedroom door, and sink onto the living room floor with an ice pack pressed to my feet.
All of it balances on a knife’s edge that all falls apart if I slip up.
My phone buzzes beside me.
Scottie:How’d the auditions go?
The warmth that flushes through my chest is immediate and disorienting.
He’s in Canada, preparing for a game, and he still remembers the schedule of auditions I rattled off in our last text. He’s probably in a hotel room or a bus or a locker room somewhere, surrounded by teammates and noise, and he still thought to check in.
Of course, he did. I’m starting to realize that this is who he is. The kind of man who checks in.
Me:Not great. No callbacks yet.
I watch as the bubbles of his text start and then stop, three times before his reply comes through.
Scottie:Their loss. You’re incredible.
I huff out a sound that might be a laugh. He’s never even seen me perform. Not yet.
Me:You’ve never seen me dance.
Scottie:Don’t have to. I know quality when I see it.
I roll my eyes, even as my mouth curves.
Me:Shouldn’t you be focused on your game?
Scottie:Not until tonight. Right now I’m focused on making sure my wife knows she’s a badass.
My wife.
Five days ago, those words made my stomach knot. Now they just make something in me tip forward, like I’m standing too close to a ledge and curious what would happen if I stepped off.
Me:Good luck tonight.
Scottie:Thanks. I overheard Vivi tell Trey that you’re going to watch the game with the girls tonight.
The girls. Something I’ve never been a part of before. I wasn’t allowed to have girlfriends… not in the typical sense. I was allowed to "socialize" with the daughters of well-to-do families that my father wanted me to rub elbows with at social events.
