The door opens.
Number forty-six emerges.
How has she finished already? I glance at the clock, and apparently, I’ve been spiraling for fifteen minutes.
Her face is flushed but she’s smiling.
My stomach drops. She’s got the part, hasn’t she? She’s probably perfect for it. I bet she did some crazy stunt move to garner the judges’ attention.
What the hell am I doing here?
I take a few steps back, my knees knocking.
“Number forty-seven!”
My throat dries out instantly.
No.
No, no, no.
I’m not ready. I don’t even know what “ready” feels like right now. All I know is my legs are shaking inside these damn skates, and every confident bone in my body has apparently taken a leave of absence.
“Number forty-seven!”
The other girls in the room are looking at me now. They all know it’s me they’re calling. The number is branded across my chest. Bet they’re hoping I’ll chicken out and that will be one less girl they need to compete with for the role.
I can do this.
I take a shaky half-step forward, then stop. My feet don’t feel like they’re attached to my body anymore. My knees knock together, and for a terrifying second, I think I might actually be sick.
You can’t do this.
You’re going to fall.
You’re going to ruin it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Noelle’s voice filters through the noise.
You’re giving them what no one else can. Your voice.
I inhale once. It’s thin and shaky, but it’s air.
I force my feet to move, one slow glide toward the open doorway. My heart is hammering, my vision tightening at the edges, but I move anyway.
Because if I run now… I’ll run forever.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and pretend—just for a second—that I’m one of those ballroom-walking background characters I’ve always played.
Pretend I belong.
I grab my water bottle and my bag and head to the front.
The production assistant holding the clipboard smiles. “Are you Laura Conners?”
“Yes.”
