He raised an eyebrow. “All right then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
First he had us line up along the mirrored wall. Then he led us through some of the choreography pulled from the show’s opening number—fast, stylized, and full of attitude. The movement oozed vintage jazz: grounded footwork, sultry isolations, syncopated accents layered with fluid port de bras and crisp directional shifts. It was a mix of smoky club energy with Broadway precision.
Marquez didn’t ease us in. He snapped his fingers, barked corrections mid-phrase, and paced between us like a drillsergeant with a metronome for a spine. “More weight in your heels. This isn’tSwan Lake, it’s Bourbon Street,” he snapped at one girl. “Timing, ladies. This rhythm doesn’t wait for you.”
He broke the combination down into sections, drilling spacing, intention, and even the angles of wrist flicks. The final phrase built to a sharp triple pirouette, followed by a seamless chassé into a wide, showy grand jeté—no extra prep, no second chances. Hit it or eat it.
My quads were burning, but I was in my element. I pulled up through my center, turned with control, then launched into the jeté, my legs slicing clean through the air, toes pointed, upper body calm. I landed light, knees soft and spine tall.
Marquez’s eyes were on me. He didn’t smile, but his eyebrow twitched—just once—before his attention turned elsewhere.
I took it as a win.
“Stop!” he barked mid-combo, pointing to one girl who kept fumbling a crossover. “You’re dancing like you’re afraid of the floor. Again. From the top.”
Sweat trickled down my spine, but I didn’t break focus. I hit every count with clean precision, letting the downbeat pull me forward. My breath stayed controlled as I rode the rhythm—keeping each extension sharp, each kick deliberate, and each ripple through my arms fluid and exact.
Then Marquez clapped his hands twice. “Now aerials.”
A swell of murmurs moved through the room as a stagehand lowered a thick gym rope from the rigging above. It wasn’t as pretty as a silk or a hoop—this was for raw, stripped-down muscle work. Most of the other girls looked partly annoyed or somewhat terrified.
Marquez glanced at his clipboard. “Lyla Oakley. You first.”
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped forward, took the rope in both hands, and jumped—hooking a knee and driving my hips upward in one fluid motion. My thighs clamped around therope as I inverted cleanly, letting the line glide along my side. I paused in a straddle hold, with my legs extended and controlled, then dropped into a rotation, slowing the descent with my grip. Near the bottom, I spun into a split variation, finishing in a side-lean pose—back arched, toes pointed, every line deliberate.
Marquez watched, arms crossed, saying nothing until I landed softly on the mat.
“Jesus,” one of the other girls muttered behind me.
I straightened and smiled brightly.
Marquez blinked, finally breaking into a half smirk. “Well, damn. That’s how it’s done.”
I kept my chin up, chest heaving.
He nodded once. “That was clean. Controlled. Sexy without trying too hard. You’ve definitely worked a pole before.”
Heat rose up my neck, but I continued to grin anyway. “In more ways than one.”
A few people chuckled. Even the casting director cracked a smile.
Marquez waved me aside. “All right, next.”
I stepped back to the wall, my heart still pounding. The other girls took their turns on the rope. A couple of them nailed it—in fact, one brunette moved with the kind of Cirque-level confidence that told me she’s done this before—but most of them struggled. One girl barely made it off the floor before sliding down and muttering something under her breath that sounded likebullshit.
I tried to relax and not let myself compare or overthink. I just breathed. Stretched. Rolled out my shoulders as the run-throughs finished. My adrenaline was still riding high, but in the best way.
Marquez finally tucked his pen behind his ear and addressed the group. “That’s all for now.”
The casting director stood. “Thank you, ladies. We’ll be reaching out soon. Please be sure your contact info is accurate on your sheets.”
There was a polite chorus of thank yous, and nervous laughter filled the room as we gathered our things. Someone muttered, “Good luck,” while we filtered out, but no one said much. Everyone was quietly calculating. Wondering. Hoping.
I paused just outside the doors of the studio, letting the weight of it all settle in. I’d done what I came to do. Hit the notes. Landed the steps. Climbed as if I belonged in the rafters.
Ruby Vance wasn’t a starring role—not even close. And I wasn’t even trying out for her, not really. Just the understudy. The girl in the shadows, waiting in the wings, ready to step in if the real Ruby got sick or decided she was too good for matinees.
Still, it was a shot. A standout supporting role. A foot in the door. And I wanted it. Badly.
