Inside the audition room, I introduced myself by name and said where I was from, as we’d been told to do. The woman gave me a warm smile, and the man in the middle raised his eyes briefly before going back to my paperwork. The last man, who’d introduced himself earlier in the day as the new artistic director, Sergei something-or-other, glared at me as if I’d just insulted his mother.
I tried to shrug it off. Dance was a mind game, and Madame had prepared me for temperamental instructors. I glanced around. The floor was much smaller than Madame’s studio where I’d been practicing. I’d have to make some adjustments in my spacing.
“Is this room not to your liking?” Sergei asked, noticing my restless eyes.
“Not at all, sir. I was just mapping out my steps. I’ll be performing the Aminta variation ofSylvia.” I took my position off-stage.
“Risky,” Sergei muttered.
When I’d told Madame I was interested in this piece, she said it would be difficult to pull off but admitted it would showcase the height of my jumps and my musicality. Only 80 seconds long, this variation incorporated some of the most difficult movements in ballet, including several consecutivecabriolés, which is a step that starts with agrand battement—a kind of straight-legged kick—and then the leg underneath follows and beats the front leg, sending it higher, so that you resembled a straight-legged marionette puppet. The dance itself was a brutal, technical sequence with no room for error and no time to hesitate. I’d built up my athleticism and stamina over the last few months, so my only concern was that I’d totally blank on a step and forget everything.
Or trip and fall on my face.
But as soon as I heard the first few searing notes of the strings, my mind quieted, and everything clicked into place. Thanks to my muscle memory, I just needed to let go mentally and trust in my body to know the steps. Only when dancing did I experience the kind of joy I saw sometimes in little kids. I didn’t feel my aches and pains or worry I wasn’t worth anything or fear I was a fake. I enjoyed every second of my performances, even more if there were people watching me. And I loved the applause.
At one point in my performance, I glanced toward the viewing window and saw you watching me with so much intent. Your eyebrows were slightly drawn, and your hands were steepled at your lips like you were holding your breath or maybe muttering some enchantment. Win or lose, you had my back. Seeing you there was all the motivation I needed to finish strong.
I gave the judges everything I had. I ended with one arm raised proudly and my feet in fourth position as the strings strummed their final notes.
When my mind came back to me, I found myself staring into the frowning face of Sergei Grumpypants. No one was clapping, nor did they seem all that impressed.
“You added atour jetébefore the last sequence,” he griped. “Why?”
“I wanted to give it something of my own.” It had been a small argument between Madame and me. She thought I should stick to the classic choreography, but I insisted thetour jetéwas more impressive.
“You thought you could improve upon perfection?” Sergei scowled.
“No, sir, not improve, only…” I struggled to find the right response that wouldn’t send this diva into a tizzy. “Personalize it.”
“That sounds very arrogant to me. Where did you study?” His tone had not softened in the least. This guy hated me.
“Here in Miami. At Madame Lavoie’s School of Dance.”
He grumbled like he had rocks in his mouth.
“Well, I don’t know about you all,” he addressed the other judges, “but I found the entire performance to be rather… amateur.”
I stared at a scuff on the wall behind Sergei’s head, my spotting point. Inhale, exhale, just like Madame taught me. My eyes stung and I told myself not to cry. I could let it out later, but not here, not now. I wouldn’t give this asshole the satisfaction.
“You don’t think so?” Sergei raised one eyebrow, daring me to argue.
“I respect your expert opinion,” I said stiffly. I knew better than to start a feud with a man who could easily ruin my career before it even got started.
“But you don’t agree?” Sergei pressed. The woman bowed her head to hide her expression, and the man in the middle sighed like he just wanted to get on with it. This type of examination must have been why number twelve ran out of the room in tears. There was no escaping Sergei’s critical gaze. It felt like my skin was being peeled off in sections.
“I’m a young dancer. I need instruction, discipline, and… time to mature.” Wasn’t that what you were always telling me, whenever I tried to lure you into my bedroom as a man and not a ghost?In time, Orlando.Maybe you were waiting for me to become legal. My eighteenth birthday seemed so far away.
Meanwhile, Sergei groaned like I’d just shat in his coffee.
“You’re going to need to do at least a hundred push-ups a day,” he said. “Your upper body is nonexistent. All of your strength is in your legs. I doubt you could lift a ten-pound bag of flour, much less a ballerina.”
“Does that mean…” I dared to hope.
“Your dancing is crude but not beyond repair. You have a look about you that we can work with. It says… expensive.” He rubbed his fingers together, tilted his head, and appraised me like I was something he was considering buying.
“Expensive?” What the hell did that mean? Expensive like a Ferrari, a high-performance, sleek and sexy ride? Or expensive like a hooker?
Sergei shrugged. “Be sure to act surprised when we announce it later.”
