Page 13 of With You

“The solo is yours, there’s no doubt about it,” Evie adds in, giving me the last boost of encouragement I need before I step through those doors and perform for the faculty.

“Thanks,” I give them a tight-lipped smile, doing my best to hide my nerves as they both step away from me. I take a deep breath before opening the studio door, getting one final pat on the back from both of them.

Dancers are scattered around the edges of the room, stretching out their limbs along the barre. This round of auditions is only for female dancers, with a separate one tomorrow for male dancers and a few days later for couples. A girl I’ve spoken to only a few times in passing is about to begin her performance in the centre of the room, the four judging faculty members sat at a table facing her. Madame takes one of the middle seats, flanked by the General Director, Head of Arts, and Head of Sports.

For anything else, it would be one or the other, but ballet exists in a strange space within the university where it gains funding and leadership from both departments. Ballet started off as an art for me, something pretty to watch and perform, but as I got older, my respect and understanding for the discipline needed for it deepened, and I see it as a sport now, too.

I find an empty barre spot to warm up, but as soon as the music clicks on and the girl begins to dance, I can’t keep my eyes off Madame. I watch her reflection in the mirror, hyper-analysing every small movement of her face. She’s an expert at schooling her expression, and that’s why I’m never quite sure if I’m doing well enough by her standards. That’s not to say she doesn’t have a few tells.

For instance, if she thinks you haven’t quite done a move in the way she expects, her blue eyes will narrow, a slight crease forming between her brows. If you’ve done well, that’s a lot harder to figure out. She’ll glance away from you, either to look down at whatever note she’s written about you in her book, or at somewhere else in the room. If she looks away for two seconds at most, you’ve done well. But if those seconds tick by, and she still hasn’t looked back, you might as well give up right then and there.

The girl finishes her performance with barely any reaction from Madame, which is never a good thing. A reaction, even a bad one, means she’s set some kind of expectations for you. If there’s nothing, neither acknowledgment nor disapproval, then it means she has no faith in your growth and talent as a dancer.

“Please remain in the studio for the final results,” the General Director says.

She nods, panting heavily as she moves to the side before collapsing to the ground to catch her breath.

“Lillian, you’re next,” Madame announces.

It continues like that for the next thirty minutes. Our names are called randomly, only increasing the pressure and anxiety as we wait for our turn to perform. Throughout each audition, I only look at Madame, searching for any new hints as to what she might be feeling.

“Amelie.”

I take slow and steady breaths as I make my way to the centre of the studio. It’s gotten warmer as auditions have progressed, the floor getting more scuffed with each dancer, and a general uneasiness shrouding the studio. I ignore it all, and focus on the singular thing I can control—myself.

I take first position, readying myself before the music plays. It’s muscle memory as soon as I hear the first note, my body moving of its own accord as I go through the variation I’ve practiced probably a million times. When it reaches the most important part, I’ve got full faith in myself as I begin the fouettés. I keep my eyes focused on a dark spot on the wall, just like I practiced, not even daring to look at Madame as I spin and spin. On the thirty-second fouetté, I lower my leg gently, finishing the performance with one arm extended over my head and the other curved toward me before the music stops and I lower them both to my side. Pride almost overwhelms me, tears building in my eyes, but I keep my composure as they dismiss me.

I move back to my original spot and drop to the floor, chest heaving up and down as my heart pounds. Patting my face dry with a small towel, I reach for my water bottle, draining it as the auditions continue. I slip my phone out of my bag to text the girls.

Amelie

Just did my performance, there’s only a few people left

Evie

How did it go?

I only have to think for a second about how to answer her.

Amelie

Perfectly, I didn’t make a single mistake

Zena

We knew you wouldn’t! We’re still outside, can’t wait to celebrate!

I tuck my phone away, trying to hide the smile on my face at my friends’ confidence in me.

Once the final dancer has performed, the four faculty members whisper amongst themselves. They point at papers gathered on the table, silently communicating with nods and shakes of their heads as they decide our fates. Once again, I focus on Madame’s face, but I can’t read anything from it.

After what feels like a lifetime, but is actually only fifteen minutes, the General Director speaks.

“We’ve made our final decisions,” he says, as they all stand.

They move to one side of the studio, and the rest of us gather opposite to face them. I hear the nervous gulp of whoever is standing next to me, but I keep my eyes trained on Madame.

The Head of Art starts listing off names, people who have successfully made it into the wider ensemble cast who will perform a piece of Madame’s choice. It’s not a bad spot to have—I was part of it last year—but it’s impossible to stand out from the crowd. They finish listing them off, my name absent from the group, but I can’t relax just yet. There are still smaller solos to announce, shorter performances for the showcase that are great for displaying a ballerina’s skill, but not so much for their ability to hold a performance on their own. More names are called out, and every time I hear the first syllable of mine, my heart catches in my throat until I hear the rest and realise it’s not me.