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“Be comfortable,” I whisper, shooting them a glare.
Ella glances over at me as she gets to her feet. “Can you believe we are here right now, about to audition?”
I spring to my feet, looking at the other twenty dancers. Everyone is practically vibrating right now. The nervous energy is almost palpable.
I stretch my right hamstring. “Can you believe that they fired the company’s prima ballerina and most of the corps? When I saw that they were auditioning for forty spots…”
Ella smiles coolly. “We need those spots.”
She takes first position, doing a series of plies.
I look at her, dead serious. “God, what if we actually get called back?”
Ella pulls a face. “Of course we’re going to get called back. We dance literally eight to twelve hours per day, six days a week. We deserve it.”
I flush, looking down. If I did the math, I am absolutely sure that I dance literally every minute I wasn’t asleep or commuting. But I don’t say any of that.
“Yeah,” is all that comes to mind.
Ella stands up straight and adjusts her dark blue leotard. She nods toward the back of the theatre, where a dark haired woman in a blue skirt suit and a short blond man in a white tank top and black capri tights approach us. The man claps his hands loudly; he’s obviously a teacher, because he seems used to holding court.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, coming down right before the stage. “I am the head instructor here, Basil Smith. And this?—“
The woman cuts in stepping forward. “I’m Emma Rosenburg. I’m the head of the board that oversees every action undertaken by this company.”
Basil gives her a long look. “Yes.” He turns his attention to the group on stage. “Your director is running late, it seems. He’s not polite enough to let anyone know about his tardiness?—“
“Basil,” Emma chides.
He climbs up on the stage, looking annoyed. “But never fear. Emma and I will be judging. Also, I think someone is filming this audition.” He looks behind him, searching for how that is happening.
“What my colleague is saying is that you should be your absolute best self, starting right now.” Emma backs away from the stage, hurrying to find a seat in the fourth row.
An older woman comes out on the stage and finds a seat at the piano.
I can’t quite feel my legs because I’m so full of nerves.
You’d better make it in New York, my father’s voice sounds loudly in the back of my head.
Pushing that thought down, I try to concentrate. This is all about me, here and now. There’s no room in my head for Basil or Emma, Ella or my dad. It’s all about me, my talent, my precision and skill.
I just need to keep reminding myself of that.
“Line up four across,” Bas barks, clapping his hands. “Girls in the front, boys in the back. Let’s move, people.” He narrows his gaze at all of us. “God, try to act like you’ve all been in a chorus line before.”
I scurry into place beside Ella, my heartbeat going wild. Deep breaths.You can do this, I say to myself.
Basil waves at the accompanist, who starts playing Tchaichovsky. He looks at everyone flatly. “Let’s start very simply. Pas de chevalier to point. Tendu side in fondu. Close to fifth position. Okay?”
No one says anything, so he sighs. “And one, two, three, four…”
Never in my entire life have I arched by arms so high, moved so quickly, or stretched my leg back quite so elegantly. The moves are accomplished in the blink of an eye.
I look to Basil, who raises his eyebrows at the group. “Good. Again.”
I do it a second time, finishing with a perfectly shaped arabesque. After I’m done, my heart pounds in my ears.
Am I actually… good at this?
