Eye roll.
"Call the number."
As Morgan crosses the floor to open the door, I'm not sure why we're bothering to audition this one. She's filled out her whole form, which is why I know she's a she, as she indicated she's auditioning for the role of Lise, but left the name blank. Whatever she has going on, I want no part of.
"Number seventy-two!" Morgan bellows.
While I wait, I pick up my phone and without thinking too much about it, I text Tabitha.
Hey. Howzit going?
Nothing earth-shattering. Hell, she probably won't even respond. I doubt she remembers me.
I hear a throat clearing, which forces me to drag my attention away from my phone and onto the clearer of the throat.
Number seventy-two.
On first look, she seems totally normal.
Except I know she's not normal because shedidn't put a name down on her application. I don't know why this is bothering me so much, but here we are.
I sit and look at her. She stands, nervously clutching her resume and headshot. Her black leotard shows a body more curvy than a typical ballerina's. Her skin tone, too, is darker than the ballet world historically embraces. That doesn't matter for us at The Edison.
All that matters is if she can dance.
"Do you have a name?" Jesus, I sound like an asshole.
"Um, yes, but I'm considering starting to use a stage name. I can't decide."
I don't even bother to hide my eye roll. This is going to be a waste of my time. "Okay, are you ready?" The dancers have been in another studio learning the steps. Our choreographer, Kori, has sent on the ones she likes best. I've already seen these steps about ten times. Ironically, there's a ballet audition scene in the show, so the dancers are doing that combo.
As the music rises for the Lise's audition dance, my phone pings. Almost involuntarily, my eyes dart down.
It's a text from Tabitha.
How'd you know I was thinking about you?
Huh. She was thinking about me.
She remembers me.
Is that so?
She quickly responds.
Yeah. I keep going back to that article. About me. In your show.
Shit. I hope she's not mad.
Don't know why he did that. Sorry.
I add in the shoulder shrugging, I-don't-know emoji. As soon as it sends, I regret it. Did I really just send an emoji to Tabitha Stetson?
I'm lame. Movement catches my eye and I glance up. Okay, she is at least a competent ballerina. Her extension is high and her fouetté arabesque is sharp. Number seventy-two is finishing with a well-executed piqué turn, stepping through to en dehors rond de jambe à terre, finishing in a kneeling courtesy, just as Kori taught.
"That's great. Thanks." Sure, she was good, but unless she was Misty Copeland or Julie Kent, I'm not sure I'd cast her. Her application, sans name, tells me she's got issues, and we're choc a bloc with them already.
My phone pings again.
