Chapter 1: Leslie
Name.
It's the first line on the form. Shouldn't be a hard question. After all, I can still hear my first-grade teacher, Miss Norton, singing, "Name on the paper, first thing" to the tune of "Shave and a Haircut."
Yet here I am, stumped.
I don't want to write it down.
Well, let's get it out of the way. My name is Moose. It's my last name, but still. There it is onevery single document. Leslie Ann Moose. The worst name ever, with the possible exception of my sister’s name—Meredith. Meri Moose is worse but only fractionally more than Les Moose. But she's Doctor Meri Moose, Ph.D., so no one messes with her.
I've heard all the jokes before. Hardy har har. Please don't. Don't even think about it. I don't want to hear it. Now that memes and GIFs are all the rage, I don't want to see it either.
All I want to do is change it.
It's been my dream for as long as I can remember to have a different last name. When I was a small child, I assumed I'd just get married when I was old—like twenty—and the problem would disappear.
Yet here I am at the ripe old age of twenty-six, and marriage isn't even on my radar. One would have to have a second date to get to the marriage point.
Okay, one would have to have afirst date.But I don't have time for that.
So, I'm going to do the next best thing, which is to take a stage name. It makes sense. I'm a ballet dancer after all. Can you imagine a ballerina named Moose?
It worked so much better for my father, the rugby player, and his father before him. There are already preconceived notions the moment I walk into the room. I don't need my name adding to that.
Maybe that's what's been holding me back all these years.
Probably not, but we can't be too sure, now, can we?
But now I'm staring at the form, the pen frozen in my hand, and I don't know what to write. You’d think I'd have thought of this before now.
I have.
I mean, I've tried. It's just … well, this is my name.
It's me.
For good or bad, I can't come up with anything else. My name has meaning. It was picked for me specifically. I was named after Leslie Caron and Ann Miller, two iconic dancers. From the moment of my birth, I was destined to be a dancer.
And now here I am, at a musical theater audition. The stars fated this upon me.
"Last call for applications! Turn them in now!" the production assistant yells.
Without thinking, I hand the application to her. It's not until after she disappears behind the double doors that I realize I never actually put a name on it.
Great.
I've already failed, and I haven't even started.
It's too late now. I'm herded into a large dance studio with about fifteen other females. I look around at my competition. We're all wearing black leotards, as is standard for ballerinas. This may be a musical theater audition, but we're all ballerinas at the core, as this role requires. I've eschewed the traditional pale pink tights and shoes for ones that better match my brown complexion—anything to lengthen my curvy lines.
It's not unusual that I'm the only brown one in the room. That's how it was in dance class, growing up in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio. There was a bit more diversity at the Five Boroughs Ballet Company, where, up until recently, I'd spent all my time as a trainee.Nope, can't think about that situation. I've got a job to do. I've got to be my best right now.
After about thirty minutes of barre warm-up, the choreographer introduces herself as Kori, and without much fanfare, begins to teach us the combo. One minute doesn't sound like a long time until you're trying to commit a dance sequence to memory. It's not like I don't do this every day.
At least I used to.
I haven't danced in six weeks.
