The last time I went this long without attending a ballet class was the summer I was sixteen and the doctors suggested I take the summer off from dance. From ballet at least. Instead, my parents sent me to drama camp.
If you can't dance, you can at least continue developing your expression and stage presence. There are a lot of skills you can still work on.
Who knew that I'd be pulling from lessons learned at that camp now?
The combination is not that hard. It's far from the most challenging thing I've ever danced. I mean, that's why I'm here right? That's why I'm giving up and selling out. Still, my knee twinges, threatening to pop, and my toenails are too long.
And then I wait for my number to be called.
"Number seventy-two!" the production assistant bellows.
It's go time.
The director isn't even paying attention. I wait, clutching my résumé and headshot.
"And?" he asks.
I don't know what he's looking for. He sighs and rolls his eyes. I swallow hard. "I'm sorry about the info form."
"Doesn't bode well for you."
Oh shit. Have I already blown it? If he'd just let me ex—
He cuts me off, barking, "Do you have a name?"
What an asshole. I don't know if I even want to work for this dude.
On the other hand, I do want to eat and pay rent.
I stutter out, "Um yes, but I'm considering starting to use a stage name. I can't decide."
Honesty is the best policy.
The asshole rolls his eyes. Maybe honesty is not the best policy. Maybe I should have told him that I transcend traditional identifications of arbitrary names thrust upon us by a patriarchal society.
"Okay, are you ready?" he asks.
I nod and the production assistant cues the music. As it begins, the director's phone pings, pulling his attention.
Do not let this bother you. Do your best. Be the best. Whatever it takes. Dance as if your next meal depends on it.
Because it does.
Smile, look wistful, and be endearing. Look innocent. Hope that I don't look twenty-six, considering Lise is supposed to be a teenager. Channel my inner Leslie Caron, my namesake, who originated the role inAn American in Parisin 1951.
Walk one two, run run rond de jambe. Delicate hands. Snap on the fouetté arabesque. Shoulders down. Look wistful. Reach three four, port de bras.
As I finish down on my knee, I ignore the pain and wait. Finally, the director says, "That's great. Thanks."
There's no way to read anything into that.
I stand, hold my head up high, and walk toward the door. Out in the hall, I remove my bronze Gaynor Minden pointe shoes, pulling back my convertible tights to reveal the blisters that have formed after only ninety short minutes.
No pain, no gain.
I pull a loose dress on over my leotard and tights, sliding my feet into my beat-up, cozy Uggs. I look up and down at the rest of the ballerinas in the hall. I wonder how many they'll call back. When will we hear? I yank my phone out of my bag and check the time. I've got a shift at the diner in two hours. I can't afford to miss it.
The door opens again and the production assistant steps out. "Okay, we need numbers fifty-five, fifty-nine, sixty-seven, and seventy-two to stay for vocal auditions. Everyone else, thank you."
