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I stopped in front of a trashcan and bent over, waiting for the inevitable vomit.
Deep down I knew that I was a good dancer—that I’d just danced my heart out, and I honestly felt like I deserved a second chance.
The thought of failing had never crossed my mind when I signed up for this audition, and the option of returning to Durham was too painful to bear.
Heaving, I tearfully weighed my options: 1) Go home and rejoin Mr. Petrova’s dance program. 2) Go back inside and tell the panel they’re all f**king idiots, or—
“Miss Everhart?” Someone tapped my shoulder.
I spun around, finding myself face to face with a stoic Mr. Ashcroft.
“Yes?” I wiped my face on my sleeve and forced a smile.
“What you just did on stage was rude, unprofessional, and horrible. It was the worst thing I have ever seen a prospective dancer do and I didn’t appreciate it all…That said, be here on time for the second round next week.”
My jaw dropped and I didn’t get a chance to scream or say thank you.
He was already gone.
I pulled out my phone, anxious to tell someone that I’d made it to the next round, but I had no one to call.
All I had were angry texts from my parents, tons of their missed calls, and I knew better than to reach out to them right now. They didn’t really give a damn.
I searched for Mr. Petrova’s number—hoping I’d saved it, but an email from Andrew appeared on my screen.
Subject: Your Resignation.
I was tempted to open it, but my heart wouldn’t let me do it. He was the main reason why I fled here, and I didn’t need him intruding on my new life.
I deleted his message and decided that I wasn’t going to think about him anymore. All that mattered now was ballet.
Months later…
Rebuttal (n.):
Evidence introduced to counter, disprove or contradict the opposition's evidence or a presumption, or responsive legal argument.
Andrew
The fall season came and went, taking the changing leaves and amber sunsets with it. New interns filled the positions at GBH, new cases and clients packed the calendars, and as winter enveloped the city, one thing remained clear: Durham was only one step above the shit ladder when compared to New York City.
At least when it came to the winter, anyway.
This was the coldest winter the city had experienced, and since it was a Southern town, they were ill-prepared. The courtroom I was currently sitting in featured blankets lined against the windows instead of proper insulation, and there were space heaters jutting from every outlet.
There were few salt trucks available to control the icy streets, even fewer people who actually knew how to drive in such weather, and for whatever reason, there were no more suitable women available.
“Andrew?” Mr. Bach tapped my shoulder. “The prosecution is done with the witness…Are you going to redirect? That last line might have influenced the jury.”
“Permission to redirect, Your Honor.” I stood up from the table.
The judge nodded and I stared at the woman on the stand. She’d been lying through her teeth since this trial began and I’d had enough.
“Miss Everhart—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, Miss Everly, do you believe that leaving your husband in his time of need was what was best for your company?”
“Yes,” she said. “I told you that during our first meeting.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You told me that you loved him and that your sole reasoning for leaving him was because you thought he didn’t love you back. Is that not true?”
