Chapter 6 - THE AUDITION NO ONE COULD BUY
Dad's confession didn't come that night. He pressed a hand against his chest and asked for water, and I was too frightened by how gray he looked to make him continue. The doctor had told us his stress levels mattered. My questions could wait until he was steady enough to answer them.
But I took the letter with me when I left for my audition the following Friday. It sat in my bag beside a borrowed pair of dance shoes, a banana I couldn't eat, and the application I'd completed twice because my hands had shaken the first time.
The Fulton Dance Project occupied a second-floor studio above a laundromat. The staircase smelled of detergent and rain. On the walls hung photographs of performers of every age, including a man in a wheelchair holding his dance partner in an extraordinary lift. The receptionist handed me a number and directed me to the changing room.
Inside, dancers warmed up in clothes that announced long familiarity with the room. A woman in her forties stretched beside a teenage former gymnast. A man with a shaved head practiced an intricate footwork sequence at half speed. Nobody looked particularly interested in my sudden internet fame, which was a relief until I realized they were too busy being good.
I changed into black leggings and the only practice top I owned. My borrowed shoes were half a size too large. Jo had found them through his cousin, who taught community classes, and attached a note inside the box: Do something inconveniently magnificent.
I smiled for the first time that morning.
Inez Calder entered carrying a clipboard. She was small, silver-haired, and moved with the upright economy of somebody who could correct your posture before you'd decided where to stand.
"We're not judging what happened at the hotel," she announced. "We're looking at what you can do today and whether you're prepared to work tomorrow. If you're here for an audience, you've come to the wrong studio."
Two dancers exchanged uneasy looks. I felt strangely comforted.
The movement assessment began with basic patterns and became progressively harder. By the third combination, my old habits were fighting my neglected muscles. I remembered the shapes but couldn't always get there in time. When I missed a turn, Inez stopped me.
"You're trying to dance the person you were," she said. "I need to see the person standing in front of me."
My throat tightened. I nodded and began again with a smaller movement. It was less impressive. It was also controlled.
During the break, I found a voicemail from Dad. He'd reached his appointment with the new care coordinator and sounded almost proud of himself. The hospital assistance arrangement had covered the prescription gap. He still owed me an explanation about the old audition, but at least the immediate danger of missing medication had eased.
My phone buzzed again. A headline appeared: BILLIONAIRE'S BALLROOM MAID NOW AUDITIONING FOR ELITE DANCE SCHOOL. EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS.
Someone had photographed me entering the building.
I stared at the image. My name, my clothes, my location, and a speculative story about Adrian financing my dreams were spread across the screen. My stomach lurched. There were fifty dancers in the building, but apparently I was the one whose effort belonged to strangers.
I showed the receptionist. She notified Inez, who called security and made it clear that photographers weren't welcome. Then Inez approached me privately.
"Did you invite them?"
"No. And I don't want them here."
She studied me for a moment. "Good. Because my decision won't be a response to whichever headline performs best. Can you continue?"
"I can."
At lunch, another applicant sat beside me. Her name was Nia, and she worked overnight shifts at a hospital before coming to class whenever she could. She glanced at my shoes and offered a strip of blister tape without mentioning the story everybody else knew. I offered her half my banana. We compared sore ankles and impossible schedules until I almost forgot I was waiting to be judged. When the staff called us back, Nia squeezed my shoulder. 'Whatever happens, come back to a studio somewhere,' she said. The kindness surprised me. I had arrived expecting competition to feel like the ballroom. Instead, one of the people I might lose to wanted me to keep dancing.
For my prepared piece, I chose not to recreate the gala waltz. I'd been practicing a short contemporary sequence inspired by the way Mom used to demonstrate balance to small children: reaching toward something, falling short, and beginning again. My first attempt looked frantic. I stopped, asked whether I could restart, and explained that I'd chosen a tempo too ambitious for my current conditioning.
Inez permitted one restart. This time I trusted the spaces between movements. I let my breath become visible. On the final phrase, I reached outward with an empty hand, then closed it against my heart.
Nobody applauded. The jury simply made notes.
I waited in a corridor with a blister forming on my heel and a dozen terrible possibilities crowding my head. Clara texted: Whatever they decide, I'm proud you went through the door.
An hour later, Inez called me into her office.
"You have significant technical deficits," she said. "Your endurance is below the standard we need, and your transitions are inconsistent."
I nodded, trying to keep my face composed.
"You also listen better than most applicants," she continued. "You adjusted when you were corrected. You understood the music rather than decorating it. And you didn't attempt to make exhaustion look romantic."
"Does that mean—?"
"I'm offering you a six-week probationary place. With a partial stipend, contingent on attendance and progress. This isn't a scholarship for being famous. I would have made the same decision if the hotel never existed."
I laughed once, then covered my mouth because I was about to cry.
Inez opened a drawer and placed a faded studio photograph in front of me. It showed six young dancers and an instructor with dark, laughing eyes. My mother stood in the back row.
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"Elena Reyes taught me something about grace many years ago," Inez said. "I was wondering when I'd meet her daughter."
I touched the photograph with one finger. Somewhere outside, a photographer called my name. Inside the office, for the first time in twelve years, I felt my mother beside me without needing to pretend she was still alive.
