Embarrassed, I murmured sorry and spun around, but I lost my balance and fell onto the stage. Headfirst.
I ignored the loud outburst of laughter from the dancers in the audience and stood up, attempting to fall back into the routine.
“Stop!” Mr. Ashcroft bellowed from the side of the stage, making the notes come to an end.
He walked in front of our line and stepped directly in front of me.
“I just looked through your file, Miss Everhart.” He looked unimpressed. “You recently studied under Mr. Petrova?”
I nodded.
“Use your words, please.”
“Yes…” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I did.”
“And he wrote an actual recommendation letter on your behalf?”
“Yes sir.”
He looked at me in utter disbelief. Shock. “You expect me to believe that when you dance so stiffly? When you’re a count behind each and every step?”
“Yes…” My voice was a whisper.
“Well…At least you can always say that you studied under one of the greatest choreographers of all time. You can leave my theater now.”
My heart sank. “ What?”
“I don’t think you’re a good fit for our company. We’ll email you this evening with a link to purchase discounted tickets for the season’s shows.”
A tear rolled down my face, and as if he could see that he’d just broken my heart, he patted my shoulder.
“I can tell that you’ve had training,” he said. “Very good training. And I can see that you have potential, but we’re not interested in potentialhere. For the rest of you, congratulations! You’ve earned yourselves a spot in the next round of auditions. Now, please clear the stage so the next group of dancers may perform.”
A loud applause arose from the hopefuls in the audience, and I felt as if I was watching my life fall apart in front of me. Hurt, I followed the dancers to the side steps—unsure of what to do next.
Grabbing my bag, I avoided the pathetic glances of the hopefuls and shook my head.
“That just goes to show you,” Mr. Ashcroft said to the other panelists, laughing, “even Petrova picks duds sometimes.”
I turned around.
Enraged, I marched up the stage’s steps and took a seat on the white line. I untied my right slipper and prepared another one—bending it forward and backward until it felt right.
“You can change your shoes in the restroom, Miss Everhart.” Mr. Ashcroft chided. “The stage is for actual performers. Or did Petrova not teach you that?”
“I need another chance,” I said. “Just because I didn’t nail the Balanchine piece that doesn’t make me a bad dancer.”
“Of course it doesn’t, honey.” He mocked me. “It makes you a failed dancer, who is currently using my stage and sucking up precious audition time for those who might actually make the cut in my company.”
I walked over to the pianist. “Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake. Act two, scene fourteen. Do you know that piece?”
“Umm…” He looked confused.
“Do you know it or not?”
“Yes, but—” He pointed to another judge who was now standing and crossing her arms.
“Could you please play it?” I pleaded with my eyes. “It’s only three minutes long.”
He let out a sigh and straightened his back, strumming the keys of the piano. With no count off, he played the first few notes of the concerto and the softs sounds echoed off the theater’s walls.
“Miss Everhart, you’re wasting everyone’s time…” Mr. Ashcroft’s face turned red as I slipped into fifth position.
I could hear him sighing and tsk-ing, could hear the other hopefuls murmuring, but as I twirled around the stage and transitioned from an arabesque to a grand jete, their talking stopped.
The notes lingered longer—darker, as the song progressed and I made sure each motion of my hands was smooth and graceful. As I leapt across the stage and completed a series of perfect pirouettes, I could see Mr. Ashcroft rubbing his chin.
Before I knew it, I was in a trance and I was dancing in the middle of Times Square, underneath flashing lights and a star-filled sky.
I continued dancing long after the last note, humming the additional refrain that most pianists ignored, and I ended by leaning forward on my left leg—holding my right one in the air behind me.
The panelists stared back at me. Their faces expressionless.
“Are you done, Miss Everhart?” Mr. Ashcroft asked.
“Yes…”
“Good. Now, get the hell off my stage.”
I stood upright and bit my lip to prevent myself from breaking down in front of them.
“Thank you very much for the opportunity…” I grabbed my bag and rushed off stage—running down the hallway and outside the building.
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 fucking 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 timefor 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.