New York Nights
Page 41
“Your first cab broke down? That was you?”
I nodded.
She studied me for a few more seconds—pursing her lips. Then she opened the door. “You can change into your whites in the dressing room. Hurry up.”
The door shut behind me before I could ask what she meant by “[my] whites,” but as my eyes scanned the stage, I realized that every dancer was dressed in a white leotard and matching tutu.
Shit...
My cheeks heated as I looked over my outfit. I didn’t have my whites in my bag. They were at home.
Nearing the stage, I set my bag in a chair and tried to ignore that dread that was building inside my chest. I just needed to focus on giving it my all during this routine. That was it.
I found an open spot onstage and stretched my arms—noticing the smirks and whispers that were being thrown in my direction.
Undaunted, I smiled at anyone who made eye contact and continued my routine.
“May I have your attention, please?” A man’s voice came over the speaker. “Can everyone stop stretching and make your way to the edge of the stage, please?”
I set my leg down and followed the crowd, finding a spot on the end.
The man addressing us was a tall grey haired man with wiry glasses, and he was the definition of the word “legend”: His name was Arnold G. Ashcroft, and I’d followed him and his choreography for years. He was once the most sought after specialist in the world, but when he dropped in the rankings, it was only to his Russian rival: Paul Petrova.
“We’re happy to see such a huge turnout for this session of auditions,” he said. “As you know, due to a series of unfortunate events, we are overhauling our entire staff. That said, we are keeping our current production schedule as is, which means we will be filling in the roles of principle dancers, soloists, and corps members within the next fourteen days.”
“Rehearsals will be long and hard—four to ten, midnight if need be, and there will be no room for excuses or...” He looked me up and down, frowning at my attire. “Mistakes.”
“This is the first round of six. You will be told of your status once the music stops, and if you are sent home, please don’t hesitate to try again next year. I see a lot of failures from last summer, so I’m hoping you’ve learned something between then and now...”
“For this round, we’ll do a portion of the Balanchine routine in groups of eight. You may stretch for a few minutes and then we will begin.”
He waved at the man who was taking his seat at the piano, and then he turned around and gave a thumbs up to three people who were sitting in the judge’s seats. Smiling, he ascended the stage’s steps, and greeted a few familiar faces.
I made my way over and tapped his shoulder.
“Yes?” He turned around.
“Um...” I withered under his intense glare.
“Good morning, Mr. Ashcroft. My name is Aubrey Everhart and I’m—”
“Late.” He cut me off. “You’re also the only performer who isn’t wearing the mandatory white.”
“Yes, well...” I stammered. “That’s why I want to speak with you.”
“Oh?”
“I want to know if you would allow me to go home and change.”
“And why would I allow that, Miss Everhart?”
“So I can audition with the group this afternoon and be judged fairly. I just think that I’ve already—”
“Stop.” He pressed a pen against my lips. “Ladies, may I please have your attention?”
An immediate silence fell over the theater.
“I want you all to meet Aubrey Everhart.” He smiled. “She’s just informed me that due to the fact that she was late and decided to wear improper attire to her audition today, that there’s a chance she’ll be judged unfairly.”
The ballerina across from me folded her arms.
“Now,” he said. “Since the world of ballet is fair and has always been about catering to the needs of the unprepared, is there anyone who would have a problem if I allowed Miss Everhart to go home, change, and return for the auditions at six?”
Every dancer on stage raised her hand into the air.
“I thought so.” His tone was cold. “If you think a wrongly colored tutu is going to affect how well you perform, you should leave right now.”
I swallowed, wishing I could disappear.
“You can dance in the first group.” He shook his head at me and walked away.
Disregarding the soft snickering from the other girls, I returned to my former spot on stage and stretched once more. I tried to block out everything that had gone wrong this morning and pretended that I was in Durham again—dancing for one of the best directors in the world.
“Miss Everhart?” A woman said my name, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to take your place at center stage with everyone else, or do you need more time to find it?”
I smiled at the judge’s table and stepped into the line.
The woman signaled to the pianist and he played the B-flat scale before starting the piece. As his fingers forced the notes, my arms went high above my head and I slowly spun around on my toes—wincing as my right pointe slipper cracked.
I ignored the pain and continued the routine. Terribly.
Each time I attempted a jump, I landed off balance and slipped an eighth of a count behind everyone else. My turns were awkward—frantically paced, and my pointe work was so choppy that I bumped into the girl next to me.
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 potential here. 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.”
I nodded.
She studied me for a few more seconds—pursing her lips. Then she opened the door. “You can change into your whites in the dressing room. Hurry up.”
The door shut behind me before I could ask what she meant by “[my] whites,” but as my eyes scanned the stage, I realized that every dancer was dressed in a white leotard and matching tutu.
Shit...
My cheeks heated as I looked over my outfit. I didn’t have my whites in my bag. They were at home.
Nearing the stage, I set my bag in a chair and tried to ignore that dread that was building inside my chest. I just needed to focus on giving it my all during this routine. That was it.
I found an open spot onstage and stretched my arms—noticing the smirks and whispers that were being thrown in my direction.
Undaunted, I smiled at anyone who made eye contact and continued my routine.
“May I have your attention, please?” A man’s voice came over the speaker. “Can everyone stop stretching and make your way to the edge of the stage, please?”
I set my leg down and followed the crowd, finding a spot on the end.
The man addressing us was a tall grey haired man with wiry glasses, and he was the definition of the word “legend”: His name was Arnold G. Ashcroft, and I’d followed him and his choreography for years. He was once the most sought after specialist in the world, but when he dropped in the rankings, it was only to his Russian rival: Paul Petrova.
“We’re happy to see such a huge turnout for this session of auditions,” he said. “As you know, due to a series of unfortunate events, we are overhauling our entire staff. That said, we are keeping our current production schedule as is, which means we will be filling in the roles of principle dancers, soloists, and corps members within the next fourteen days.”
“Rehearsals will be long and hard—four to ten, midnight if need be, and there will be no room for excuses or...” He looked me up and down, frowning at my attire. “Mistakes.”
“This is the first round of six. You will be told of your status once the music stops, and if you are sent home, please don’t hesitate to try again next year. I see a lot of failures from last summer, so I’m hoping you’ve learned something between then and now...”
“For this round, we’ll do a portion of the Balanchine routine in groups of eight. You may stretch for a few minutes and then we will begin.”
He waved at the man who was taking his seat at the piano, and then he turned around and gave a thumbs up to three people who were sitting in the judge’s seats. Smiling, he ascended the stage’s steps, and greeted a few familiar faces.
I made my way over and tapped his shoulder.
“Yes?” He turned around.
“Um...” I withered under his intense glare.
“Good morning, Mr. Ashcroft. My name is Aubrey Everhart and I’m—”
“Late.” He cut me off. “You’re also the only performer who isn’t wearing the mandatory white.”
“Yes, well...” I stammered. “That’s why I want to speak with you.”
“Oh?”
“I want to know if you would allow me to go home and change.”
“And why would I allow that, Miss Everhart?”
“So I can audition with the group this afternoon and be judged fairly. I just think that I’ve already—”
“Stop.” He pressed a pen against my lips. “Ladies, may I please have your attention?”
An immediate silence fell over the theater.
“I want you all to meet Aubrey Everhart.” He smiled. “She’s just informed me that due to the fact that she was late and decided to wear improper attire to her audition today, that there’s a chance she’ll be judged unfairly.”
The ballerina across from me folded her arms.
“Now,” he said. “Since the world of ballet is fair and has always been about catering to the needs of the unprepared, is there anyone who would have a problem if I allowed Miss Everhart to go home, change, and return for the auditions at six?”
Every dancer on stage raised her hand into the air.
“I thought so.” His tone was cold. “If you think a wrongly colored tutu is going to affect how well you perform, you should leave right now.”
I swallowed, wishing I could disappear.
“You can dance in the first group.” He shook his head at me and walked away.
Disregarding the soft snickering from the other girls, I returned to my former spot on stage and stretched once more. I tried to block out everything that had gone wrong this morning and pretended that I was in Durham again—dancing for one of the best directors in the world.
“Miss Everhart?” A woman said my name, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to take your place at center stage with everyone else, or do you need more time to find it?”
I smiled at the judge’s table and stepped into the line.
The woman signaled to the pianist and he played the B-flat scale before starting the piece. As his fingers forced the notes, my arms went high above my head and I slowly spun around on my toes—wincing as my right pointe slipper cracked.
I ignored the pain and continued the routine. Terribly.
Each time I attempted a jump, I landed off balance and slipped an eighth of a count behind everyone else. My turns were awkward—frantically paced, and my pointe work was so choppy that I bumped into the girl next to me.
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 potential here. 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.”
