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by Taras Ford

  Nolen heard Xenia speak to her producer. The choreographer leaned in to share her opinion. The three began to systematically check off lines on her clipboard. And then the show came to an abrupt end.

  Xenia cleared her throat. “When I call your number, step forward—thirty, twenty-seven, three, twenty-six, nineteen.”

  The dancers stepped forward. His number thirty-two raised her hand to her brow, staring into the bright lights. He could read her hope and fear in the way her other hand opened and clenched several times.

  “Thank you for coming out. If your number was called, you have not been invited to stay for the next round of auditions.”

  Number thirty-two lowered her hand, and her eyes stretched wide with disbelief. Nolen found that amusing after witnessing her personal pep talk. The rejected dancers gave their thanks and walked off stage.

  Nolen’s eyes lowered to the foot thirty-two favored. She was an expert in concealing her pain, something he shared in common with her.

  “Now,” Xenia said to the dancers who remained onstage. “Please go with Madame Gustav. You’ll be allowed to audition individually.”

  Annemarie touched his shoulder, but he put up his hand to silence her. Obediently she sat back. Nolen then slid his hand over Xenia’s thigh, easing it up her skirt. “I want to see number thirty-two audition before I leave.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your hour is up, but I’ll watch one audition and make my decision. I want to see number thirty-two.” Xenia checked her notepad to see whom he was talking about. “Ah, the birthday girl?”

  “Birthday?”

  “Nothing. Today’s her birthday.” Xenia scoffed.

  Nolen looked back at the stage. “Really?”

  “Why do you want to see thirty-two?” Xenia asked. Nolen’s hand dipped in further between her thighs, and his eyes lowered to the hint of cleavage she had left exposed. Shifting in her seat as a signal for him to remove his hand before anyone saw, she spoke into the microphone. “Juan, please come to the auditorium.” Immediately Juan came onto the stage. “¿Que pasa?” he asked, staring into the lights with one hand on his hip and the other blocking the glare.

  “Change of plans. Pull thirty-two. She’s up first.”

  Sydney enjoyed her small victory. She couldn’t stop grinning.

  “I said, Ms. Thang!” Juan’s high-pitched voice cut through her thoughts. Sydney snatched off her earbuds and spun around to find Juan and several dancers staring at her.

  “Me?”

  “That’s right. Chu, honey! I don’t have all day. C’mon, get your diva stroll on a roll. You’re up next!” He breezed back out, and Sydney hurried to collect her things as the dancers ahead of her stared in disapproval.

  The girl next to her whispered, “Break a leg, or should I say foot?” She was the one who made the jab at her earlier, and now she was flanked on both sides by dancers with envious eyes. The hens snickered at the joke.

  “Oh, shut the hell up!” Bet snapped. She smiled at Sydney. “Don’t pay the evil one any mind.”

  “Evil one?” Sydney asked, glaring after the little group who walked away.

  “Emily. She was top of the class at the Academy. She pretty much thinks this is her show. Her father is the chancellor over there, Ben Mendoza.”

  Sydney froze at the mention of Mendoza’s name and her face went pale. Stuffing her bag, she tried to mask her discomfort. “Never heard of him.”

  “Hey, you ok? You’ll do fine,” Bet said, touching her arm.

  “Thanks!” Sydney hurried out of the practice studio.

  So Mendoza’s daughter competed for the part. The day just kept getting better and better. With no other choice, she forced down her anxiety over the piece of bad luck. She had a bigger problem to consider. If the dancers saw her favoring her foot, then Xenia Minetti might as well. She had to be careful. Her eyes darted through the moving crowd of dancers and staff before spotting Juan talking to two technicians.

  He looked up at her approach. “Girlfriend, mmhmm, look at cha. It’s your time,” he said. “Now, what you dancing to?”

  “Black Butterfly,” she said, reaching into her bag to retrieve her CD.

  Juan turned up his nose. “Black what?”

  “My friend has a local band. It’s something we put together.” Juan shook his head. “I thought you’d have something with a little more flava?” Sydney smiled. “Oh, this has ‘flava.’ Just play it. You’ll see.”

  “Whateva.” He accepted the CD, then tossed it to the audio tech. “Go on!” Juan said, shooing her off toward the stage.

  Sydney dropped her bag. In her haste to get back to the stage, she had forgotten to pull her hair back into the ponytail that she’d removed after the first audition. Her thick mane tumbled carelessly down her back.

  She would just have to leave it that way.

  The stage remained as terrifying as it was when she left it, and the stakes were much higher since this performance would decide her fate and she had to prove herself alone. Sydney could barely make out the small audience, so she chose to ignore them all. She walked confidently to center stage; she lifted her chin to the bright lights shining on her. Two deep breaths and she gave Juan a slight nod.

  The saxophone solo poured out of the speakers like warm honey, charming the notes from the pianist that rippled through the air. Sydney spun into her routine. The tips of her toes kept her feet from the ground and she forced a smile to her face, giving herself up to the performance as the sweet voice sang of beauty emerging from darkness—her voice. Soon she transformed into the natural performer she was, letting the feel of the music control her body’s movements with a seductive ease. Her mind centered on the words she’d written.

  The sway of her hips and her leaps through the air seemed effortless. Every step synchronized to the lyrics and the saxophone. Suddenly a commanding drumbeat drove her to a climatic ending.

  Before Nolen, stood something unexpected—talent tempered with unshakable determination. It left him transfixed. He knew hunger, desperation, and fear of failure when you were poised to seize it all. The playwright at the end of the row actually clapped, and from the corner of his eye he saw Xenia frown as she sized up her new starlet. But Nolen kept his gaze trained on number thirty-two. He smirked when she lifted her head and flashed a shy smile. She had her victory, and a first victory was always the sweetest.

  Xenia brushed her breast against his arm when she leaned into him, but his eyes followed his butterfly.

  “Well, Mr. Adams, what do you think?” she purred.

  “Hmm, nice,” he said with a sly smile. His eyes returned to Xenia. “Put her in the show, and you can consider me an investor.”

  Sydney hurried off the stage where Juan and Bet clapped for her. “Oooh, girl, you were something fierce!” Juan said, cheering her on.

  “You did great, Sydney,” Bet added, patting her on the arm.

  Breathing hard, she reached for her bag to retrieve a towel. “Thanks! Thanks so much!”

  “Honey, none of them have anything on you, I promise you that,” Juan kissed both her cheeks. “I might have to give Mario a hot and nasty treat for bringing you to me!” She grabbed her things and accepted her CD from the audio-tech. “What’s next?”

  “The usual. We got your information. Xenia will meet with her production team and that drill sergeant of a choreographer,” Juan said, rolling his eyes. “She'll go over the tapes."

  “Tapes?”

  “You were on camera,” Juan winked.

  Sydney’s stomach soured. “Oh,” she said, thinking that close inspection of her performance might reveal her sore foot.

  “Anyway, they’ll call you back for another audition. I’m sure of it.” Juan reached in his pocket and pulled out a pink business card with his picture on it. “That’s my number. You can call me tonight after six, and I’ll give you the bizness! Nothing goes down around here that I don’t know about,” he whispered.

  “Thanks so much,” she g
ushed in a single breath as some of the waiting girls looked on with envious eyes.

  She said her goodbyes before rushing off to the bathroom to change.

  Several minutes later, with her hair back in a ponytail, Sydney slipped out. She couldn’t wait to tell Portia and Trish her news.

  From the back of his chauffeured car, Nolen took a slow drag on his cigar. He exhaled a milky white stream of smoke through the window and into the icy rain. The door to the studio finally pushed open and his starlet appeared. She pulled down her skullcap and zipped her jacket. He watched her maneuver with an imperfect bounce down the crowded sidewalk. Impressed, a secretive smile crossed his lips.

  “Sir, is six dozen enough?” Annemarie asked.

  “It’ll do,” he answered as he continued to watch Sydney.

  His butterfly disappeared down the stairs leading to the subway. He knew only two things about her—

  her name was Sydney Allen, and today was her birthday. “Happy birthday, Sydney,” he said before the sleek car peeled away from the curb.

  Sydney dipped her chin into the warmth of her raised, zipped collar, thankful the rain had ceased. For the first time in months, her luck was changing. The smoky lyricists crooning from her MP3 player added a bit rhythm to her stride; she flashed warm smiles at New Yorkers, young and old. Everyone should be smiling today.

  Two train rides and a lot of walking had reduced her to hobbling on her achy foot. She climbed the front steps to her twelve-story apartment building in the South Bronx, grateful the journey had ended. Sydney could envision the smug I-told-you-so that she’d get as soon as Portia heard the news. But when she saw that the numbers on the door keypad weren’t illuminated, her mood soon soured. Any passing vagrant could discover that the building was unlocked and come in to warm himself. Their slumlord had done nothing about the poor security in their building. It was getting old. Resigned to the reality of the situation, she went inside.

  Pulling off her glove with her mouth, she fished in her pocket for the mailbox key. After opening the box, she sighed. Bills that none of them were prepared to pay. Lately tips were low. If Portia didn’t bring in her steady check from washing hair at the beauty salon, they’d be screwed. Trish never had much money to contribute, but she did what she could whenever she sold a painting.

  Shaking her head at the pink cutoff notice for the gas, she headed for the elevator, stuffing the mail in the pocket of her tote. Two weeks ago when she had gotten stuck between floors in the elevator for three hours, the girls made a pact to avoid it at all costs. Sydney, however, could barely take another step.

  The doors closed and the ancient gears on the elevator groaned before lurching upward. Sydney watched the numbers blink one by one. When the elevator doors parted, she darted out into the hall, nearly colliding with Ricky.

  “Ouch!” she grunted.

  “Whoa. What’s your hurry?”

  Sydney looked up into his eyes and smiled. “Me? You were moving fast there yourself, mister.” He towered over her in his worn over, yet beloved leather biker jacket. Ricky’s skin was a deep mocha brown and flawless. He sported well-groomed dreadlocks that hung to the middle of his back under a red, green, and black knitted cap. With a generous mouth, wide nose, and high cheekbones, he was by far the most handsome guy in the building. He told her he was born in Trinidad, but raised in Toronto, which he often spoke of returning to when his band struck a deal. Their shared love of music had led to a very endearing friendship. She knew he was hoping for much more, and she was warming to the idea.

  “Happy birthday, love. You ok?” he asked, smiling down at her.

  “My fault. It’s my fault. I got a tender foot.”

  “Tender foot? Wasn’t your audition today?”

  “Un huh, long story,” she said with a sheepish grin.

  “So?”

  “So what?” she teased, batting her eyes. “Ok, I’ll tell you! I did it! I think they want me!” He lifted her up into the circle of his arms and spun her around to her delight. “I knew it. It was the song, wasn’t it?”

  Sydney laughed. “No, dummy, it was my dancing.”

  “Yeah, right, the dancing,” he said, grinning. “How bad is it?” he asked, looking down at her foot.

  “I just need to get off it for a few. Nothing serious. I made it through the audition, didn’t I?”

  “Sydney?”

  “Ricky, seriously, I’m fine. You headed out?”

  “Yes.” He checked his watch. “Yo, I’ve got something special happening at the club tonight. We can celebrate, so please come.”

  Backing away, she nodded. “We’ll be there.” She turned and headed for her apartment.

  “Yo, Sydney!”

  She looked back over her shoulder.

  “I’m proud of you sweetheart,” he called after her.

  “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  He winked and disappeared inside the elevator.

  Balancing her weight on her one good foot, Sydney slipped the key inside the lock, flung open the door, and then froze in the doorway. Large crystal vases filled with the biggest pink roses she’d ever seen were everywhere.

  Portia stepped out of the kitchen, holding a phone to her ear. She covered the receiver with her hand and grinned. “Where you been, and what the hell is going on, girl? We’ve got the damn Rose Parade in our living room.” Chuckling, Portia stepped back inside the kitchen.

  Sydney closed the door, dumbfounded. Her eyes swept over the six vases of majestic roses all decorated with pink ribbons. The rich aroma of the flowers left her lightheaded.

  Portia reappeared. She wiped her hands down the sides of her jean miniskirt and looked around. “You’ve been holding out on me, girl. What you do to get these flowers?” Sydney unzipped her jacket and removed the scarf from around her neck. She headed toward the closest vase. Her fingers traced the crystal carvings that lined it. Memories of the garden in South Carolina where she’d help her mother plant and care for roses surfaced. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Portia plucked the card off the counter and read it aloud.

  “BLACK BUTTERFLY, HAVE DINNER WITH ME. A CAR WILL ARRIVE AROUND EIGHT. HAPPY

  BIRTHDAY. NA.”

  Now Sydney was confused. “Black Butterfly?” she mumbled.

  Portia moved into her face. “That’s right. Now tell me, what did you do to get a birthday present like this? And who is NA?”

  Snatching the card, Sydney read it over and over. The only thing she could think of was the audition, but she hadn’t met anyone named NA there. She crumpled the card and frowned at the gifts.

  “Girl, it’s some weirdo. Who knows? I sure as hell don’t know any NA.”’

  Portia frowned. “Weirdo? Are you nuts? A weirdo doesn’t send you six dozen long-stemmed pink roses.

  A man with some real taste did this.”

  Shrugging off her jacket, Sydney laughed. “This is New York, Portia. Hell, we don’t even know if it was a man.” She peeled off her turtleneck, revealing the leotard underneath.

  “Ok, forget the flowers. Tell me about the audition. What’s the word?” Portia asked.

  Sydney put her hands to her hips and gave a coy smirk. Portia nodded. The two of them stood there for a long moment just grinning.

  “I think I will get a callback!” Sydney screamed.

  “Hot damn!” Portia squealed, leaping into her arms. “That’s fantastic! I knew it! I told you this one was it. I just knew it.”

  Sydney hugged her tightly, her heart singing with delight. “Girl, I’m kinda in shock, ya know? And . . .

  and . . . and Ricky was right about the song, and my singing. I know I fought him on the idea, but he was right. I owe it to you guys, big time,” she gushed in one breath.

  Letting her go, Portia shook her head, causing her long curls to cascade around her shoulders. She was a natural beauty, with buttery tanned skin and deep-set eyes under naturally long lashes. Portia could turn heads in an orange prison jumper.

&n
bsp; “Nah, girl, if you could see the way you dance, how you make people feel, ya know? This was all you, honey. I’m so proud!”

  Sydney’s joy bubbled over in her laugh. She limped away to the sofa.

  “What’s with your foot?” Portia asked.

  Sydney sat down, but kept her foot raised. Reaching up, she pulled off her boot. “Some fool robbed a store this morning and I got in his way.”

  “What the hell?”

  “He pushed past me. I’m fine.”

  “Damn, girl, don’t tell Trish that shit. All I need is her freaking out again.” Sydney had to agree with her. When it came to protecting Trish, they always agreed. Their friend had been robbed before, and it took them months to get her to ride the subway alone again.

  Sydney’s eyes were drawn back to the vase of roses as she massaged her foot. Whoever this NA person was, he knew her address and her birthday. She couldn’t decide if she should call the police or check with Bellevue.

  Portia plucked a rose and sauntered over to her. She put her hand on her hip and waved the rose in Sydney’s face. “Only you could get a secret admirer on your birthday,” she said, laughing. “Damn, too bad Trish isn’t home. This is the most excitement we’ve had in weeks.”

  Nolen stormed angrily out of the meeting. Annemarie struggled to keep up. “I gave you specific instructions,” he barked. He cut his eyes over to his assistant. “This deal will go through. You get me what I fucking need to convince Hollister to go public!”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded, hurrying along at his side. His car waited for him on the curb. The rain had turned to sleet and frosty wind nipped at his cheeks, but nothing could cool the ambers of fire glowing in his eyes when he looked back once more at the courthouse.

  The driver held open the door to the limo. Once inside, the car eased into traffic. The phone in Annemarie’s hand rang. “For you, sir,” she grabbed his sleeve.