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.”
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 p
lease 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 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?”
“It is, but—”
“So, because he didn’t say that he loved you on your terms, because he told you he was actually incapable of loving you that way, you decided to leave him. Didn’t you?”
“No…I left him because he was spending the company’s money on unnecessary things and cheating on me.”
“Did you ever think about his feelings?” I asked. “Did you think to simply ask if your leaving would affect him—whether you were on good terms or not?”
“He was…” She was breaking down. “He was cheating on me…”
“Was he? Or did you just want more than what he was willing to give you emotionally, Miss Everly?”
“Please stop…”
“Is it possible that you could be making all of this up?”
“No, never. I would never—”
“Is it possible that you’re a fucking liar?”
“Order! Order!” The judge banged her gavel and the jury gasped.
“Counsel, my chambers. NOW!”
I stared at the fake tears falling down Miss Everly’s face. This case was a wrap.
I walked into the judge’s chambers and shut the door. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Excuse me?”
“You just called your own witness a fucking liar.”
I looked through the window, seeing that the bailiff was handing her a box of Kleenex.
“Are you on a new prescription?” she asked. “Drinking? Smoking something other than Cubans?”
“Because I’m having one bad day in court?”
“Because you’ve had several bad days in court.”
“I don’t recall calling any of my other witnesses fucking liars…”
“You called for an objection during the reading of a verdict.”
“Maybe I didn’t like the sound of it.”
“Maybe, but you never mess up in my court.” She paused. “Ever…Please go get yourself checked out, Mr. Hamilton. I’d really hate to be the judge presiding over your very first loss.”
She motioned for me to follow her out of her chambers. She took a seat in her chair and announced that the current trial was being postponed due to a rare rule brought up by the defense, and that we would reconvene two weeks from now.
Relieved, I closed my briefcase and ignored a red-faced Miss Everly.
“Mr. Bach,” she said, glaring at me, “I would really like for us to win this case, so could you please—”
“It’s already taken care of,” he said, cutting her off. “No worries.” He gave her a reassuring smile and asked Mr. Greenwood to walk her out to her car. Then he turned and looked at me.
“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew…” He sighed. “I think you need some time off. I’ll tak
e over this case, alright? And Mr. Greenwood and I will be in contact with any of your clients who have cases within the next few weeks.”
“You’re overreacting,” I said. “It’s one fucking case.”
“One fucking case that you’re on the verge of losing.”
“I never lose.”
“I know.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Go home, Andrew. You’ve actually never taken a vacation anyway. Maybe it’s what you need right now.”
“No.” I grabbed my briefcase. “I’ll see you at the Reber consultation tomorrow morning.”
He called after me, but I ignored him. I sped back to GBH, prepared to immerse myself in more work. I was avoiding my condo as much as possible lately; I could hardly stand to be there.
Unopened condoms lined my wet bar—a reminder of how long it’d been since I had pussy, empty liquor bottles lined all of my window sills, and my Cuban cigar selection was long gone.
“Are you okay, Mr. Hamilton?” the main secretary asked as I walked through the firm’s doors.
I ignored her. Too many people were asking me that question lately and I was tired of hearing it.
I shut myself inside my office and pulled my phone’s chord out of the wall. I didn’t need any distractions.
For the rest of the morning, I read over my files in utter silence—not even answering emails from my own clients.
“Jessica!” I called her once the clock struck noon. “Jessica!”
“Yes, Mr. Hamilton?” She walked in right away.
“Is there any reason why you suddenly decided to stop organizing my case files by date?” I slid a folder across the desk. “Any reason why you’ve decided to stop doing your goddamn job?”
“You think I actually have time to organize all your case files by date? Do you know how long that takes?” She raised her eyebrow. “That was Miss Everhart’s idea. I told her it was a waste of time, but I guess not. If I have some free hours in between the Doherty case next week I’ll try to do that.”
“Thank you.” I ignored the fact that my heart skipped a beat when she said Miss Everhart. “You can get out of my office now.”
I pulled the papers from the file and began reorganizing them. As I clipped all of the witness testimonies together, Jessica cleared her throat.
Reasonable Doubt (1-3) Page 17