by Sarah Rubin
“I live in a town called Monroe in upstate New York, which is only an hour away, but my older sister lives in the city, so I can stay with her when I audition. Where are you from?”
“South Carolina.”
“Wow, that’s miles! And you came all by yourself? You’re so brave. Hey, wait here, I’ll be right back,” she says, and disappears into the crowd.
The peanut butter and jelly sandwich gurgles in my stomach. I look around quickly before pulling my leotard out of my bag, but I can’t see the Priss anywhere.
As I put on my leotard, I can’t help thinking about those perfect ballet slippers and how much I wish I could buy them. I am imagining myself wearing them and wiping the smirk off the Priss’s face when Andrea brings over two girls she wants me to meet. They are Julia and Chelsea, and they’re from upstate New York, too.
I feel shy in my homemade costume. These girls have what Gran would call natural beauty. Even in their plain audition clothes, they look like royalty. Next to them all I have are freckles. But Andrea says my outfit looks amazing, and Julia makes me spin around. I blush, and laugh. It’s a strange feeling, light and easy. No one here knows me. They don’t know I live down the road past where the sidewalk stops, or that my mama and my gran work cleaning the hospital. All they know is that I want to be a dancer, just like them. Mama was wrong about New York City; it isn’t mean at all.
“I can’t believe you actually came.” The sound of her voice cuts me raw.
When I stop spinning, I see the Priss staring at me. I open my mouth, but Andrea beats me to it.
“What’s it to you, nosebleed?” she says. “Why shouldn’t she be here? It’s an open audition.”
The other girls fold their arms and raise their eyebrows. Suddenly I’m the one with a gang, and Ann-Lee looks very alone without Sally or Beth to stand behind her, telling her she’s the best.
I look at the Priss. If I was in her spot, I’d stand my ground. I never back down; that’s not my style. Not her, though. She doesn’t have the guts. She opens her mouth, shuts it, and walks away without making a sound.
“Did you see her shoes?” whispers Andrea. “Brand-new.”
The other girls nod like new shoes are bad news.
“What’s wrong with new shoes?” I ask.
“Only total actors wear brand-new shoes to an audition. It’s the first thing they look for.”
I think Andrea must have been to a lot of auditions. She seems to know everything. I look down at my feet and the Priss’s hand-me-down shoes, and for the first time they don’t look so bad at all.
There is a sharp knock on the changing-room door. A tall, thin woman in a black leotard steps into the room. Her arms are full of papers.
“Good morning, ladies,” she says. “Please fill out these forms. When you’re done, return them to me. I will give you your number, and you can line up outside the audition room.”
Andrea scrambles to the front of the crowd and grabs forms for both of us. She hands me mine, and a pen.
“Always be prepared,” she says, and flops down on the floor to fill her paper in.
I look at the form. NAME. AGE. ADDRESS. All of the questions are simple until the last one. It says PREVIOUS TRAINING. I look around the room. The rest of the girls are all busy scribbling their own answers. I can see the Priss in the corner. Her head’s bent over her piece of paper, but I bet she’s smirking at me. Even Andrea is too busy filling in all the places she’s had lessons to notice that my page is blank.
I take a deep breath. Then I write in big, bold letters: NONE. And I march my paper up to the woman in the leotard without looking back. She gives me a number to pin to my leotard, and writes it down on my form. I am number 53. It isn’t really a lucky number, but it’s not unlucky, either.
I take my number and pin it on. Andrea stands next to me.
“Is my number straight?” Andrea asks me with her hands on her hips. The square of paper across her back reads 18. I nod.
“Good,” she says, and turns me around. “Yours is, too.”
She takes my arm again and we stand outside the wooden doors, waiting. The hall behind us fills up quickly. Everyone shuffles around, nervously waiting for the audition to begin. Suddenly a path opens up through the crowd and I see the woman in the black leotard glide to the front of the group. She smiles at us all and slowly opens the doors to the audition room.
We all stand still, very still, until a voice raps out from inside the room.
“Whenever you’re ready, ladies.”
My heart leaps, spinning in midair. The crowd pushes forward. It’s time to start.
At first, I think there are hundreds of girls in the room. Everywhere I look is a sea of pink legs and bare arms. Then I see that the walls are lined with mirrors and ballet barres. It takes me a long time to find my reflection since we’re all dressed in the same pink. But there I am, mug-handle ears and all. I almost look pretty in my princess dress.
We all shuffle forward, stepping slowly and dragging our feet in time to each other’s nerves. I can feel it now. Everyone is so nervous it’s making my bones jangle. I’m glad Mama and Gran aren’t waiting for me, right outside the door, so close I could hear them breathing.
There is a large piano and nothing else in the room. Two men are hunched over the keys, talking in low voices. They don’t look up, but I can tell they’re talking about us. Picking out the good ones.
Andrea grabs my arm and pulls me close.
“That’s Mr. Balanchine,” she whispers, her voice high and excited. “He started the school. He’s amazing.”
Suddenly I feel very nervous. The owner of the whole school is going to be watching us. He looks very serious sitting at the piano with his clipboard, ready to write down notes about how well we do. Or how badly.
“You OK?” Andrea asks.
I nod and swallow hard.
“You’ll do great,” she says, and gives my hand a squeeze. My palm is sweaty, but I’m too busy watching the men at the piano to care.
The man stands up and claps his hands.
“OK, ladies,” he says loudly. “Find a spot on the barre, and we’ll begin.”
I know from watching classes at Miss Vicky’s that you always start on the long bar bolted to the wall. I move to the edge of the room, but Andrea stops me.
“Not there. In the middle. That way you can see everyone else.”
Andrea takes her place at the very center of the barre, and I stand behind her. By looking in the mirror I can see the Priss in her new shoes. She is standing tall with her toes pointing out. So are a lot of the other girls. I wiggle my feet out and hold the barre for balance.
“All right, ladies. We’ll start with pliés in first position: two demi-pliés, one grand plié. Relevé. Balance. Plié. Tendu to second position. The same in second, and repeat on the other side. Ready? Prepare two measures, and begin.”
The words spill out of his mouth faster than my ears can catch them. Everyone else is nodding, shimmying themselves up to the bar. I fumble forward, copying them, my heart racing. I thought he would show us the moves, not just spit them out like old chaw. What kind of dance comes from the mouth? I dance from my soul.
The man nods his head at the piano player, and music fills the room. Beautiful, floating music. I relax. I feel my heart swell until I have to stand up straight to make room. I want to leap and sway, but no one else is moving so I stay put. Then, all at once, the entire room bends its knees. And so do I. I can see Andrea in the mirror, and it’s easy to move when she moves.
But I only look to make sure. I don’t need to look at all. The music is telling me what to do, filling me up and carrying me along. Down and up, and down and up, with my arm floating featherlight at my side. Deep down and up on my toes. A few girls wobble, because they are just standing on their toes. They aren’t reaching for the sky like me. Their legs aren’t growing roots. I could stay up here forever.
The second side is easier because this time I know w
hat to do. Miss Priss Ann-Lee is in front of me now, and when we go up on our toes she doesn’t wobble at all. In the mirror her face looks different, happy, like she understands the music. But that’s not possible. The Priss wouldn’t understand music even if it was singing just for her.
We do more exercises at the barre, and each one gets a little easier. The racing rhythm of the man’s words starts to take a shape and make sense. When we are done at the barre, we break up into groups. Andrea pulls me into the third group so we can watch the others first.
“Two échappés. Four changements. Three glissades right. Plié. Hold for three. Répété, other side.”
The first group steps to the middle of the floor and the music starts, a loud up-and-down beat. I know before they even start to move that it will be jumps. I am right. They spring from their knees with pointed feet and land soft like cats. Behind them, the rest of us shuffle back and forth, memorizing each move with our feet. By the time it is my turn I can touch the sky and glide over the ground like it is ice.
As I soar I smile the only smile in the whole room because I am not just jumping up and down. I’m not just leaping gracefully. I am dancing with every inch of my body, from my toes up to my head and back down to my heart. Not even gravity can hold me down. The man looks at me and scowls. Maybe ballerinas aren’t supposed to smile, but when I stop he winks, and my smile creeps back up bigger than ever.
“We’ll do pirouettes now. First group. Fifth position. Tendu front to fourth. Pirouette en dehors, end in fourth, and tendu close. Tendu to switch sides. Hold. Répété.”
A rich waltz fills the room, and I sway as I watch the others. They lunge forward gently and then whoosh up with the music, spinning on one foot. Almost all of the girls wobble, because they don’t let the music carry them. They’re trying to dance with their brains.
Only one girl is really dancing up there. Her arms floating on the song and her legs spinning without a single doubt, as if they’d been born to dance. I almost swallow my tongue and spit out my toes when she turns around. It is Ann-Lee Ryder doing those perfect pirouettes. I can’t believe it. If I had time, I would wonder if she’d made a pact with the devil, but I don’t have time.
The music starts again and I wait for the swell that will lift me into my spin. Then I am up and twirling. Pink figures fly past me as I spin. They swirl into thick stripes, twisting and turning and making my eyes cross. I am going too fast, almost around the world, and when I put my foot down, the room is still spinning.
I cannot hear the music above the jangling colors and when I try to do the second spin my foot gets caught behind my knee. I stumble. I’m no longer graceful. I am all chicken legs and elbows, with too-big ears and laughing-Miss-Priss’s-hand-me-down shoes.
The music stops. My face flushes red, and I bite my lip. How could I mess this up? I was born dancing. I can spin around the moon. So what was the problem with this little room?
“You forgot to spot,” says Andrea as we walk back to the wall. “I did that at my first audition, too. Don’t worry. You’ll do better next time.”
I try to smile, but I can’t. I’m too busy not crying.
The man at the front of the room claps his hands again. “All right, ladies, we will take a short break now. The names of the girls who have made the second round will be posted on the door when we’ve made our decision. Thank you.”
The whole room pushes together through the doors, and I lose Andrea in the crowd, but I don’t care. My heart is pounding and I’m holding back tears. Outside, everyone is waiting for them to post the results, whispering to each other in small clusters. The air is hot and sticky and makes my head spin like I’m losing control all over again. I lean heavily against the wall, my shoulders pressed against the cold marble.
I stay there until the woman in the black leotard appears, holding in her hand a single sheet of paper. A shiver runs through the room as she pins it to the door, and then, in a flash, everyone pushes forward, searching for their name.
Everyone except me.
I wait until almost all the other girls have looked at the list pinned to the door before I can go near it. My legs feel like they’ve turned to stone. But I force them up and down and over. I’ve come all the way to New York City, and I’m not going to stop here. There are a few other girls like me, waiting. I can tell they haven’t done well. Their faces look thin and long, like used-up water rushing down a drain.
The names are written in small, neat letters. I can feel my heart slow beat to beat as I look for mine. But it isn’t there.
I look again, running my finger up and down the list. I see Andrea’s name, and the horrible words Ann-Lee Ryder, but Casey Quinn just isn’t there. The floor seems to open up beneath my feet, and I feel everything spinning away from me.
I grind my toes into the floor, pushing down until everything spins back into place. It’s not fair. I was born to dance. I won’t let anyone stop me, and I refuse to let them get me down. A tear splashes on the toe of my shoe. I rip it off.
Anger, sharp and hot like acid, eats up my insides, and I walk back to the changing room. How could they not pick me? I am meant to be here. I know I am. And no one can tell me different.
I sit by myself on a bench in the back of the changing room and try not to cry. If I cried, it would be letting them win, saying I didn’t get in. So I won’t cry. I’m still in New York. I’ve still got my feet. There’s still a chance.
Other girls start to file into the changing room. Some of them have long faces and walk slowly, and I know they’re the ones who didn’t get called back. Like me. They get changed quickly and leave without a word. The other girls are all smiles and skipping. They run around the changing room, instantly friends with all the other chosen ones, laughing with each other as they get ready for the next audition round.
I hunch my shoulders and stare at the floor. They don’t even notice me. They’re too happy for themselves, and too nervous about the next part of the audition to care about a non-ballerina like me. Tears start to leak out of my eyes. I pinch my leg savagely to stop them, but it doesn’t help. I can hear footsteps, and I know it’s the Priss coming to gloat. Swaying and swaggering in her brand-new slippers. I grit my teeth like a shield around my heart.
“Did you really think you’d get in?” Priss stands over me like a vulture. I glare at her because I’m no set of dried-out bones. Not now, not ever. And I won’t have her picking at me.
“You are so stuck-up,” she goes on. “You walk around Warren like you’re the only one who can dance. Like you’re already too good for Vicky’s Ballet Studio,” she says. Her hands are on her hips.
My mouth drops open. Ann-Lee Ryder calling me stuck-up? It’s almost funny, but I don’t laugh. She leans in even closer to me.
“You think you’re special just because you’re poor,” she says. “Like that means you deserve to get in more than I do. Just because your father fought in the war and mine didn’t.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. I’m confused.
“You’ve thought you were better than me ever since I came to Warren. But you’re not. You don’t know anything about what it means to be a ballerina. I’ve been taking lessons since I was four. I practice every day.”
“I practice, too,” I say.
The Priss tears off her brand-new shoes. “Show me your feet,” she says.
“What?”
“Look at my feet,” she demands.
I don’t want to do what she says, but I can’t help it. She shoves her foot onto the bench next to me. They are disgusting. Her toenails are black and bruised. Her toes are covered with blisters and scabs. And her feet are horribly bent.
“I practice every day until my feet bleed. I want to be the best. I work really hard. I work until it hurts, and you” — her voice cracks — “and you just show up, no work at all. And you think I’m the one who should go home.” Her eyes glisten like she’s going to cry. She takes a deep breath to keep the tears in. “
You think I should go home and you should stay,” she says. “How can you even start to think that that’s right?”
I stare down at the floor. My own feet stare back at me. They are long and straight with clean, healthy toenails. Not one bruise or blister in sight. I try to say something, but the words get choked back. My eyes are hot with uncried tears. Why is she saying this to me? I didn’t get in. Why can’t she be happy with that?
“Just leave me alone.” I force the words past the lump in my throat.
My skin feels sticky and hot from her tongue-lashing. She looks at me like my bones aren’t even worth picking at anymore. Then she shrugs and walks away.
I swallow hard at the lump in my throat, trying to force it down. I didn’t get in. I got all the way to New York City, all the way from Warren, and now I have to go back. I get busy with my bag, pulling on my high-tops and blue-striped traveling dress right over the top of everything else. The tights and leotard itch, but I can’t take them off. Not just yet.
Andrea springs into the seat next to me. Her face is red and excited.
“Did you see that? I actually made the next round!” I try to smile because Gran would say I should be gracious, but Andrea can see I’m sad. Her smile slips south. “Don’t worry about it, Casey. I didn’t make my first audition, either. You’ll get it next time.”
The words next time burn like iodine on a skinned knee. I don’t think I’ll get a next time. This was my chance. And I blew it. I’ll never get to see Times Square at night, and I’ll never see my name in lights.
The door to the changing room swings open and the long, thin woman from the audition steps inside. Everyone turns to look at her.
“Which one of you girls is number 53?”
My heart leaps up. Maybe she’s come to say there’s been a mistake. Maybe I’m already in and I don’t need to go to the next audition. Maybe that was why I wasn’t on the list. I swallow hard and stuff my hope back into my sneakers where it belongs.