“Numbers twenty-seven and twenty-nine,” a male voice announced over the music still playing through the speakers, “thank you.”
Two dancers, a man and a girl, slowed to a stop while everyone around them kept going. They trudged to the left side of the stage, and as the girl came down the steps onto the floor, tears flowed down her crumbling face. Her mother hurried down the aisle to console her and pull her away.
I had to look elsewhere, not wanting the girl to feel like she was on display at the moment her dream was being crushed. I picked an empty row off the center aisle, just in front of a balcony column so I had an unobstructed view, and quietly got settled to watch.
More numbers were called out, more dancers dismissed, until the herd was thinned to five. It had been crowded with so many people at first, but now I stared at the stage and saw how impressive it was. A series of golden lights arched over it, and although the curtain was up, a few feet of the rich fabric were still visible at the top.
The theatre was old and ornate, and very beautiful, but looking around made my anxiety worse. If the judges weren’t frightening enough, surely this stage would be. I swallowed the hard knot in my throat. If Tara made it to the solo round, I wouldn’t allow myself to be intimidated.
The music faded out, and the five dancers stopped, all turning their focus to the judge they shared the stage with.
“We’re going to ask you to perform a second time,” she said, her voice raised so they could hear her. “The music will begin in thirty seconds.” Then she turned around, gave a thumbs-up signal to the announcer in the lighting booth, and exited the stage.
While they waited for the music to start back up, the dancers eyed each other, sizing up the competition. Like runners waiting to get to the line and set, they shook out their muscles, staying loose.
This round only lasted a minute. For the dancers on stage, maybe it felt longer, but whoever was judging in the booth didn’t need more time. The song cut off abruptly and left the group on stage dancing in silence for a moment.
“Number fourteen, please go stage right to get your blue pass. The rest of you, thank you for coming.”
Fuck me. Out of thirty dancers, they’d only taken one to move on to the interview round. One.
On the second round, which was ballroom, they took two. Both women, whose partners weren’t strong enough, and I couldn’t help but wonder how that was going to affect their dynamic in the future.
The third round was hip hop, and I cringed watching one guy who had no business auditioning. Had he had too much to drink last night and his friends convinced him to come? He looked like a guy at a wedding reception with hubris about his dance skills—the one who usually ended up getting injured while trying a stupid stunt he’d never done before.
They weeded him out in less than twenty seconds.
I couldn’t sit still in my seat as the performers were whittled down. Tara’s group was up next, and I hadn’t prepared myself for any other outcome than the one we wanted. What if she was cut? All her hard work, and no one would see it. My stomach turned sour.
My pulse went into double-time as the hip hop round concluded and the next group took the stage. There was jostling as the dancers rushed to secure a spot in the front, wanting to make sure they were seen.
It was easy to find her, even though she was near the back—Tara was taller than almost everyone else, and her blood red lips stood out against the crowd of black leotards and men in leggings with white shirts. I was obviously biased, but all the rest of them looked generic. Easily replaceable.
All except her.
The female judge on the stage gave the same announcement I’d heard twice before, reminding them not to travel too much and be aware of the space around them to avoid collisions. But she added something new at the end.
“Ladies who will be dancing en pointe, please move to the right side of the stage.”
The shuffle allowed Tara to move closer to the front, and although I believed it didn’t matter, I was glad she was being aggressive.
“You’ll get a tone, and then the music will start,” the woman announced. “Everyone set?” Heads nodded, a few dancers responded with an eager yes. “Good luck,” she added, and signaled her thumbs-up.
The pleasant tone rang out at the start of the song, but it was like a gunshot to me. I stopped breathing. The song was a classical piece. Clair De Lune? I’d performed it once years ago, and the melody was familiar.
Tara moved with grace, and even though I was halfway back in the theatre, I could see the smile in her eyes. She fluttered, bounded in place, and lifted her leg to the rafters as if none of it required any effort. Where the other dancers around her had determined, sometimes pained looks, Tara had joy.
The announcer’s voice blared from the speakers. “Numbers ninety-four and one-sixteen, thank you.”
Fuck, what was her number? One hundred twelve . . . or one hundred twenty-two? It was on the paperwork she’d given me, but I wasn’t about to stop watching and hunt for the paper in her bag.
Three more numbers were called out. As one of the dancers on the front line left, Tara seamlessly moved in to fill the spot, and I smiled. Her badge was pinned to her hip, and I could read it as she posed, the full weight of her body resting on her pointed toe.
The best dancer on the stage was number one hundred twenty-two, and she was currently schooling the rest of the kids.
She balanced perfectly while the girl beside her in a similar pose wobbled and fought to keep her balance. Tara’s arms swayed beautifully in time to the music, gliding like water. She moved like wind through a tall, grassy field. The way she danced was arresting.
More numbers were called out, and my jaw ached from how hard I had it tensed. Please don’t call her number. Do not say number one-twenty-two. It was the longest two minutes of my life and . . . was it possible to develop an ulcer that quickly?