Audition (North Security 4)

I add a bit of extra stretch into my third position, and then my fourth. My shoulders are tight knots that won’t release. I can feel others knots in my hamstrings. My body is a mass of scar tissue and tension.

I’m not sleeping next to him every night, feeling the security of his even breath next to me. I’m sleeping alone, but his scent is everywhere. My nose should be used to it by now. I shouldn’t be drowning in desire every time I suck in a breath.

Folding down the sheets doesn’t do anything to stop it.

Kicking off the blankets only forces me to pull them back up.

And all night, every night, I can feel him sitting out there.

Guarding. Watching. And for what? Nothing has happened since he pushed his way back into my life and set up camp. Not so much as a threatening sticky note.

Landon claps his hands, and I wrench my thoughts away from that damned bed and move into position at the center of the floor.

Rehearsal should take my mind off him. It doesn’t.

Every single morning, I come here hoping to lose myself in the steps and turns and bends. And every single morning, I spend all of practice fighting with my own brain. It wants to follow Josh out to where he sits in the hallway. It wants to study his shadow through the frosted glass of the studio door.

It wants, it wants, it wants.

It would help if I actually liked what I’m practicing. We do a few run throughs of Olivia Twist each morning to stay fresh for our performances at night, but the challenging work is on the new piece. Next season we’ll be debuting a show called Duckling, a modern, abstract retelling of the Ugly Duckling.

Landon cast me in the lead role. Even in a small troupe such as this, it isn’t something I should take for granted. There are a few reasons why I’m uncomfortable…

1) Landon keeps interrupting to change the choreography, making it more and more elaborate, more and more unnatural for the human body. Dance should expand what we’re capable of, not contort us to prove we can.

2) He also keeps standing in for Marlena, who’s playing the mother duck, supposedly to show us the steps correctly, which means I’ve had his hands all over my body, in places a mama duck’s hand would never need to be.

3) The dark-toned duckling who turns into a beautiful white swan has unfortunate racial overtones when played by a person, especially in light of the costuming he plans. He’s even asked for my makeup to be darker in the opening, lighter in the reveal.

The music starts, leaping into the first movement of the piece, and I jump in exactly on point, making my arms flutter in dramatic, duck-like fashion that feels uncomfortable and looks even worse. I will not let the struggle show on my face.

Marlena moves by in a blur, her worried eyes the only feature that stands out.

I lengthen my neck. I buckle down. And I whirl straight into Landon, who’s planted himself in the center of the practice floor, hands on his slender hips.

He grabs my elbow at the same time his shout to stop the music registers. It’s a cymbal crash to the side of my head, loud and reverberating. His fingers squeeze the flesh of my arm and on instinct I shake him off. “Landon, what the—”

He mutters low and close to my ear. “It looks ridiculous.”

Shock coats me in a thick layer of embarrassment. What the hell is he thinking, grabbing me like this? They’re his steps, his beats. “I’m sorry. I’ll try it again.”

“Don’t apologize,” Marlena says, her voice sharp. “You haven’t done anything wrong. That’s how it’s written in the notes.”

His face looks redder than I’ve seen it, and it occurs to me that he’s humiliated by his own choreography. “You’re not doing it the way I want. We’ve been working on this for weeks and you’re acting like a first-year student in a state college.”

The blows land one after the other. I want to put a hand over my gut to protect myself. It’s too late. The pain is already there, blooming through my stomach. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that he went to Tisch, even

if he didn’t graduate. I don’t have a single college credit to my name. I went directly to work an acrobatic show in Vegas, where I was recruited by Cirque du Monde. It’s not a bad pedigree, as dancing goes. There are plenty of dancers who would want that opportunity, but it’s not the same as the professors and the degrees.

This is a portion of the dance I’ve been meaning to talk to Landon about. A simple adjustment to the steps could make them flow so much better. Not just for me, for everybody. My breath comes fast and harsh. The words in my mind are a jumble.

“Listen.” I find myself leaning in, trying to put on a smile, like Landon and I are on the same team. We should be on the same team, damn it. “I’ve been thinking about that eighth beat. There’s this transition that keeps popping into my head, and I thought maybe it would look great.” I show the new transition to illustrate my words. It gets rid of this awkward, unintentional jostle we have to do, trying to make a theoretical idea into something that real bodies do. It’s athletic and graceful, but also real.

Landon cocks his head to the side, a pretend expression of exasperation on his face, though it doesn’t hide his meanness. “Do you have a question about how it’s supposed to look, Bethany? All you had to do was ask.”

My cheeks heat. He’s making it sound like I don’t understand the steps. I could do them in my sleep. That’s not the issue. “No… I’m sorry. Maybe I’m overstepping.”

“Overstepping?” He gives a short, hard laugh. “You are the dancer, right? I’m the choreographer. How about you focus on your feet.”