Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt 3)

“It’s right up the street.” The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, confused.

“Please? I’m already late.”

He shrugged and pulled off as I tried to steady my breathing.

Not wanting to waste any time, I pulled my black tutu out of my bag and pulled it over my tights. I took out my makeup and applied it the best I could, and as we approached the curb, I tossed a ten dollar bill at the driver and jumped out of the car.

Rushing into the building, I headed straight for the theater, relieved that one of the directors was still standing outside the doors.

“Yes?” She looked me up and down as I approached. “May I help you with something?”

“I’m here for the auditions.”

“For the nine o’clock auditions?” She looked at her watch. “It’s nine fifteen.”

“I’m sorry…I called an hour ago and said—”

“Your first cab broke down? That was you?”

I nodded.

She studied me for a few more seconds—pursing her lips. Then she opened the door. “You can change into your whites in the dressing room. Hurry up.”

The door shut behind me before I could ask what she meant by “[my] whites,” but as my eyes scanned the stage, I realized that every dancer was dressed in a white leotard and matching tutu.

Shit…

My cheeks heated as I looked over my outfit. I didn’t have my whites in my bag. They were at home.

Nearing the stage, I set my bag in a chair and tried to ignore that dread that was building inside my chest. I just needed to focus on giving it my all during this routine. That was it.

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—”