Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt 3)

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 f**king 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…