The sidewalks were persistently packed with people rushing to get somewhere, the streets were seas of taxis, and the cacophony of sounds—the shouting from the street vendors, the rumbling of the subway below, and the endless chatter between the executives and casual-ites all blended into an almost pleasing melody.
Not that I had much time to listen to it, anyway.
The second I arrived in New York last week, I’d checked into a cheap hotel and rushed to register for the NYCB audition.
Every day for the past week, I jumped out of bed at four in the morning and headed to Lincoln Center to learn the required audition piece—the hardest choreography I’d encountered in my life.
It was faster, choppier, and the instructors refused to show it more than twice a day. There was no conversation outside of tempo counts, no questions were allowed either. On top of that, the company’s pianist only elected to play the accompanying music at full speed, never slowing down to make the learning process easier.
There were hundreds of girls vying for a place in the company, and from what I gathered from conversations here or there, most of them were already professionals.
I didn’t let that deter me, though.
When the grueling practices came to an end, I took that chance to find a new place in the city to dance on my own: A rooftop in view of Times Square, an abandoned historical store on the Upper East Side, or in front of bookstore windows in the West End.
Despite my immediate love for this city, it wasn’t enough to distract me from my heartbreak. Nor was it enough to distract me from the fact that today, official audition day, I was late.
Sweating, I jumped off the subway and ran down Sixty Sixth Street—paying no mind to my burning lungs.
Keep going…Keep going…
A man to my left stepped out of a cab and I immediately jumped in.
“Lincoln Center, please!” I shouted.
“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—”
“Late.” He cut me off. “You’re also the only performer who isn’t wearing the mandatory white.”
“Yes, well…” I stammered. “That’s why I want to speak with you.”
“Oh?”
“I want to know if you would allow me to go home and change.”
“And why would I allow that, Miss Everhart?”
“So I can audition with the group this afternoon and be judged fairly. I just think that I’ve already—”
“Stop.” He pressed a pen against my lips. “Ladies, may I please have your attention?”
An immediate silence fell over the theater.
“I want you all to meet Aubrey Everhart.” He smiled. “She’s just informed me that due to the fact that she was late and decided to wear improper attire to her audition today, that there’s a chance she’ll be judged unfairly.”
The ballerina across from me folded her arms.
“Now,” he said. “Since the world of ballet is fair and has always been about catering to the needs of the unprepared, is there anyone who would have a problem if I allowed Miss Everhart to go home, change, and return for the auditions at six?”
Every dancer on stage raised her hand into the air.
“I thought so.” His tone was cold. “If you think a wrongly colored tutu is going to affect how well you perform, you should leave right now.”
I swallowed, wishing I could disappear.
“You can dance in the first group.” He shook his head at me and walked away.
Disregarding the soft snickering from the other girls, I returned to my former spot on stage and stretched once more. I tried to block out everything that had gone wrong this morning and pretended that I was in Durham again—dancing for one of the best directors in the world.
“Miss Everhart?” A woman said my name, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to take your place at center stage with everyone else, or do you need more time to find it?”
I smiled at the judge’s table and stepped into the line.
The woman signaled to the pianist and he played the B-flat scale before starting the piece. As his fingers forced the notes, my arms went high above my head and I slowly spun around on my toes—wincing as my right pointe slipper cracked.
I ignored the pain and continued the routine. Terribly.
Each time I attempted a jump, I landed off balance and slipped an eighth of a count behind everyone else. My turns were awkward—frantically paced, and my pointe work was so choppy that I bumped into the girl next to me.
Embarrassed, I murmured sorry and spun around, but I lost my balance and fell onto the stage. Headfirst.
I ignored the loud outburst of laughter from the dancers in the audience and stood up, attempting to fall back into the routine.
“Stop!” Mr. Ashcroft bellowed from the side of the stage, making the notes come to an end.
He walked in front of our line and stepped directly in front of me.
“I just looked through your file, Miss Everhart.” He looked unimpressed. “You recently studied under Mr. Petrova?”
I nodded.
“Use your words, please.”
“Yes…” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I did.”
“And he wrote an actual recommendation letter on your behalf?”
“Yes sir.”
He looked at me in utter disbelief. Shock. “You expect me to believe that when you dance so stiffly? When you’re a count behind each and every step?”
“Yes…” My voice was a whisper.
“Well…At least you can always say that you studied under one of the greatest choreographers of all time. You can leave my theater now.”
My heart sank. “What?”
“I don’t think you’re a good fit for our company. We’ll email you this evening with a link to purchase discounted tickets for the season’s shows.”
A tear rolled down my face, and as if he could see that he’d just broken my heart, he patted my shoulder.
“I can tell that you’ve had training,” he said. “Very good training. And I can see that you have potential, but we’re not interested in potential here. For the rest of you, congratulations! You’ve earned yourselves a spot in the next round of auditions. Now, please clear the stage so the next group of dancers may perform.”
A loud applause arose from the hopefuls in the audience, and I felt as if I was watching my life fall apart in front of me. Hurt, I followed the dancers to the side steps—unsure of what to do next.
Grabbing my bag, I avoided the pathetic glances of the hopefuls and shook my head.
“That just goes to show you,” Mr. Ashcroft said to the other panelists, laughing, “even Petrova picks duds sometimes.”
I turned around.
Enraged, I marched up the stage’s steps and took a seat on the white line. I untied my right slipper and prepared another one—bending it forward and backward until it felt right.
“You can change your shoes in the restroom, Miss Everhart.” Mr. Ashcroft chided. “The stage is for actual performers. Or did Petrova not teach you that?”
“I need another chance,” I said. “Just because I didn’t nail the Balanchine piece that doesn’t make me a bad dancer.”
“Of course it doesn’t, honey.” He mocked me. “It makes you a failed dancer, who is currently using my stage and sucking up precious audition time for those who might actually make the cut in my company.”
I walked over to the pianist. “Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake. Act two, scene fourteen. Do you know that piece?”
“Umm…” He looked confused.
“Do you know it or not?”
“Yes, but—” He pointed to another judge who was now standing and crossing her arms.
“Could you please play it?” I pleaded with my eyes. “It’s only three minutes long.”
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.
