She blinked. “That’s pretty much the opposite of everything I was ever taught about auditions.”
He nodded. “I understand. To turn up unprepared is an insult to the people auditioning you. I’ve heard it all.”
“But you still want me to do it?” She licked her lips and found them parched. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Of course you can.”
“I don’t want to mess up.” The words popped out of their own accord and she cringed. Now was not the time to be vulnerable.
“Can you trust me?” he asked.
She looked up at him, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek. He wanted her to wing it. Was he crazy?
In any other aspect of her life, she would have done it. In fact, when it came to trips, gift buying, and going out on the town, she was totally Team Wing It. But with ballet? Hell no. There was nothing spontaneous about her chosen art form. She liked the discipline, enjoyed the way it gave her routine and progression. Winging it? No way. Even her warm-ups were heavily curated.
“I want to trust you, Wes. I do.” For once in her life, she wanted to be that articulate person who could carefully frame an argument. But words—like her dancing skills—continued to fail her. “You’re asking me to do something that I don’t have control over.”
“I know, but Out of Bounds is all about doing the old things in a new way. It’s about breaking preconceived notions of what ballet and dance are.” He speared her with a look. “And based on what you showed me…I can’t hire you.”
The rejection stung like a whip slashing her skin. “I understand.”
“But I want to hire you. What I saw that day in your studio was on another plane.” He touched her shoulder, his thumb skimming over the skin bared by the thin straps of her leotard. “I know you’re an incredible dancer. But I don’t want this traditional, overworked crap. Give me something passionate, get angry or sad or melancholy. Just give me something. If I want a ballet zombie, I know where to find them, but I need more than that.”
He was asking her to be vulnerable in a way she hadn’t in years. In a way she never allowed herself. Because structured choreography was something she could hide behind. It was a mask, a role. A barrier between her and the people judging her work that allowed her to say, They’re not rejecting me, even if they were. But Wes wanted her raw and unfiltered. Stripped bare.
She swallowed past the boulder in her throat. “Fine. I’ll wing it.”
Chapter 7
“The guy drops so many panties he should invest in Victoria’s Secret shares…eventually those panties won’t be yours.”
—EllieTwoStep
Wes retraced his steps back across the stage, the sound of his dress shoes echoing in the quiet theater. The second Sadie had slipped him a note that said “thumbs down,” he knew he’d have to intervene. Remi was the star of their show; he would bet everything he had on that. But what he’d seen a few minutes earlier…
It was clear she’d been trained by people like his parents. People who thought perfection was the standard to aim for. Their dancers could never be too disciplined, too practiced, or too well trained. They wanted obedience, dedication.
He wanted passion that would ignite a room.
And Remi hadn’t given him that. The performance wasn’t bad by any stretch, because technically he couldn’t fault her. But it was boring. He’d caught Sadie looking down at her notes from the previous audition, and that was not what he wanted.
On his way back to his chair, he stopped by the sound booth and handed over his phone with a song ready to play. The second Wes’s ass hit the chair next to Sadie, the music started.
He could see the fear in Remi’s large eyes, even from this distance. She missed the first few beats of the music and Sadie shot him a what the hell is going on? look.
“Give her a chance,” he said.
Remi stood in the middle of the stage as if she’d turned to stone while the music played on. Beat after beat floated past her. Wes’s chest clenched as he willed her to show them some of the magic he’d seen that day in the studio. But he got nothing.
Just as he was about to call down to the sound tech to shut the music off, her hand started to move by her thigh. It was as though she wanted to conduct the music. Or maybe learn it. The movement traveled up her arm and down through her torso, spreading through her body like life itself.
Then she bent down and untied her pointe shoes, carefully nudging them to the edge of the stage and out of her way.
Yes.
Her body changed then, losing the rigidity from earlier and turning liquid. Each joint moved gracefully but with power. This time, she wasn’t simply following the music—she was consuming it. Forcing it to dance with her.
She reared back on one leg, the other high and bent in front of her, arms bowing back behind her head. It was like something had been unchained inside her, a wire snipped that allowed her to move freely and organically. She twirled and jumped, rolling from one move to the next as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Yes!
Sadie glanced at him, a brow raised. “I don’t know what you said to her, but it’s clearly working.”
The song continued to pump through the speakers, fueling Remi. She used the whole stage. Filled it with her presence. She took his advice by the throat. Demanded his attention. Sure, the choreography was unbalanced and there were a few uneasy transitions here and there. But as far as improvisation went, it was damn good.
“I told her to wing it,” he said with a shrug.
“If this is how she wings it…” Sadie shook her head, an awestruck expression on her face. “I can do a lot with her.”
“I know. She’s exactly what we wanted.”
Since the song wasn’t cut to fit the general audition requirements, it played on and so Remi danced on. By the end, her chest rose and fell with quickened breath, and her cheeks were flushed pink with exertion. Unchoreographed dancing tended to do that; when people let the music take them over, there was no thought to proper breathing or pacing.
She knew she’d done well. Wes could see it in the glimmer in her eyes as she collected her pointe shoes from the front of the stage and glanced between Sadie and him.
“Ask her anything you want,” he said to Sadie. “I have everything I need to know.”
“Me too.” A wide grin stretched over her face. “Your mother is going to be jealous we discovered this one.”
* * *
The following twenty-four hours had been the roller coaster to end all roller coasters. Remi’s world hadn’t simply been turned upside down; it had been flipped inside out and pounded into an entirely new shape.
Wes had called her within thirty minutes of her leaving the theater to let her know he wanted to cast her for his show. Then Mish had announced Remi, along with her counterpart, Aisha, as the instructors for the Park Slope studio in such a lovely and thoughtful way that Remi still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell her about the show. Would it be possible for her to do both jobs?
She sighed. Not likely. Even if she could make the schedule work—which would require traveling from the East Harlem location where the show would be rehearsing all the way down to Park Slope in fifteen minutes—not possible—there was no way her body would be able to take it. Rehearsals and performances were both mentally and physically grueling.
But what the hell was she supposed to say to Mish? Thanks for the opportunity but I got a better offer? Ugh. Why did everything have to get so complicated?
Remi’s laptop made a familiar ringing sound and the Skype icon flashed on screen. Seven p.m. New York time would make it late morning in Melbourne. She scooted over to the couch, the remains of a piece of buttered toast in her hand, and hit the Answer button. Then she stuffed the last bit of toast into her mouth.
“Hemprfph,” she said, wa
ving at the camera.
“Have we caught you at dinnertime?” The smiling faces of her parents filled the screen. They were dressed in identical baby-puke green outfits, and her mother had a strand of wooden beads around her neck. Her wild hair was wiry and stuck out in all directions. And her father was as bald as ever, but these days, he had a shaggy, salt-and-pepper beard covering half his face.
“No, just eating a piece of toast,” she said, and then she cringed. Shit. She hadn’t done the mental preparation for a family call.
“Toast?” Her mother frowned. “You know wheat is terrible for you. So inflammatory.”
Good thing she hadn’t said buttered toast, or else she’d have a lecture about the effects of cattle and dairy farming on the environment. Her parents were vegan, and Remi had always found it interesting that they were so concerned by the “restrictive nature” of her studying ballet while being quite happy to follow a lifestyle that removed entire food groups from their diet.
“How are you?” her dad asked, ignoring his wife’s concern. He’d always been the more easygoing of the pair.
“Good.” Remi curled her feet up underneath her and pulled a pillow into her lap. She’d always cuddled their dog, Gruber, whenever they had “family chats” and ever since the move to New York, her hands felt empty whenever they called. “I’m dancing again.”
So much for keeping that information to herself. Remi was convinced her parents had some kind of truth radar installed in their Skype camera, because she never could keep anything from them. Growing up in a household where lies were considered the highest form of disrespect—above and beyond disobeying any other rules—Remi hadn’t developed much of a filter.
“Dancing?” her mother asked, the skin between her eyebrows forming a deep crease. “Or doing ballet?”
“Ballet.” It felt like she was confessing to a substance addiction. Their judgment radiated through her laptop screen. “I got a part in a small show. It’s an independent show, very artistic. Kind of quirky.”
She knew how to play to her mother’s likes, because that seemed to ease a little of the concern in her expression. “Since when is ballet quirky?”
“This is a modern ballet. It’s not like what I used to do.”
In fact, it was exactly something she would have turned her nose up at a few years ago.
“So you won’t be working yourself until you fall in a heap, then?” her mother asked. “You won’t cry yourself to sleep because you didn’t get the part you wanted? You won’t be mindless from the exhaustion?”
“Opal.” Her father frowned, his bushy beard bobbing up and down. “Stop it.”
“I already got the part.” Remi knew she should have bitten back the words, but dammit, she wanted her parents to say well done for once. To be proud, even if they didn’t agree with her career choices.
“You know what I mean,” her mother said. She toyed with the strand of beads around her neck. “Ballet is so hard on you. They demand everything and what do you get in return?”
“The chance to follow my dream.” The second she said it, she knew it was true. It was still her dream. The buzzing feeling in her heart hadn’t gone away simply because she’d been too frightened to try again the last few years.
“I thought you’d moved on.” Opal sighed.
“I thought I had too,” she whispered. “But I haven’t.”
After a few beats of silence, Opal said, “Promise me you’ll look after yourself. Okay, possum?”
Her childhood nickname caused a smile to burst onto her face. “I will.”
“I mean it. You need to fuel your body properly.” Her mother looked at her pointedly.
“Got it. No more toast.”
“Lots of vegetables, drink your water. I have this great meditation app that helps relieve the mind during periods of stress. I’ll send you the name of it.”
“An app, huh?” Remi teased. “Don’t tell me you’ve entered modern civilization after all?”
She’d had to beg them to get Skype when she’d moved. There was something about seeing their faces—no matter how pixilated and blurry from the crappy internet in their off-the-beaten-track location—that made her feel a little closer to home.
“All right, all right. That’s enough out of you,” Opal grumbled. “And you should keep some citrine close by. It’ll help with any negative energies.”
There was Buckley’s chance that she’d start carrying around a chunk of rock, thinking that it might help anything. No matter what her mother said, Remi didn’t believe that an inanimate object would impact any “negative energies” but she managed to keep her mouth shut. More than likely, a parcel would turn up in a week or two with a piece of the damn thing anyway. When some people moved away from home, their mothers sent them treats from home, like Caramello Koalas, Vegemite, and Tim Tams. But not Opal Drysdale.
A care package from Remi’s mother was likely to include something to ease whatever chakra she thought her daughter was having trouble with, a handwritten mantra for her to read aloud, and some healthy, organic snacks that tasted like the bottom of a shoe.
“Now you’re doing this show, does that mean you have to quit your job at the studio?” her father asked.
“I think it does.” Remi sighed and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I thought I might be able to do both, but I remember how strenuous the performance schedules were back home. This is a much smaller production, but the timelines are tight.”
Wes had explained to her that because the show was independently funded, they had limited time for rehearsals because each day in the theater before the show opened was a day when they weren’t recouping their money. It sounded like the rest of the cast had already been working together for over a week, and she was coming in late because their original soloist had pulled out at the last minute. Hence, Remi was behind schedule.
You know you can pick up choreography quickly, and Wes has already promised to work with you day and night until you nail it.
Day and night. The thought sent a tremor through her.
“So…I need to resign,” she added. Guilt was already weighing her down. Knowing that she was leaving Mish hanging right after the opening of the studio made her feel like a horrible friend.
“You don’t look too happy about that,” Opal said.
“I feel bad that I’m leaving my boss in the lurch.”
A smile tugged at Opal’s lips. “We might not always agree with each other’s choices, but you have to live your life. If this is your dream, then you won’t be happy unless you chase it.”
And with that, she had her mother’s blessing. It felt like a weight had been lifted off Remi’s shoulders. It wasn’t that she needed her parents’ permission to do anything; they weren’t that kind of family. But Remi had always wanted to make them happy, to do them proud. And while she might not get that, exactly, hearing her mother say she understood her—even in that indirect way—was the boost Remi needed to deal with the Mish situation.
Two feet in. Black or white. Yes or no. That’s how you live your life.
Either Remi was going to chase this dream, or she was going to give it up for good. This would be her last chance. If she got through this show in one piece, then she would know she’d gone down the right path at this fork in the road.
“So, what are the chances of you flying to New York to see me perform?” Remi asked with a cheeky smile.
“Well, you know how we feel about those big cities.” Her father stroked his beard. “It’s not really our thing.”
“Never hurts to ask.”
Remi wasn’t disappointed. If there was one thing she’d learned in her life, it was that she could only rely on herself. Her parents had taught her to be independent, and life had taught her that she couldn’t always expect external reinforcement and encouragement.
Wes had g
iven her this opportunity, but that’s all that she would ask of him. Now it was up to her to work hard and dance her heart out if she had any chance of getting back on track with her career.
* * *
On Wednesday morning, Wes arrived at the studio space he and Sadie had rented because the Attic wasn’t available for another week and a half. That was theater for you—two steps forward, one step back. Like a demented cha-cha.
“Morning, sunshine,” Sadie sang as she flung the door open before he even had the chance to knock. A handwritten sign telling the cast to come up to the first floor was taped to the door he’d just come through. “This place is a bit of a dump, and it’s drafty as hell.”
“Yeah, but the price was right.” He followed her inside and up a flight of narrow stairs.
This studio was small, but it would comfortably fit his lean cast. It had a barre along one wall with mirrors behind it. A vacuum cleaner sat upright in one corner, evidence that Sadie had already done her best to clean the place up. But the lighting was crappy, and a scraggly crack ran through the plaster on one of the walls. If only his mother could see him now. Compared to the light, airy studios at Evans Ballet School, with their specially engineered floors and luxurious changing rooms, this place was practically a crack den.
“What are the plans for today?” he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.
“Warm-up, obviously. I’m going to give them extra time because it’s cool in here and the last thing we need now is an injury.”
Wes bobbed his head. “Good.”
“Then we’ll do a class for an hour, barre work and floor work. That will give me a bit of extra time to assess where Remi is at. After that, we’ll take it from the top. I want the opening nailed by the end of the day.”
It was ambitious. The opening of Out of Bounds was explosive, the choreography intricate. It would be hard to mimic the theater environment in a studio setting, as some audience members would be sitting on chairs on the stage during performances, and the dancers would be sprinkled through both the traditional stage area and in the aisles.
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