by Nikki Sloane
The shower was still running, the door to the bathroom closed.
Don’t do it.
I didn’t listen. It was a shitty justification, but after everything we’d done together, she still hadn’t told me about the blindfold club. We were both keeping secrets from each other. This was small. What was one more?
I grabbed the book, shut the drawer, and swung my legs over the side of the bed so my back was to the bathroom door. I juggled the phone in my hands as I searched for the right page.
Her script handwriting reminded me of the way she danced. It was delicate and feminine. It flowed across the pages, and I imagined her writing it with the same energy she had when she performed.
My heart thundered as I flipped through the pages, finally landing on the one I wanted.
It was three paragraphs long.
She’d written the negotiated price of fifteen hundred, and below that the deal had been canceled and I’d been escorted from the club. They hadn’t told her who I was, but I assumed either this, or that she hadn’t connected on my name.
To her, I’d come off as unsure in the beginning. Either shy or nervous, she couldn’t tell. But then I’d been sweet, using the ice cube against her mosquito bite, which she’d liked. And what she’d really liked, was when the ice unexpectedly turned into sensory play, and I put my mouth on her.
As I’d suspected, I’d brought her to the edge of an orgasm. If I’d been pulled from the room just a minute later—
“Grant?”
Instinct forced me to drop the journal. It fell and landed noiselessly on top of my open overnight bag.
“Shower’s ready.” Tara’s voice was curious. “What are you doing?”
I bent over and grabbed my toiletry kit out of the bag, covering the journal with a sweater. “Nothing, just getting my things together.”
“You can turn on the lights, you know,” she teased. There was a snap of a light switch and I blinked at the brightness.
“Right.” I turned off the flashlight and stood to face her.
She wore the blue robe, her hair wrapped up turban-style in a gray towel. She looked at me expectantly, and when I didn’t move, she glanced at the alarm clock. “Are you going to be ready to go in twenty minutes?”
This was her way of telling me to get my ass in the shower and not make her late. I nodded and grabbed my bag, trudging toward the bathroom.
I was fucking stupid. Now I’d have to find a way to get the journal back in the drawer while she wasn’t nearby, and preferably before she noticed it was missing.
We ate a breakfast of Clif bars while we stood outside the Auditorium Theatre, and as she’d predicted, the line went on for blocks behind us. Before the sun had risen, I left her sitting on the chilly concrete beside my cello case and grabbed us coffee. It was cold outside, and when I returned from Starbucks, she’d pulled the blanket from her bag and wrapped it around herself to combat the wind.
She was nervous. Tara was normally cheerful, but this morning she was a thousand-watt lightbulb of energy. I probably should have gotten her decaf. While we spent the hours camped out and waiting for the doors to open, we talked about random things. Movies we liked. Favorite songs to perform. Places we wanted to visit on our bucket list.
“Do you miss it?” she asked. “South Africa? I bet it’s beautiful.”
“Parts of it, yes.”
“Elephants and zebras and giraffes, just wandering around.” She got a dreamy look in her eyes. “I can’t even. I’d love to go someday.”
I grinned. The South Africa she imagined was the tourist version, and very different from my time growing up. “The elephants and giraffes and zebras,” I pronounced it the correct way, which was zehbra, “mostly wander around in the protected parks. Johannesburg isn’t all that different than any other urban city.”
“Zehbra,” she repeated, tickled.
She made me teach her a few dirty phrases in Afrikaans, which had us both laughing by the end. Her accent was horrible, and I loved it.
Twenty minutes before the doors were set to open, she left me to hold her spot while she found a restroom in one of the open shops nearby. As she came back, a girl stepped out of line and waved. “Ms. Tara,” she called.
Tara stopped and gave the girl a bright smile. “Kelsey. How are you?”
“Oh my God, I’m so nervous.” Kelsey was cocooned in a puffy coat and stood beside an older couple. She was so young, they had to be her parents. In fact, most of the people in this line were either five years younger or fifteen years older than Tara. The girl shoved her hands in her coat pockets, and her tone was polite and friendly. “Who are you here for? I thought Ms. Elena said I was the only student going out for this.”
Tara didn’t falter, her smile held firm. “I’m here for me.”
Confusion splashed through Kelsey’s expression. “You’re . . . auditioning?”
“Yup.”
A range of emotions played out on the girl’s face. Disbelief. Skepticism. Judgement. It was followed by the best emotion of all—worry. This girl was nervous about competing against Tara.
Good. You should be.
I thrived on competition. I was a fighter, but Tara was subtler, a silent warrior. She didn’t have to tell people she was talented. All she needed to do to prove it was show up.
“Oh, wow,” the girl mumbled. It was clear she didn’t know what else to say.
“I’m sure you’ll do great.” Tara sounded heartfelt. “Good luck!”
“Yeah, you too,” Kelsey chirped.
She came back to me, and if the interaction bothered her, it didn’t show. I took her hand in mine as the doors opened and the line began to move.
It had been so cold outside, it felt muggy in the fancy lobby. There were tables of production assistants and some on headsets milling about as we came up the marble staircase and filed in. The room was full of gold accents and arches, and the lighting was warm, like artificial candlelight.
She handed over her packet of paperwork, answered some questions, and was given a number badge to pin on before her audition. Arriving early had paid off. Tara would be in the first group of ballet dancers, and the fourth group to perform overall. It meant she had to get ready almost immediately, so she could begin stretching.
It was a “hurry up and wait” schedule, very much like rugby matches could be, and I did my best to support her however I could. With her paperwork taken care of, we moved out of the way and down a corridor the wasn’t as loud or crowded. She pointed to a spot by the wall, out of the way, and I set down my cello.
She began to shed her outer layers, stripping down to the same outfit she’d worn for the ChiComm performance, exposing her flat stomach and shapely legs. I tried not to get distracted as I took her jacket and pants and packed them away in her bag for her.
All around me were reminders of how out of my element I was.
Dads dispensed bobby pins while moms applied makeup to the faces of their daughters. The elegant, carpeted hallways of the theatre became rehearsal space. As Tara laced up her pointe shoes, I watched a guy across the room dance hip hop while wearing earbuds and a focused expression. A couple near us practiced what I assumed was the tango.
“How am I doing on time?” she asked, tucking the ribbon she’d just knotted into the inside of her ankle.
I checked my phone. “It’s eight forty-six. Your group is at nine ten.”
She used the selfie mode on her phone to check her makeup and seemed satisfied with the situation. Her hair was twisted back into the prerequisite ballet bun. Her costume was understated and all black . . . but her lips were a bold, vibrant red. I wanted to kiss her before she went but didn’t want to risk messing them up.
“I’d better go,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if she wanted a pep talk or not, but she was getting one regardless. I grabbed her hips and pulled her close. Her eyes were wild and unfocused until I captured her face in my h
ands. “Good luck, even though you don’t need it. I know you’re going to be amazing.”
She looked at me with so much feeling, I wondered for a moment if it was love.
-25-
Grant
Tara’s blue eyes deepened as she sucked in a breath. “Thank you.”
Her kiss was chaste and quick, and I was sure it was a fraction of what she wanted to give me. She pulled away, lingering for another moment, before turning and hurrying to join the other people headed toward the warmup area.
Was it possible I was more nervous than she was for herself? I wanted this so badly for her. I picked up my cello, slinging her bag and my own over my shoulder, and made my way into the theatre.
The main floor was sprawling, a sea of gold colored seats, and parents and friends were sprinkled about them, respectfully watching the audition happening on stage. An angsty melody flowed from the theatre’s sound system, and the large, black stage was full of people moving and leaping, each dancing their own choreography to the song. From the back of the room, it looked like madness at the front, but it didn’t take long to focus in on the dancers who were a cut above the rest.
A woman in an official looking Dance Dreams t-shirt weaved her way through the group, watching and studying, and then whispered into the microphone of her headset.
“Numbers twenty-seven and twenty-nine,” a male voice announced over the music still playing through the speakers, “thank you.”
Two dancers, a man and a girl, slowed to a stop while everyone around them kept going. They trudged to the left side of the stage, and as the girl came down the steps onto the floor, tears flowed down her crumbling face. Her mother hurried down the aisle to console her and pull her away.
I had to look elsewhere, not wanting the girl to feel like she was on display at the moment her dream was being crushed. I picked an empty row off the center aisle, just in front of a balcony column so I had an unobstructed view, and quietly got settled to watch.
More numbers were called out, more dancers dismissed, until the herd was thinned to five. It had been crowded with so many people at first, but now I stared at the stage and saw how impressive it was. A series of golden lights arched over it, and although the curtain was up, a few feet of the rich fabric were still visible at the top.
The theatre was old and ornate, and very beautiful, but looking around made my anxiety worse. If the judges weren’t frightening enough, surely this stage would be. I swallowed the hard knot in my throat. If Tara made it to the solo round, I wouldn’t allow myself to be intimidated.
The music faded out, and the five dancers stopped, all turning their focus to the judge they shared the stage with.
“We’re going to ask you to perform a second time,” she said, her voice raised so they could hear her. “The music will begin in thirty seconds.” Then she turned around, gave a thumbs-up signal to the announcer in the lighting booth, and exited the stage.
While they waited for the music to start back up, the dancers eyed each other, sizing up the competition. Like runners waiting to get to the line and set, they shook out their muscles, staying loose.
This round only lasted a minute. For the dancers on stage, maybe it felt longer, but whoever was judging in the booth didn’t need more time. The song cut off abruptly and left the group on stage dancing in silence for a moment.
“Number fourteen, please go stage right to get your blue pass. The rest of you, thank you for coming.”
Fuck me. Out of thirty dancers, they’d only taken one to move on to the interview round. One.
On the second round, which was ballroom, they took two. Both women, whose partners weren’t strong enough, and I couldn’t help but wonder how that was going to affect their dynamic in the future.
The third round was hip hop, and I cringed watching one guy who had no business auditioning. Had he had too much to drink last night and his friends convinced him to come? He looked like a guy at a wedding reception with hubris about his dance skills—the one who usually ended up getting injured while trying a stupid stunt he’d never done before.
They weeded him out in less than twenty seconds.
I couldn’t sit still in my seat as the performers were whittled down. Tara’s group was up next, and I hadn’t prepared myself for any other outcome than the one we wanted. What if she was cut? All her hard work, and no one would see it. My stomach turned sour.
My pulse went into double-time as the hip hop round concluded and the next group took the stage. There was jostling as the dancers rushed to secure a spot in the front, wanting to make sure they were seen.
It was easy to find her, even though she was near the back—Tara was taller than almost everyone else, and her blood red lips stood out against the crowd of black leotards and men in leggings with white shirts. I was obviously biased, but all the rest of them looked generic. Easily replaceable.
All except her.
The female judge on the stage gave the same announcement I’d heard twice before, reminding them not to travel too much and be aware of the space around them to avoid collisions. But she added something new at the end.
“Ladies who will be dancing en pointe, please move to the right side of the stage.”
The shuffle allowed Tara to move closer to the front, and although I believed it didn’t matter, I was glad she was being aggressive.
“You’ll get a tone, and then the music will start,” the woman announced. “Everyone set?” Heads nodded, a few dancers responded with an eager yes. “Good luck,” she added, and signaled her thumbs-up.
The pleasant tone rang out at the start of the song, but it was like a gunshot to me. I stopped breathing. The song was a classical piece. Clair De Lune? I’d performed it once years ago, and the melody was familiar.
Tara moved with grace, and even though I was halfway back in the theatre, I could see the smile in her eyes. She fluttered, bounded in place, and lifted her leg to the rafters as if none of it required any effort. Where the other dancers around her had determined, sometimes pained looks, Tara had joy.
The announcer’s voice blared from the speakers. “Numbers ninety-four and one-sixteen, thank you.”
Fuck, what was her number? One hundred twelve . . . or one hundred twenty-two? It was on the paperwork she’d given me, but I wasn’t about to stop watching and hunt for the paper in her bag.
Three more numbers were called out. As one of the dancers on the front line left, Tara seamlessly moved in to fill the spot, and I smiled. Her badge was pinned to her hip, and I could read it as she posed, the full weight of her body resting on her pointed toe.
The best dancer on the stage was number one hundred twenty-two, and she was currently schooling the rest of the kids.
She balanced perfectly while the girl beside her in a similar pose wobbled and fought to keep her balance. Tara’s arms swayed beautifully in time to the music, gliding like water. She moved like wind through a tall, grassy field. The way she danced was arresting.
More numbers were called out, and my jaw ached from how hard I had it tensed. Please don’t call her number. Do not say number one-twenty-two. It was the longest two minutes of my life and . . . was it possible to develop an ulcer that quickly?
It was down to six performers when the music stopped, and I finally caught my breath. She’d made it past the first hurdle. There was only one other girl in the group I thought was a threat. The girl was gaunt and bony, but there was muscle hidden in there somewhere. She’d been spinning like a top, reminding me of an ice skater.
“Please reset,” the judge with the headset said. “You can spread out and use more of the stage now. The music’s coming back on in thirty seconds.”
Spinner Girl glanced down the line of dancers, and her mouth fell open when she saw Tara had survived initial cuts. Everyone was dressed for traditional ballet, their bodies covered in utilitarian outfits, but Tara’s bare midriff and sultry makeup only emphasized her sex appeal. Spinne
r Girl looked barely eighteen, and it was obvious she felt Tara didn’t belong. She wasn’t even subtle when her eyes narrowed.
Fire burned inside me, but then the music resumed, and I immediately forgot all about it. I stopped thinking about anything else.
Because with her newfound freedom, Tara now had room to let loose. She floated, leaped, and soared. She fucking flew across the stage, gliding on her tiptoes as the top half of her was still as a statue. My pulse picked up, matching the rapid set of jumps and turns she executed. Tara threw everything she had into the audition—no matter what happened, at least she knew she’d put it all out on the stage.
The first two minutes had been nerve-wracking, but not this time. I forgot she was competing and simply enjoyed the show. When the music stopped, I jerked back to the moment, the smile frozen on my face.
Every muscle in me twisted and corded.
“Number one-twenty-two,” the announcer said, “please see Michelle at stage right for a blue pass.” Perhaps he thanked the rest of the performers, but I didn’t hear it. My brain emptied at Tara’s brilliant smile.
She’d done it.
-26-
Tara
Physically, the blue pass wasn’t anything special. It was a printout on teal paper with my number written in a box, instructions about my pending interview, and a signature from a producer. But it might as well have been printed on gold. I held it gingerly as I left the stage, moving swiftly down the steps and up the center aisle.
I still hadn’t caught my breath from performing, and I heaved air into my lungs, walking in a daze.
“Congrats,” a woman in the seats whispered as I walked by.
“Thank you,” I breathed. I didn’t know her, but the genuine gesture made reality feel further away. Had that just happened? Had I really passed the first round?
Grant stood from his seat and stepped out into the aisle. I wanted to scream, run, and throw my arms around him, but another set of auditions was about to start, and I needed to be respectful to those dancers.
