Текст книги "Reasonable Doubt. Vol. 3"

Автор книги: Whitney Gracia Williams

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

“What did you just say?”

“I said I don’t want to hear from you anymore. Don’t you ever fucking call me again.” She hung up.

Impasse (n.):

The inability of two parties to reach a negotiated settlement.

A few days later…

Aubrey

My heart was still aching—reeling, and although I’d told Andrew never to call me again, and that I didn’t want to hear from him, I couldn’t move on until I received an apology.

I neededit…

I felt sick to my stomach after giving him that watch, and I’d foolishly expected for him to call and say, “I love you, too,” but he acted as if it meant nothing.

Without knocking, I opened the door to his office and shut it behind me.

He raised his eyebrow as I stepped over to his desk, but he didn’t hang up his phone.

“Yes, that will be fine,” he spoke into the receiver.

“I need to talk to you.” I blurted out. “ Now.”

He motioned for me to take a seat, but he continued talking. “Yes. That will work as well.”

I sat and crossed my arms, trying not to stare at him too hard. He was utter perfection today—looking more fuck-able than usual with a fresh hair-cut and a brand new grey suit. His eyes regarded me intensely as usual, and I noticed he was actually wearing the watch I gave him. He’d even paired it with matching cufflinks.

Maybe I’m overreacting after all…

“Right…” He leaned back in his chair and typed a few things onto his keyboard. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock tonight, Sandra. Room 225.”

My stomach dropped.

“Something I can help you with, Miss Everhart?” He hung up the phone. “Is there any reason why you barged into my office without knocking?”

“You’ve fucked someone else already?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Did you fuck someone else already? Did you?”

“Would it matter?”

“Yes, it would fucking matter…” My blood boiled as I stood up. “ Did you sleep with someone else?”

“Not yet.” He narrowed his eyes at me and stood up too, walking over to me. “However, I really don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

I looked at his wrist. “Why are you wearing that watch if you don’t feel the same way I do?”

“It’s the only watch that matches my new cufflinks.”

“Are you seriously this blind?” There were tears welling in my eyes. “Are you—”

“I told you a long time ago that I don’t do feelings—that if we ever did fuck, that would be the end of us.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “However, I do realize that by crossing the line with you, personally and professionally, that a percentage of the blame is mine.”

“A percentage?”

“Would you like me to bring in the firm’s accountant? I’m sure he can work out the exact figure.”

“Andrew…” I was on the verge of losing it.

“Since we did break the boundaries, and we were in fact friends before, I’m willing to revert to that arrangement.”

I shook my head as he tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes.

“We can still talk on the phone at night,” he said. “You can tell me about your ballet, your parents, your life…And, to be sensitive to your feelings, I’ll tell you about my life but I’ll leave out my one night stands until you’re completely over whatever the hell you think we had.”

“I told you that I loved you…” The words rushed out of my mouth.

“I told you that you shouldn’t have.”

“You can’t really be this callous and cold of a person, Andrew…”

“What do you want me to say, Aubrey?” His tone changed. “Your pussy was so magical that it opened my eyes and made me want to change all my ways for you? That I can’t live or breathe without knowing that you’re by my side? Is that what you’re expecting me to say?”

“No.” I tried not to cry. “A simple apology for—”

“Kicking your inquisitive ass out of my apartment?” He was glaring at me. “For trying to prevent you from feeling like you do right now? Fine. I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

I resisted the urge to spit in his face and stepped back. I officially despised him. “You are so not the man I thought you were.”

“Good, because I’m sure that man is quite pathetic.” He briefly shut his eyes and sighed. “Look, Aubrey…”

“It’s Miss Everhart.” I hissed as I walked toward the door. “Miss. Fucking. Everhart. But not to worry, you’ll never have to worry about using it because you won’t be seeing me again.”

I slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows on the other side of the hall. I ignored the suspicious look from Jessica as I stormed to the parking lot, and sped all the way to the bank.

I withdrew every dollar out of my savings account, and called the bus depot downtown—asking what the fare was for a one-way ticket to New York City.

“That would be seventy nine eighty six,” the operator said. “It’s ten dollars cheaper if you buy a roundtrip ticket.”

“I won’t be needing a round trip ticket.” I steered my car into my apartment’s lot. “Can you tell me when the next bus leaves?”

“Tonight. Would you like me to book that for you now?”

“Absolutely.” I recited my credit card info from memory, and listened as she told me about how I needed to take a walk on the Brooklyn Bridge whenever I had the chance.

The second I hung up, I arranged for a cab and sent a quick text to my roommate:

Something has come up and I have to move out ASAP…I’ll be wiring my half of the remaining rent to our landlord, and I’ll find a way to have my belongings shipped to me. I’m leaving my keys under that rose plant in the laundry room—Aubrey.

Grabbing two large suitcases from my closet, I stuffed them with whatever I could find, and placed Mr. Petrova’s recommendation letter into my purse.

As I was writing myself a reminder (“ That asshole still has my panties…Need to shop for more.”), my mother called.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Excuse me, Aubrey?” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “Hello?”

“Much better.” There was a smile in her voice. “What time should I expect you at The Grove tonight?”

“Never. I’m not coming.”

“Save me your tantrums, Aubrey. There’s a lot of money riding on this first dinner. Would you like me and your father to pick you up?”

“I said I’m not coming. Did you not hear me?”

“Aubrey…” She lowered her voice. “I’ve been trying to hold back for the past few weeks, but you know what? I am sick and tired of you being so damn thoughtless and selfish about your father’s aspirations. Neither of us personally give a damn about your thoughts on the election, but since you’re a member of this family, I demand that you—”

“Go to hell.” I hung up and continued packing, even faster now.

Subject: Cab.

Miss Aubrey Everhart,

Your cab has arrived at the address you specified. It will wait for exactly five minutes.

–Durham Cab Co.

I rushed into the bathroom and filled a plastic bag with toiletries, and then I placed them into my suitcase and headed outside.

“Bus station, right?” The cab driver, a woman, smiled as I approached.

“Yes, please.”

She took my bags and placed them into the trunk as I slid into the backseat. I felt my heart hurting with every second that passed, and as much as I tried to block out the thoughts about Andrew, images of his face infiltrated my brain anyway.

I was picturing the last full night we spent together, the night before he kicked me out of his condo, and no matter how hard I tried to make sense of what happened the very next night, I couldn’t. All I could do was cry.

My phone vibrated against my knee and I flipped it over, hoping to see Mr. Petrova’s name, but it was Andrew.

“Hello?” I answered.

“What are you doing?”

“I have ballet practice on Wednesdays…Shouldn’t you know that by now?”

“If you were actually in ballet practice you wouldn’t be picking up your phone.”

Silence.

“Aubrey?” He sounded concerned. “Are you crying?”

“No.” I lied, turning up the volume on my car radio.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just said—”

“Stop fucking lying to me, Aubrey,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I got sent home from practice today.”

“Okay. And?”

“There is no ‘And’ about this…” Tears welled in my eyes. “I’ve never been sent home before. He made me feel like shit today. He even told the understudy to be prepared to take my place right in front of me, and then he told me not to come back until next week…”

“I’ve told you the reason why he does that. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because I really was bad today,” I admitted. “My feet are swollen and I didn’t bandage them properly, so I was off by an eighth of a count for most of the day…”

He sighed. “I’m sure you were still ten times better than everyone else. Don’t you think?”

“No…”

“Trust me. I’m pretty sure he’s just—”

“Can I come over tonight?” I cut him off, hoping for a yes, but all I heard was silence. I knew I’d pushed my luck the first couple nights we spent together, but I didn’t want it to be a rare thing. I wanted more.

“Are you going to give me an answer, Andrew?”

“Yes,” he said. “You can come over. Where are you?”

“Outside your door.”

He opened it seconds later and looked me up and down, raising his eyebrow. “I would’ve picked you up.”

“I almost asked you to…”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me inside, keeping his eyes locked on mine. As the door shut, he pulled me into his arms and shook his head at me.

“What are you doing, Aubrey?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you keep insisting on breaking every rule I have?”

“Why do you keep letting me?”

Without saying another word, his lips were on mine and his hands were sliding around my waist—deftly unbuttoning my skirt, quickly pushing it down to the floor.

His hands grazed my backside, searching for my panties, but there were none.

“Remind me to return your collection.” He laughed softly and led me over to the couch.

He dropped my hand and then he sat on the floor, looking up at me. Unzipping his pants, he pulled out a condom and slowly rolled it over his cock.

I started to bend low so I could sit next to him, but he grabbed my thighs.

“Stop,” he said. “I don’t want you to sit on the floor.”

“Okay.” I looked over my shoulder. “Do you want me to sit on the coffee table?”

“No…” He trailed his fingers up my legs. “On my face.”

“What?”

“Sit your pussy on my face.”

I stood still, speechless—unable to process what he’d just asked me to do.

Smirking, he pulled me close and tapped my left leg. “Lift that onto the pillow behind me.” He commanded me with his eyes and I slowly lifted my foot and pressed it into the cushion.

“Good girl.” He rubbed his hands along the inside of my thighs, blowing kisses against my skin. “Grab onto my hair...”

My hands found their way onto his head as he slipped two fingers inside of me, as he slowly moved them in and out.

He darted his tongue against my clit and groaned. “Are you actually going to follow my directions today?”

“Yes…”

“I need you to be as still as possible.” One of his hands cupped my ass, palming it as he continued to stretch my pussy with his fingers. “Can you do that?”

I nodded, letting a low moan escape my mouth.

“Is that a yes?” He didn’t give me chance to answer. He drew my swollen clit into his mouth, instantly making my knees buckle beneath me.

Shutting my eyes, I screamed as he gripped my hips and slightly rocked me against his mouth—licking every part of me with his tongue, lapping up every drop.

“Andrew…” I could barely hear my own voice. “Andrew…”

My right leg lost its hold on the floor and I nearly fell forward, but he grabbed me and held me still—not moving his mouth away.

I pulled his hair hard, begging him to slow down, to let me attempt to control the pace, but it was no use.

He continued to fuck me with his mouth, ignoring my every scream.

As my hips jerked and quivers began to race through my body, he wrapped his arms around my legs and slowly pulled me down, lowering me onto his cock.

“Ahhhh….” I breathed as he buried himself inch by inch. “I…I…”

“You, what?” He kissed my forehead once he was entirely inside of me. “Do you not want to ride me this way? Would you prefer if I bent you over?”

I shook my head, and he covered one of my nipples with his mouth, swirling his tongue around it until it hardened.

Without him telling me to, I wrapped my arms around his neck and moved myself up and down his cock.

“Harder…” He bit my neck. “I want you to fuck me as hard as I fuck you…”

I grinded my hips into him again and again, as forceful as I could, but he grabbed me and began thrusting his own hips up from the floor.

“Andrew, I’m going to cum…” I cried out as he completely took over. “I’m going to—”

He slapped my ass as my body finally gave in, as his gave in, too.

Breathless, I leaned against his chest, but he didn’t let me rest long. He eased me out of his lap and stood up—walking off to toss away the condom.

Heading back over to me, he scooped me into his arms and carried me into his bedroom, gently lowering me onto his sheets.

I rolled over to the side of the bed I preferred—the side by the window, and waited for him to lay next to me, but he didn’t. He took a seat near the edge of the bed and lifted my feet into his lap.

I was too tired to ask him what he was doing, and the next thing I felt was a warm, soothing liquid dripping onto my skin. Then I felt his hands slowly spreading it around the places where the swelling hurt the most.

I moaned as his fingers massaged my soles, said his name as his fingers caressed every tender spot.

“Shhh,” he whispered, rendering me speechless as he continued to soothe me.

Every few minutes, he looked back at me and asked, “Would you like me to stop?”

I shook my head and kept my eyes shut, relishing every moment of this.

After what felt like hours of bliss, after he’d given me the best foot massage I’d ever had, he climbed in bed next to me and pulled me against his chest.

“Goodnight, Aubrey,” he whispered. “I hope you feel better.”

Elated, I threaded my fingers through his hair. “You’re not going to insist on taking me home tonight?”

“Not unless you keep talking.” He growled. “Go to sleep...”

“Thank you for the foot massage…That was really—”

“Stop talking, Aubrey.” He rolled me on top of him. “Go to sleep.”

“I was just saying thank you. I can’t say thank you?”

“No.” He pressed his lips against mine and kissed me until I couldn’t breathe, saying, “Don’t make me fuck you to sleep,” in between breaths.

I attempted to roll over, but his grip was too strong.

Smiling, I positioned my head against his heartbeat and whispered, “Can you hear me? Are you sleeping?”

No answer. Just deep, sleeping breaths.

I hesitated a few seconds. “I love you…”

Foreseeable Risk (n.):

A danger which a reasonable person should anticipate as the result from his/her actions.

Andrew

“Jessica!” I glanced at the slightly normal looking cup of coffee on my desk.

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton?”

“Could you ask Miss Everhart to come in here, please?” I needed to see her face.

She’d been avoiding me all week, and if all I had to say was “sorry”—whether I actually meant it or not, it was worth it. I missed seeing her seductive mouth in the mornings, remembering how it felt when she pressed it against mine.

“I would do that,” Jessica said, “but seeing as though she put in her resignation letter last week, I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”

“She quit?”

Without telling me?

Jessica raised her eyebrow. “She did. I gave you the letter she left, too. It was quite interesting.”

“I never got a letter.”

She walked over to my desk and sifted through the clutter.

“Here it is,” she said. “She left you two letters…Anything else?”

“No…”

She tilted her head to the side and tapped her lip, looking as if she wanted to say something, but she smiled and left the room.

Locking the door, I tore the first letter open and read it.

Dear GBH,

Thank you very much for hiring me as your undergraduate intern. I’ve had quite the experience working for you and am honored by all I’ve learned. However, due to personal reasons, I am resigning as of today.

I apologize for such short notice, and I wish your firm continued success in your future endeavors.

—Aubrey Everhart.

I sighed and opened the other letter that was addressed directly to me.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

FUCK. YOU.

—Aubrey

Overrule (v.):

To reject an attorney’s objection to a question of a witness of admission of evidence.

Aubrey

New York City was an entirely different universe. It was nothing like I expected, yet everything I wanted all at once.

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’clockauditions?” 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 potentialhere. 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.

“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 fucking 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 timefor 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.