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.