Reasonable Doubt: Volume 1 (Reasonable Doubt, #1)(8)

“It’s called dancing en pointe.”

“Same thing,” she said. “Regardless, it’s just an audition. I’m sure your father and I won’t be the only parents who couldn’t make it today. Once you graduate from college and get into law school, you’ll see ballet for what it really is—a hobby, and you’ll be grateful that we pushed you into double majoring.”

“Ballet is my dream, mother.”

“It’s a phase, and you’re way past the prime age for becoming a professional last time I checked. Remember how you suddenly up and quit at sixteen? You’ll quit again, and it’ll be for the best. As a matter of fact—”

I hung up.

I didn’t want to listen to another one of her dream-killing speeches, and it angered me that she’d called ballet a “phase” when I’d been dancing since I was six years old. When she and my dad had poured countless dollars into private classes, costumes, and competitions.

The only reason why I’d “quit” at sixteen was because I’d broken my foot and couldn’t audition for any of the dance schools anymore. And the only reason I started to show the faintest interest in law was because I couldn’t do much outside of my rehab sessions except read.

My heart had always belonged in pointe slippers, and that fact would never change.

“Aubrey Everhart?” A man suddenly called my name from the theater door. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re next to take the stage. Got about five minutes.”

“Be right there...” I stuffed my bag into a locker. Before I could close it, my phone rang.

Knowing it was my mother calling to offer a half-assed apology, I tried my best not to scream. “Please spare me your apologies.” I immediately picked up. “They don’t mean anything to me anymore.”

“I was calling to tell you good luck,” a deep voice said.

“Two minutes!” A stagehand glared at me and motioned for me to head onto the stage.

“Thoreau?” I turned my back to the stagehand. “What are you telling me good luck for?”

“You mentioned having some type of audition weeks ago. It’s today, right?”

“Yes, thank you...”

“You don’t sound too excited about your dream right now.”

“How can I be when my own parents don’t believe in it?”

“You’re twenty seven years old.” He scoffed. “Fuck your parents.”

I laughed, guiltily. “I wish it was that simple...”

“It really is. You make your own money, and despite the fact that you don’t really know shit about the law, you seem to be a pretty decent lawyer. Fuck them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to steer that subject away. “I’m shocked you remembered that my audition was today.”

“I didn’t.” He hung up, and I knew he was smiling as he did that.

“Fifteen seconds, Miss Everhart!” The stagehand grabbed my arm and practically pulled me onto the stage.

I smiled at the judges and stood in fifth position—arms over my head, and waited for the first note of Tchaikovsky’s composition to play.

There was a rustling of papers, a few coughs from someone in the audience, and then the music began.

I was supposed to demonstrate an arabesque, a pirouette, and then perform the routine that I’d been rehearsing in class for the past month and a half. I didn’t feel like it, though, and since this was one of my last opportunities to make an impression, I decided to dance how I wanted.

I shut my eyes and completed pirouette after pirouette, fouette turn after fouette turn. I wasn’t even on beat with the music, and I could tell the pianist was confused and trying to keep up with me.

I demonstrated every jump I knew, perfectly landing each one of them, and when the pianist gave up and struck the last note, I returned to fifth position—smiling.

There was no applause, no cheers, nothing. I tried to read the judges’ faces to see if they looked mildly impressed, but they were stoic.

“That will be all, Miss Everhart,” one of them said. “Will Miss Leighton Reynolds please take the stage?”

I murmured “Thank you” before stepping off and rushing out of the theater. I didn’t bother watching the rest of the auditions.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I walked around campus and tried not to cry. When I was sure that no tears would fall, I sent emails to Thoreau; that was the only thing that could possibly make me feel better.

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Subject: Thinking...

“One dinner. One night. No repeats.” Do you pick a cheap or expensive restaurant? Do you pay for the dinner and the hotel room? Or do you make the woman split it with you?

—Alyssa.

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Subject: Re: Thinking...

Expensive dinner. Five star hotel suite. I pay for everything.

Would you like me to book a few reservations for us so I can show you?

—Thoreau.

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Subject: Re: Re: Thinking...

Of course not. And a “few” reservations? What happened to just one?