Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 3

 Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 3

I recognized almost everyone in my group—familiar faces from a hundred other auditions. We were the first fifty called in, and the room we were herded into was tiny. They packed us in like sardines. Within minutes, the space was hot, cramped, and buzzing with nerves. We tossed our dance bags to the side and took our spots.

As usual, a long table was set up at the front. Behind it sat the casting director—someone I’d auditioned for more times than I could count. He’d only cast me twice.

Next to him was the choreographer. He had that polished, charming look—like a young Alec Baldwin with a Broadway smile. I was instantly attracted. Someone whispered, “He was in Cats,” and somehow, that made him even hotter.

To his left sat his assistant—a dancer I remembered from when I’d worked with this company before. He gave me a small nod and a warm smile. Familiar ground.

At the center of the table was the director, squinting through thick glasses, holding a paper inches from his face. It looked like he was reading, but I wasn’t sure. Rumor had it a pyrotechnic mishap had damaged his vision, and this show was handed to him as compensation. Showbiz sympathy.

Behind the table hung a large mirror. Every dancer—without fail—glanced at it to adjust their hair or rearrange their clothes. Vanity is practically built into our muscle memory.

The director was the first to speak. “Thank you all for coming,” he began. “This is a new venture for the Company, and we’re looking for very specific things.” His magnified eyes scanned the room like a cartoon owl. He reminded me of Mr. Magoo.

“Looking for very specific things,” someone muttered under their breath. “Aren’t they always?”

“With that in mind, let’s get started,” the director concluded.

The choreographer stood, crossed to the center of the room, and began teaching. The combination was long. Complicated. Unforgiving. I focused hard on the first eight counts, knowing I’m not the fastest to pick up choreography. My ballet teacher used to joke I was movement-dyslexic.

Ten counts of eight later, I was drenched in sweat and slightly dazed. “This is fucking ridiculous,” someone hissed behind me.

We twisted, turned, jumped, and finally slid to the floor. I froze, unsure how to get up—he’d conveniently skipped that part. I raised my hand like I was hailing a cab, hoping someone would notice I was stranded in style.

The casting director stood and barked instructions. We were sent to the sides of the room, away from the mirror. Groups of four would be called up to perform the combination. When I dance in groups, I always imagine all eyes are on me. I think we all do. But in reality, most of us are frantically trying to remember which foot comes next.

I watched the first group closely, scanning for anything I might have missed. Did they do it differently? Could I improve something last minute?

The director called out a gruff “Thank you,” and the first group left the floor.

Group two launched into the combo like they were auditioning for their lives—which, in a way, we all were. My bladder started to make itself known. Not now, I told it. Not yet. I ran the steps through my head over and over again like a mantra.

By the third group, my stomach was grumbling and my bladder was pleading.

Then I heard my name.

I leapt into place, flashing a bright smile. We staggered ourselves—two in front, two in back. I was in the back row. The choreographer gave us a count-in: “5, 6, 7, 8!”

My body sprang into motion. Listen to the music, I told myself. My feet moved like they had a mind of their own. My breath quickened. My heart doubled its pace. I jumped higher, moved faster, then slid downstage into the finish.

“Again!” the choreographer shouted. “Switch lines!”

Now I was in the front. We reset.

“5, 6, 7, 8!” the assistant called.

This time, I moved with confidence. My body knew what it was doing. I melted into the movement. Nailed it—at least, I think I did. I struck the final pose, held it, and waited to be waved off.

I jogged back to the side, someone tapped me on the butt and said, “Nice job.”

But my mind was already racing. Did I really do well? Was I on the music? Did I forget anything? It was all a blur now.

The next group hit the floor. I checked the clock. The second hand seemed to crawl. I could practically hear the gears grinding behind it.

Group after group danced. Some nailed it. Some blanked mid-combo. A few were dazzling—so good it made the rest of us feel like amateurs. Doubt crept in. Maybe you should’ve stayed home, my brain muttered.

Finally, we were all done. The room stilled. We stood at the sides, sweaty, breathless.

“Talk among yourselves,” Casting said casually.

So we did. The usual audition small talk—weather, train delays, fake chill vibes.

Then came the moment.

“Will the following people please stay,” Casting said.

The air thickened. Everyone stopped breathing. One by one, names were read. I listened hard.

Did they just say mine?

No... not yet.

You suck! my brain screamed again.