Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 4

 Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 4

I stayed. Along with about twenty other guys from the original fifty, I was asked to remain.

“You’ll dance some more and then sing,” the director announced, rising from behind the table to face us. His tone was clipped and matter-of-fact, as if we weren’t already sweating through our clothes.

I gathered my things and walked back into the hallway. The next group of hopefuls was lined up, ready to be ushered in. Their eyes scanned ours, trying to read the outcome from our expressions.

“Are you staying?” a friend asked. All the boys in line turned to look at me.

“I am,” I said, not trying to hide the pride in my voice, and continued walking.

I bounded down the stairs and pushed out through the front door of the studio. My cigarette was already in my mouth before I hit the sidewalk. I knew I had hours to kill before the next round. Plenty of time to nervously chain-smoke my way through a pack.

Dancers who’d been cut trickled out. We exchanged brief goodbyes through plumes of smoke.

“Good luck,” they said as they passed.

“Thanks,” I replied, exhaling a long ribbon of nicotine and doubt.

By the time I was buzzed back into the building, I’d smoked close to five cigarettes and was beginning to feel like a chimney with jazz shoes.

Back upstairs, I wandered around the holding room, exchanging greetings with the other survivors. Some were stretched out on the floor. Others sat chatting, trying to mask their nerves. I lay on my back, feet propped against a wall, trying to relax.

Hours passed. More groups were brought in, more cuts were made. Eventually, I was called back into the room with the others who had made it this far.

We danced again. Several new combinations, each one more intricate than the last. The afternoon dragged on. Sweat pooled beneath us. Bodies moved like machines. I made it through a few more rounds of cuts until finally, I was sent back into the hallway.

Now it was time to sing.

Here’s the thing: most performers in this business specialize in one area—dance, acting, or singing. We dabble in the others, sure, but most of us have a primary strength. Singing has always made my stomach twist. I love to do it, but I’ve never counted it as my strong suit. Probably because a handful of people once told me I sucked—and those voices tend to echo longer than they should.

I was third on the list. My stomach lurched with anticipation. I walked over to the drinking fountain and swallowed several gulps, silently wishing they'd asked me to swallow swords instead.

The second guy entered the room. I was next.

My mind flipped through every self-doubt like flashcards. Act the song, my inner monologue screamed.

“Next!” someone called.

That was me.

I stepped into the room, smiled at the table full of decision-makers, and walked over to the piano. I placed my sheet music in front of the accompanist, quickly discussed tempo, and crossed to the center of the room.

The panel looked at me—expressionless, unreadable. The director was absently tapping a pencil against the table. Thump, thump, thump—each beat a countdown to doom.

“I’ll be singing…” I said, announcing my song choice.

They nodded with polite disinterest. I gave the pianist a signal, and the music began.

I opened my mouth.

In my mind, their hands flew to their ears. Blood trickled from their lobes. Their faces twisted in agony as they writhed under the unbearable weight of my voice. Still, I sang on. I powered through, every note a dagger of musical torture.

And then—just like that—the vision disappeared.

They looked…fine. Pleasant, even. The director smiled.

“Do you have anything else?” he asked.

I sang two more songs.

“Thank you,” the table said in unison. “Could you wait in the hall while we finish hearing everyone?”

“Of course,” I replied, and exited quickly.

Back down the stairs I went. Another cigarette found its way into my mouth before I even touched the pavement.

Two more hours passed.

Then we were called back in again—this time, to read sides.

This was my favorite part. Acting. Cold reads. Give me a script and I come alive. I’m a quick study. Lines stick in my head better than choreography ever does. I flipped through the pages, immediately scanning for the truth, for the rhythm, for the jokes.

This was my wheelhouse.

And for the first time all day, I felt excited