“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 potential here. 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.