CARINA
I’m down. I haven’t played poker in so long though, so take it easy on me
BROOKLYN
I’d love to join as well. Just let me know when
BROOKLYN
Don’t worry. I promise not to take too much of your money ;)
“Scarlett! Good, you’re here.”
Tamara’s voice dragged my focus away from the chat and toward the stage, where the rest of the staff was warming up. She was one of RAB’s senior instructors and the rehearsal director for the showcase.
“Yvette had a last-minute doctor’s appointment, so you’ll have to dance in her place,” she said.
My heartbeat skittered to a stop. “Dance in her place?”
“Yes.” She arched her brows. “Will that be a problem?”
“No.” A cold draft swept over me, peppering my arms and chest with goose bumps. “Of course not. That’s—that’s what I’m here for.”
“Great.” Tamara left to speak with the choreographer while my feet remained rooted to the ground.
My palms grew clammy as I stared at the stage. Understudies rarely danced with the whole cast during rehearsals, and I was unprepared for the sudden call to duty.
My job was to fill in during emergencies, but now that one came up, I couldn’t shake off an angry swarm of nerves.
I’d practiced off to the side during rehearsals, and I’d memorized every piece of the performance. But there was a difference between practicing on my own and practicing with the cast.
This rehearsal would be my first full-length, full-cast performance since the accident. I felt like there should be a clear sign marking the milestone, like flashing neon lights or at least a heads-up call from Yvette.
Since there wasn’t, I forced my feet to move across the floor, up the stairs, and onto the stage.
Warm-ups. I could do that. I’ve warmed up before.
My heart crowded my throat. My excitement over getting the understudy role all those weeks ago melted beneath the lights and the sideways glances from the rest of the staff.
They knew about my past. Were they waiting for me to mess up? Did they think my fall from principal dancer to understudy was pathetic?
Stop being paranoid. No one’s judging you.
I took a deep breath, focused on the sliver of floor around me, and started stretching.
One. Two. Three. The silent, measured counts steadied my breathing and calmed my heart rate. By the time I finished, the churn of anxiety had slowed to a crawl.
Tamara clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s start from the top!” she said when everyone was in place.
The music started, and I didn’t have time to overthink anymore.
It was move or die, so I moved.
The good thing about Lorena was that its choreography played to my strengths as a dancer. I hadn’t performed in five years, but I’d lived and breathed ballet for sixteen years before that. My body remembered what it felt like.
After a hesitant start, I gradually flowed into the movements. Pirouettes, arabesques, grand battements…it was like saying hello to old friends I hadn’t seen in a long time.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine I was at Westbury, dancing for an opening-night audience.
This isn’t so bad. You can do this. You—
The sudden screech of the auditorium doors opening pierced through the music. It sounded like metal screaming.
Metal. Blood. Smoke.
My veins flooded with adrenaline. My head instinctively snapped toward the entrance, ruining my choreography, but instead of the newcomer, my vision swarmed with snippets from the past.
Punctured lungs, broken ribs, shattered pelvis…
With long-term, consistent physical therapy, she’ll regain normal use of her legs, but I’m afraid professional ballet is no longer a viable option…
I strongly encourage surgery. Without it, she might never dance again. Not even recreationally.
I stumbled. Sweat beaded my forehead, and the air thinned in my lungs. The stage lights were so hot, I couldn’t think properly.
What was the next part of the choreography? Was I supposed to go left or right? How long until this damn dance was over?
My temples pounded with tension.
