CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone) Read online

  I let out a heavy sigh, and my shoulders drop in defeat.

  He sucks in his breath through his nose.

  “Do you need a job, Miss O’Hara?” His stance is firm.

  “Yes.” I wince as he examines me.

  “Then we’ll start with class Monday. You can join the rehearsal after. Think of it as a probation period if you have a problem with auditions.”

  “I don’t have a problem with auditions…” I stop myself. He doesn’t look interested in further explanation, and I need to quit while I’m ahead. It’s just dawning on me: he is giving me the opportunity, along with another second chance.

  “Good,” he says. “See you Monday.”

  I sleep with my eyes open on Judith’s couch with the lights on, phone in hand, and the conductor’s wand under me in case I need a weapon. I’m not very well rested, but at least I make it through the weekend. The cleaner hasn’t come back, so I decide to bunk there through the ‘probation period’ at Driven.

  On Monday, a woman greets me at the reception desk of Driven Dance Theater and hands me a silver-wrapped package.

  “Mr. Morgan likes all of the dancers to wear this in rehearsal.”

  Upstairs the halls are silent, but about fifteen women are chatting when I push open the door to the women’s change room. One girl on the bench peels a callous off her big toe, and another shaves her pits in the sink. They are all changing into the same outfit, a black one-piece suit in possibly the most seamless Lycra blend known to man. I rip open my package and pull one out. The Lycra suctions my skin when I put it on, as if I’m being vacuum packed. The good thing is that it solves my current wardrobe crisis.

  The door to the studio swings open, and everyone starts milling in. No one says a word to me. They are so caught up in their own conversations.

  A pianist with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair takes a seat at the piano bench and flips open a page. Two dancers lean against the barre, their noses drift together, and their hands press on their hips. The sounds of a cap twisting off a water bottle and a toe sliding across the floor overrides the babble. The air is muggy, sweet, and rank all at once, and the walls are so white they vibrate.

  My hips open into a stretch. I fold over and let my head hang. There isn’t one skid mark to be seen on the floor. I close my eyes, swallow down a trapped breath, and roll my neck. The ligaments make a sound as they pop over the bone.

  A short, sinewy woman in the same suit as the rest of us walks in, and the sound of chatter in the room lowers. A few dancers saunter up to her. She smiles widely in response, and they hug and kiss each other’s cheeks.

  The steel door at the back of the room swings open. I suck in another breath and internally cringe. Daniela Harrington. The star. Daniela and I graduated from Julliard together before I moved away from Manhattan to work with Raina Freehurst.

  I scrub my hands over my face and blink my eyes. The room is so white I have to squint. This is it. If I don’t get this job, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.

  The teacher, who I’ve figured out is Katherine Morris, clears her throat, and everyone rushes to find the perfect spot at the barre. Before I know it, there isn’t a single spot left, and Daniela has claimed front and center. She checks herself out in the mirror. She’s all nose with straight thin lips, like an Easter Island artifact with endless legs.

  I squeeze myself between two dancers at the back.

  Black-suited bodies are lined up in rows along the white walls. The room inhales and exhales as the musical notes sing in preparation, and our arms subtly sway next to our hips. I plant my eyes on the baby hairs that dust the slick neck in front of me.

  The tempo builds, and I struggle to stay on top of the beat while picking up the exercises. Katherine holds her chin high and squints over the room as Daniela furrows her skinny plucked brow. The head in front of me tilts in time to the quick motions of the leg. I follow along in time to the snap of Katherine’s fingers on the beat.

  “Music, people.” She cups a hand to her ear.

  From the corner of my eye, Katherine watches me. She walks toward me with her toes pointed out like she’s a descendent of a royal penguin bloodline.

  “What did that poor barre do to you?” She has a wicked case of coffee breath. I relax my fingers on the smooth wood and strike the beat.

  Front, side, back, side, side, front, back.

  Toes bat the floor like hot pokers.

  I blink across the room.

  Back, side, front.

  My foot slips a beat, but I manage to catch it. Katherine snaps her fingers faster, gives me a look, and shakes her head.

  Other side. We all turn at once.

  My hand reaches for the barre, and my eyes land on another fuzzy neck.

  Damp auburn hair pulled tight into a knot with a scarf wrapped around it.

  My knuckles whiten.

  Poor barre.

  Fingers relax.

  One foot crosses over the other.

  Knees pulled up.

  Tail bone down.

  Shoulders roll back.

  Breathe.

  With Katherine’s eyes on me, I tense before relaxing into a rond de jambe. The slower tempo is a hot bath to my nerves. Her hands land on the hips of the girl in front of me.

  “Is this the Wild West?” Katherine curls her lip. The girl doesn’t flinch—she soldiers on. When Katherine is satisfied, she moves on to the next body.

  “You know the drill,” she says after barre, waving one group away. My row creeps to the front. The room gets muggier by the second. Moisture crawls down my neck, and I resist the urge to wipe it. It would break the movement.

  The pianist’s ten fingertips lift off the keys. Katherine waves me to the front. Shit. I jog over. My breath is high in my chest. Petit battement.

  She groups me with the guys.

  Ankles, knees, hips.

  Push.

  Lift.

  Lift.

  Lift.

  Higher, higher, higher.

  I spring off the ground, and the musical notes.

  Up.

  Up.

  Up, down, down, up.

  Down.

  Beat: front, side, back, side.

  Look.

  Side, side, back, side.

  Lift.

  Lift.

  Step, step—brush—and… lift.

  Air tunnels under my hips.

  Feet hit the ground.

  Other side.

  The pianist’s ten fingertips lift in time with Katherine’s chin, and the next group is waved on. We rush to the side as her eyeballs slide in their sockets. I could be a feather. Endorphins multiply. I become a petri dish for them. There is nothing like a good sweat.

  The other dancers haven’t initiated contact. They’ve only looked at me with uncertainty, like I am an unusual artifact in a museum display. A small group is sitting together in the corner. I contemplate introducing myself. A male dancer is leaning against the barre, where two girls stretching on the floor are debating who has the best massage therapist. They look up at me.

  Then Kent walks in, and everyone stands up and faces the front. Their postures are so alert; it’s as though they have antennae on the backs of their necks.

  We are all upright in perfectly spaced lines, and there’s dead silence until the chatty guy from earlier, someone called Cory, jogs to the sidelines with a chair hiked over his head. He places it front and center. Kent moves toward it without looking at him. Kent doesn’t thank him or even nod, and he certainly doesn’t sit. Not even close. He paces back and forth at the front of the room as Cory slips in to his spot between two dancers in the second row. Someone clears their throat and places their hand to their mouth as if the sound accidentally escaped.

  The pacing finally stops. The room is more silent. He plants his feet into the ground and looks up at us with what resembles heightened awareness. He’s not looking at us, but through us. He might even be reading our minds.

  If everyon
e was on edge in class, the tension is ten times multiplied in rehearsal. Eyes bug and fingers twitch. The room reacts to every frown, nod, and blink Kent makes. The round clock looms overhead as I rub the back of my slick neck and move through the choreography on the sidelines.

  Circle through, under, and around, turn, turn, turn.

  Pause.

  Move. Move.

  Pause.

  Shift into extension.

  Suspend.

  Look at me, look at me, look at me.

  The clock ticks. Footsteps scatter.

  Bang.

  Another dancer and I collide.

  “Sorry.”

  I bite my lip. Kent doesn’t look. I know, because I am aware of every move he makes.

  Try again.

  Through, under, around, turn, turn, turn, pause, move, move, pause.

  Bodies dodge.

  Sweat runs.

  The damp suit suctions to my body. I tug at it, and it clings back.

  Once more, the music starts.

  Through, around, under, look at me, look at me, look at me. I am aware of every abrupt shift in my body as though out of body, until I’m not, because I’m in it.

  Time stops.

  I’m there. Lost. Caught up. Flying high.

  And then it’s over.

  Kent leaves the room. A few dancers mingle out the door, and the rest stretch on the floor.

  5

  “Branwen O’Hara.” Daniela’s voice pitches high on day two of the ‘audition’ process and day five of sleeping on Judith’s couch, as though she’s finally placed my name and is noticing my existence. “I’m surprised to see you in Manhattan,” she says, as though I’d been banished. The last time I was in New York is not a period of my life I choose to think about often.

  “Where did you dance again?” The other girl eyes me as we wait for the elevator and Kent talks to the receptionist at the other side of the massive lobby.

  “Chances Dance Theater.” I suck in a breath, aware Kent is moving in our direction. The elevator door swings open.

  “That’s not in New York, right?”

  We step into the elevator. I didn’t realize ‘not in New York’ was a destination.

  “An excellent company.” Kent’s shoulders rise as he inhales. The elevator door opens. We step out and onto the second floor.

  Before I can blink my eyes, everyone has found a spot at the barre. There’s not one single open space. My eyes shift when the pianist Katherine refers to as Robert lifts his fingers in preparation before they chomp down on the keys. The introductory chords climb high before they sing low, issuing a warning. Shit. I swallow. I am the only one standing in the middle of the room with nowhere to go. Katherine’s wrinkly eyes narrow over her coffee.

  Lexi steps back from her place at the front behind Daniela and waves me over just in time for the first notes of the stretch to start. I jump in. My heel hooks the barre as my fingertips reach past my big toe and my nose kisses my knee. Home.

  I thank Lexi while we switch sides, and Katherine throws me a stern eye.

  “Miss O’Hara.” She sucks in a breath. “Fingers.”

  My hands relax. Daniela huffs, turns diagonally to the barre, and kicks out an arabesque. After grand battement, Lexi and I lift the freestanding barre we were using in the center of the room to the sidelines.

  Rehearsal is much as it was the day before: tense and focused. After, the room clears. Kent stays behind. He’s working off his phone at the front of the studio, likely writing notes, when I gather the courage to approach him.

  “Miss O’Hara.” His eyes cut into mine. He shoves his device in his pocket and waits for me to speak.

  I straighten my posture and start off by thanking him for rehearsal. It’s a well-practiced formality to fall back on. He nods, pulls in a long inhale, and then narrows his focus in a way that makes it seem like he is thinking. Deeply. He hasn’t decided about me yet. I adjust my shoulder strap, ready to back away without my answer in the thick silence.

  He clears his throat, and I look up to meet his gaze.

  “Your arms need work. They get sloppy the second you forget about them. Sometimes you are a half beat behind the count. I know you like to feel the movement, but I would prefer something less indulgent. Your transitions are mechanical. That might have worked with Raina, but I prefer to see more of you in the phrase. You’re feminine, if not apologetic. Sensitive. Raina has made you tough, and you’ve lost some of your natural abilities. I want you to spend the next six months unlearning everything she taught you. That’s if you’re available?” His focus does not relent.

  “Of course.” It’s not like I have to think about it.

  “Good. I’ll have reception prepare your contract. It should be in your mailbox by tomorrow afternoon.” He gives me one last tight nod and paces out of the room as though he’s already moved onto the next subject on his mind.

  I have a mailbox?

  I let out a big sigh of relief and feel a tingle behind my eyes.

  During the week, Kent is often at the studio in the evenings when I practice by myself. We don’t cross paths, but he watches me rehearse through the window, leaning against the upper level balcony railing. I don’t take it personally. He would look in on any of the dancers practicing his new work, and he never stays long. But, since these moments are my chance—everyone competes for his attention during the day, and there is no way to stand out—I throw myself into the dance. I’m so nervous that my innards could potentially jump out of my body and make a mess on the floor.

  One evening, while I am practicing in an empty studio without the influence of music, I overhear him in a heated conversation. This contributes to my theory that there is something bothering him. When you work with someone closely, you know things about them that other people don’t—like their habits—even if you don’t know one thing about their personal life. You might not know the basics, like if he has family or a dad he never sees because he has a new wife and has been a workaholic since his mom tragically passed away years ago—like me. Anyway, Kent does this thing when his artistic brain fires: he paces. I can practically hear his boots hit the concrete floor, as they often do, heel toe, heel toe, heel toe, as though they might wear an elongated hole in the concrete lobby floor.

  The dance has me flustered and spacey. There is something about his movement that is impossible to articulate.

  The voice does not belong to the under-control director I see day in and day out. It supports my theory that there’s an inferno within him that could melt things to ash if he ever let it out.

  His words are muffled in exasperation when it hits me that I shouldn’t be listening to his private conversation—which I’m not exactly. I take a breath, still flustered, turn the music up, and practice Daniela’s solo. Seconds later, the door to the studio swings open, and I keep dancing with everything inside of me, while I pretend he isn’t there.

  Turn left, look right, and spin… dig.

  Look: around and under.

  Ankles, knees, hips bend—leap—and extend.

  Breath. Races.

  Time stills.

  His presence: everywhere and all around me.

  I strive to embody the meaning behind the movements. When the song ends, it leaves me transformed yet hungry for the potential it promises to become. Kent is still there—the Kent Morgan who makes what we do the success it is. A rebellious strand of hair is trapped in his focused eyes. A golden five o’clock shadow devours his chiseled jaw.

  “Take your time in the opening, and don’t forget to see your audience,” he says, and I look up, half-stunned. It’s the first note he has given me. He usually doesn’t give me the time of day. While I have his attention, I start again. I execute the first few steps and look back to see his reaction. I catch my breath, and his eyes narrow.

  “Once again,” he says. It’s almost as though he sees something that isn’t there.

  I place myself in opening position and move through the
steps again, this time more slowly, taking my time to see the invisible audience he is referring to, which we all know is always there. I make my way through the first section and stop to wait for his approval. He looks like he is thinking.

  “Keep working on it,” he says, and even though his tone is reassuring, I can’t help be impatient to get it right. So I stay late, well past the time he leaves, to practice.

  The next day, I’m sitting on the sidelines.

  “Let’s see the solo from last night.” Kent looks at me, and all the dancers do too. It takes me a moment to believe that he means me. I stand up. Everyone is waiting. He does mean me. I don’t know if I can pull it off. But this is not a debate.

  Pause.

  MOVE. Move.

  Pause.

  The steps are things that can’t be named. I tug at the legs of my suit and walk to the center of the room. The room is dead silent. I don’t know if I can do this. Everyone in the company watches me, but it could be everyone in the universe.

  I remind myself that there are starving children in the world. Yet my hands shake as though I drank three pots of coffee.

  Pause.

  Move. Move.

  Pause.

  I take my time with the first steps, per my notes.

  Side, forward, back. Fall, and—extend.

  I block everyone out. I have to do this. There is no other choice. My arch hugs the space. My arms slice the air. The room is a blur of white. The sounds are a silk envelope. I look out past the fourth wall.