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attentively listening and learning, with their damn push-up bras and all. At first my mind is too frozen with fear to make sense of the choreographer’s words or movements. But then it dawns on me the combination is very basic. I can handle this. Everything around me drops away but the steps in the routine. Over and over in my head. Over and over on the floor. Maybe I can actually do this.
    We’re being divided i nto groups of five to perform the routine. It’s our group’s turn to perform and my legs will be pure jelly if I look at the judges. I stare at a spot above their heads and focus on the combination. Even though the steps feel under control, my lips stick to my teeth when I try to smile and my legs tremble. Repeat what you practiced. Discipline yourself. Just repeat the steps. The judges look so serious. Don’t look at them! Just repeat the steps, except maybe do a double pirouette at the end instead of a single.
    It’s over. You can s top smiling. Relief feels sweet, but it’s short-lived because we’re being lined up to cut.
    I’m not cut.
    I hear myself laugh, the muscles in my face and neck relaxing. This feels good, exhilarating. My confidence picks up. Some dancers are trudging out the door and I look away.
    Next comes learning the jazz co mbination and this doesn’t go well. My confidence wilts because I can’t keep up. The steps just aren’t as familiar. The choreographer and her assistant move much too quickly. There’s no air in this bloody room. What’s wrong with the air conditioner? Sweat can’t evaporate off the sweltering bodies. It flies from a dancer’s face and hits my cheek as she turns. I look around desperately, wiping my face with my hand, not able to concentrate on the choreographer’s instructions. Finally, another dancer punches open a fire exit door. Hot air swirls lazily into the room, mocking us. Now, each breath feels like drinking scorching hot coffee. I force my mind back to the impossible task at hand.
    Waiting for my turn to audition, I go over and over the pattern of steps in my head. When my group is called, my shaky legs somehow get me to the floor and I steel myself for the music to begin. The auburn-haired dancer who smiled at me at the beginning of the audition is among those watching on the sidelines. She catches my attention and points to her mouth, exaggerating a smile. Obediently, my lips peel back and my teeth shove forward. She mouths, “You look like a horse.” It makes me laugh and relaxes me a tiny bit.
    The choreographer signals our start with a , “Five, six, seven, eight.” My legs and arms are getting through the combination with few, if any, mistakes, but my body feels clumsy and my movement forced. It seems to go on forever, my facial expression feels frozen, my feet clopping awkwardly through the routine. The combination’s finally finished and I can’t get off the floor quickly enough. I blew it .
    The auburn-haired girl’s group performs next and as she glances my way, I forget my worries and give her a big, encouraging grin. She’s very good, her movements sharp and clean, but her talent is beyond good dancing. She uses her face well, with animated eyes and a brilliant smile. Other dancers seem to make almost grotesque faces trying to look sexy, the smirker among them. But who am I to judge with my sole performance expression being that of a horse.
    Now they’re lining us up, making cuts, keeping only one or two dancers from each group. My group is next.
    “You may stay,” the choreographer says, pointing. “Everyone else, thank you very much.” I feel a stab of disappointment, humiliation even, and gather my belongings. My aim is to get out of here as quickly as possible and my feet fall over each other to the exit. How could I have let Liam talk me into this? I can’t decide whether I’m more embarrassed or angry. The smirker is in my path on the way out and embarrassment wins. She looks triumphant. I want to hurt her.
    My