“That’s not the point. I’ve told you over and over how important this audition is to me. I called and reminded you last night, and it would be really nice if my parents showed up and believed in me for a change.”
“Aubrey...” She sighed. “I do believe in you. I always have, but I’m in the middle of a huge hearing right now and you know that because it’s all over the papers. You also know that becoming a professional ballerina is not a stable career choice, and as much as I would love to leave my high-paying client to watch you tiptoe around on stage—”
“It’s called dancing en pointe.”
“Same thing,” she said. “Regardless, it’s just an audition. I’m sure your father and I won’t be the only parents who couldn’t make it today. Once you graduate from college and get into law school, you’ll see ballet for what it really is—a hobby, and you’ll be grateful that we pushed you into double majoring.”
“Ballet is my dream, mother.”
“It’s a phase, and you’re way past the prime age for becoming a professional last time I checked. Remember how you suddenly up and quit at sixteen? You’ll quit again, and it’ll be for the best. As a matter of fact—”
I hung up.
I didn’t want to listen to another one of her dream-killing speeches, and it angered me that she’d called ballet a “phase” when I’d been dancing since I was six years old. When she and my dad had poured countless dollars into private classes, costumes, and competitions.
The only reason why I’d “quit” at sixteen was because I’d broken my foot and couldn’t audition for any of the dance schools anymore. And the only reason I started to show the faintest interest in law was because I couldn’t do much outside of my rehab sessions except read.
My heart had always belonged in pointe slippers, and that fact would never change.
“Aubrey Everhart?” A man suddenly called my name from the theater door. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re next to take the stage. Got about five minutes.”
“Be right there...” I stuffed my bag into a locker. Before I could close it, my phone rang.
Knowing it was my mother calling to offer a half-assed apology, I tried my best not to scream. “Please spare me your apologies.” I immediately picked up. “They don’t mean anything to me anymore.”
“I was calling to tell you good luck,” a deep voice said.
“Two minutes!” A stagehand glared at me and motioned for me to head onto the stage.
“Thoreau?” I turned my back to the stagehand. “What are you telling me good luck for?”
“You mentioned having some type of audition weeks ago. It’s today, right?”
“Yes, thank you...”
“You don’t sound too excited about your dream right now.”
“How can I be when my own parents don’t believe in it?”
“You’re twenty seven years old.” He scoffed. “Fuck your parents.”
I laughed, guiltily. “I wish it was that simple...”
“It really is. You make your own money, and despite the fact that you don’t really know shit about the law, you seem to be a pretty decent lawyer. Fuck them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to steer that subject away. “I’m shocked you remembered that my audition was today.”
“I didn’t.” He hung up, and I knew he was smiling as he did that.
“Fifteen seconds, Miss Everhart!” The stagehand grabbed my arm and practically pulled me onto the stage.
I smiled at the judges and stood in fifth position—arms over my head, and waited for the first note of Tchaikovsky’s composition to play.
There was a rustling of papers, a few coughs from someone in the audience, and then the music began.
I was supposed to demonstrate an arabesque, a pirouette, and then perform the routine that I’d been rehearsing in class for the past month and a half. I didn’t feel like it, though, and since this was one of my last opportunities to make an impression, I decided to dance how I wanted.
I shut my eyes and completed pirouette after pirouette, fouette turn after fouette turn. I wasn’t even on beat with the music, and I could tell the pianist was confused and trying to keep up with me.
I demonstrated every jump I knew, perfectly landing each one of them, and when the pianist gave up and struck the last note, I returned to fifth position—smiling.
There was no applause, no cheers, nothing. I tried to read the judges’ faces to see if they looked mildly impressed, but they were stoic.
“That will be all, Miss Everhart,” one of them said. “Will Miss Leighton Reynolds please take the stage?”
I murmured “Thank you” before stepping off and rushing out of the theater. I didn’t bother watching the rest of the auditions.
For the remainder of the afternoon, I walked around campus and tried not to cry. When I was sure that no tears would fall, I sent emails to Thoreau; that was the only thing that could possibly make me feel better.
Subject: Thinking...
“One dinner. One night. No repeats.” Do you pick a cheap or expensive restaurant? Do you pay for the dinner and the hotel room? Or do you make the woman split it with you?
—Alyssa.
Subject: Re: Thinking...
Expensive dinner. Five star hotel suite. I pay for everything.
Would you like me to book a few reservations for us so I can show you?
—Thoreau.
Subject: Re: Re: Thinking...
Of course not. And a “few” reservations? What happened to just one?
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Thinking...
I told you I’d make an exception in your case. I invested in a box of paper bags today.
—Thoreau
I laughed and looked at my watch. It was five o’ clock and I was sure the results for the production had been posted hours ago, but I was too scared to look. All I wanted was a chance to be a member of the swan corps, or even an understudy for the lead.
Why did I f**k up that routine? What the hell was I thinking?
After driving myself crazy with questions, I forced myself to make the trek back to the dance theater to look at the final cast posting. When I arrived, there was a huge crowd in front of the sign, and I could hear the usual “I’m in! I’m in!” and “How could they not pick me?” revelations.
I squeezed my way through everyone and squinted at the sheet, looking for my name on the minor cast sheet but it wasn’t there.
It was on the major cast sheet, and right next to the lead role of Odette/Odile, the white and black swan, was my full name in bold.
I burst into tears, jumping up and down in disbelief. I wanted to call my mom and tell her the good news, but my heart suddenly sank at the thought.
I knew that at this very moment, she was probably telling my father that I’d hung up in her face, and that he needed to make sure I knew the strings behind them paying for my education: “If you drop pre-law, we’ll stop writing the checks...Pre-law pays for your classes, ballet doesn’t.”
***
I lifted my aching feet out of a bucket of ice and patted them dry with a towel. I wasn’t sure how I was going to juggle a leading role, classes, and a potential internship, but I didn’t have a choice.
Sighing, I glanced at the calendar on my desk where I’d scribbled “Interview prep day” in today’s slot.
My upcoming interview with Greenwood, Bach, and Hamilton—one of the most prestigious firms in the state, was more than just an interview. It was a process, and every intern-seeking student knew that landing an internship at that firm could do wonders for a resume.
The firm was so selective that they conducted four rounds of phone interviews, three online tests, and required each applicant to complete several essays before the final interview with the partners.
I’d soared through the phone interviews and the exams, but the essays— regarding hundred paged case files, were something that I hadn’t expected. I’d even thought they’d sent me the wrong packet so I called to say, “I believe my packet was switched with the law-school level intern application.” The secretary simply laughed at me.
She’d said the firm expected all of its interns—law school level and undergraduate level, to fill out the same packet to the best of their ability.
“Don’t worry,” she’d said. “We’re not expecting perfection from you. We just want to see how your mind works.”
I grabbed the case file that was giving me the most trouble and placed it into my lap. Then I went to the GBH firm’s website and familiarized myself with the three partners who would be interviewing me.
Greenwood, the founder of the firm, was a salt and pepper haired man with wiry framed glasses. He touted Harvard as his reason for being so demanding and thorough, and boasted that in his thirty years of practicing the law, he’d attained one of the highest victory rates in the country.
Bach, partner of the firm for over ten years, was a bald man in his early forties, though he looked a bit older. He’d worked his way up through the firm, and since he was “such a hardworking individual with unparalleled passion,” Greenwood had no choice but to make him his first partner. He had one of the second highest victory rates in the country.
Last was Hamilton—Andrew Hamilton, and he was...He was sexy as f**k. I tried to focus on his biography and ignore his picture, but I couldn’t help it. His deep and piercing blue eyes were staring right at me, and his short, dark brown hair was begging my hands to run through it.
He had the face of a Greek God—evenly tanned, perfectly symmetrical, strong and chiseled jawline, and his full lips were curved into a slight smirk.
Even though the picture only showed the top part of his body, I imagined that by the way he filled out his navy blue suit that there were hard and defined muscles underneath it.
I was getting wet just looking at him.
Focus, Aubrey...Focus...
Strangely, his bio was the shortest one of them all. It didn’t list his education, his background, or the year he became partner. It was just a bunch of filler words about how “the firm was so honored to have such an esteemed and proven lawyer” on their team. Oh, and he enjoyed eating chocolate.
How informative...
I copied and pasted all of their bios into a word document, and then I called Thoreau.
“Good evening, Alyssa,” he answered, making me melt with his voice as usual. I swore he could talk me into doing anything—almost anything.
“Hey, um...”
“Yes?”
God, I loved his f**king voice... He hadn’t said much of anything and I was already turned on.
“You called so I could listen to you breathe?” He had to be smiling.
“I did, actually.” I rolled my eyes. “Are you enjoying my sounds?”
“I’d enjoy them a lot better if you were underneath me.”
I blushed. “Um...”
“The case, Alyssa.” He laughed. “Tell me about your latest case.”
“Right, um...” I cleared my throat. “Long story short: My client carried a gun into a federal bank and forgot to turn on the safety lock. Someone bumped into him and his hands instinctively went to his pocket, and the gun fired—shooting him in the leg.”
“Since when do you practice criminal law? I thought your specialty was corporate.”
Shit... “It is, it is. I’m taking this case for a friend, pro bono.”
“Hmmm. Well, your friend is looking at two to five years in a federal prison if he doesn’t have any priors. What part of this do you need help with exactly?”
“The pleading part. He didn’t hurt anyone but himself.”
“Did he have a license to carry?”
