-•✦--✦--✦•-
The silence hung round me like stale smoke for a second — then another — before it finally collapsed under its own weight. The noise that followed nearly had me believing I'd smashed the audition, until the casting lot leaned in, murmuring to each other. A few of them looked genuinely buzzed, but the big names were scribbling notes without a word, while others were flicking through me CV for the first time.
It seemed the coin was yet to land. There wasn't going to be an eureka moment where I would be offered the role on the spot. I could only wait for the resolution whenever it would come along.
"Thank you, Wilfred," said a dark-haired woman with a strong Latin look about her.
If I had to guess, she was the casting director — Jina Jay. She was one of the older women at the table, and the rest deferred to her in a way that made it easy to know who she was.
"The mum can come along," Stephen called out.
"Hello," Margaret said awkwardly, stepping up beside me.
"Wilfred Price, aged nine," a young brunette read from the sheet. "Are you aware we're looking for lads aged ten to fourteen? You're a bit young."
I'd just nailed the emotional scene and the first thing they did was to hunt for a reason to knock me back down. For a second, I wondered if I'd misread it all — if me performance hadn't been as good as I thought.
"I'll be ten in a month," I said, sharp and defensive.
She nodded, not exactly pleased. They'd probably seen dozens of bairns just outside the age bracket, all turning up hopeful and leaving after having wasted the precious time of these important filmmakers and professionals.
That's what I get for trying a new technique in an audition. Proper stupid, that.
"Huh," Stephen said. "You've got a fair list of credits." He wasn't really talking to me — more to his panel.
The table all lifted their copies. A couple had to share, seeing as I'd only brought four CVs. I'd thought that was overkill. Turns out, it wasn't enough.
"You were in Doctor Dolittle? Don't recall seeing you there," Stephen said.
Who knew someone into Shakespeare and most likely referred to actors as thespians would deign to come down to the Hammersmith Apollo for a children's musical.
"Shared the role with two other lads, I also wear a big hat." I replied.
"Amazing animatronics," he muttered, absent-minded.
"You're in two films that are still shooting?" Jina asked.
"Aye, ma'am. I came here on me rest day."
Eyes darted round the table, silent messages passing between casting agents, before another voice jumped in.
"Franco Zeffirelli autobiography — how prominent is this supporting role?"
"Not very much, miss," I said. "I'll only be on screen ten to thirty minutes. It's not quite decided yet until post production. I play the younger Luca, who is the substitute for Franco. He likes to call it semi-autobiography. Shoot's on break till summer."
"So you'll be going off to do that?" another woman asked. "Where's it filming?"
Questions came from every side. I hoped that it wasn't a dealbreaker since Billy Elliot would start up late August.
"It's shooting in Italy. All me scenes are in Florence. Studio might be in Milan, but I don't think I'll shoot there."
It felt strange hearing meself say it — talking about me own life like it belonged to someone else, all while stuck in character. Using a dialect to even think and monologue differently while having to balance the memories that my mind rejected. How peculiar.
"Don't you think that's a lot?" Stephen said. "Four credits in under two years — and a full year in theatre."
It was framed like concern, but it landed like an accusation to me.
I glanced at Margaret. She was nodding and smiling regardless of the conversation. Exactly as I'd asked her to.
"I've got supportive parents," I said, smiling faintly at Margaret.
Margaret smiled back at me. Let them see what they want to see. Heads bobbed. Papers rustled as they searched for what must be their new angle of attack.
"Your special skills list is… extensive," Chloe said at last, placing careful weight on the final word.
Somehow the audition had morphed into an interrogation. Margaret and I might as well have been standing in the dock — witch and wizard beneath hot lights, rope and fire waiting just out of sight. I couldn't tell whether we were on trial for underage sorcery or dragged back to Salem. Either way, the silence didn't help. They took it for guilt.
"We'll be auditioning dance skills in groups after this," Jina warned. "Do you want to amend any of these?"
"No," I snapped.
It came out exactly like it had in the scene — sharp, loud and angry.
I shut me mouth, swallowed hard, then cleared me throat. If this was to be a trial, I wasn't going down quietly.
"I've been singing —" I started, then stopped.
Best not to mention timelines. I'd started most things late and caught up fast with graft and revelations. They didn't need another detail to clutch onto.
"Doctor Dolittle's a musical," I said. "I'm trained in singing and dancing because it was required. In my personal training, I also practise gymnastics and tumbling. I play the piano and drums. I speak Italian and Spanish fluently. All of it's true — and I'm happy to prove any of it."
Stephen cut in before Jina could dare me to prove my proficiency right then and there.
"And the dancing — you've got loads listed here. Any competitions? Medals? Certificates to mark your proficiency?"
Me confidence shattered on the spot.
Gilles always said I was so-so at best — shite on a bad day. He'd never once suggested competitions, probably because he'd already assessed I wouldn't get very far. Aurélie praised me, but she praised everyone. She was a Disney princess by nature, physically incapable of not encouraging people. Always the people pleaser.
"No," I said quietly. "I haven't done any competitions. I've only been training two years."
"I see. What would you say is your main style?" Stephen asked, his cigarette had a long ash at the end.
"Ballet," I said, firmer in my confidence.
If nothing else, Gilles' obsession with ballet had to count for something.
Nods again. More scanning of the CV. I'd seen the CVs of some big actors — compared to them, mine had nowt on it. Only one page, no education save for private classes at The Hammond. Four credits to my name. One more on the way — Two if I dared hope.
"Mrs Price," Chloe said, turning to Margaret. "How do you feel about Wilfred's career? Would you say you're as supportive as he says?"
Margaret smiled and nodded — then realised the question was actually meant for her. I'd told her the key to lying and hopefully she would follow through.
"Of course. As for me, I divvin't think it'd gan anywhere at first, but it's been busy, like. Erm…"
She was faltering. I'd drilled her better than this.
"We shouldn't be asking parents at this stage," Jina said sharply. "Parents are only to be auditioned in the next round. If he makes it."
Parents being auditioned? For what exactly?
"Ahem," the only other man at the table cleared his throat. "Are you aware of the shoot dates? We don't want to string you along if you've got multiple projects coming up."
Truth was, I also had Almost Famous booked before Billy Elliot would start filming too, but it wasn't official till cameras rolled and I couldn't add it to my CV just yet. But that would be filmed before Franco's film and they didn't need to know.
"Aye. I'll be free after June."
"You're busy in June?" Chloe asked, clearly displeased.
"Franco's film runs till mid-June." I reminded.
"And you'll be in Italy." Chloe hammered it in.
I nodded. The silent conversation rippled round the table again.
"Right, we have what we need for now." Stephen said. "Take this to Marieke at the front. She'll send you through for the dance audition."
"Thank you." Margaret said, taking a small square paper with a number on it.
Nodding, I took a quick look at the council's expressions before leaving the room. Stephen gave nothing away. His face was serene — almost bored. Having worked as an artistic director at the Royal Court Theatre, he'd clearly learned how to make himself unreadable.
The only other man at the table, aside from Stephen, went unnamed, but he had to be a producer from one of the production companies. Unlike Stephen, he was easy to read. Excitement sat plainly on his face. How much power that gave him in the room, I had no way of knowing.
On one hand, this was Stephen's debut film as a director. On the other, Working Title had reportedly gone out of their way to offer him the director's chair if the news told it true. The casting department, however, had only one person who truly mattered — and Jina Jay had seemed determined to find every possible reason to reject me outright.
"Chin up, man." Margaret said beside me.
The North East dialect was grating on the ears at times.
"Howay man, woman man." I replied kindly.
"Oh, now you've done it. Only me husband gets to say that to me."
"You don't have a husband." I pointed out.
"Exactly." Margaret smiled.
It was a saying that Sally had taught me. Apparently it meant Hurry up, woman. But you would never be able to tell it if you weren't from the North East. They liked to use the word man a lot even if it didn't mean what it did in other places.
Dad was out in the big hall, looking terribly bored. His eyes lit up as he noticed me walking out and the light immediately went out when I shook my head.
"What is it?" He said when we'd pulled up.
"The dance audition is next. I believe it's with Peter Darling." I read off the sheet.
Dad wasn't happy to hear that he'd have to wait some more but he smiled all the same. Before he could say anything, the words came bubbling out of me.
"I'm sorry, Dad."
"Whatever for, sunshine?"
"It's not good to go somewhere without a parent, guardian or chaperone with me. Margaret is neither and… I ended up swearing."
"You swore?" Dad repeated, more confused than angry.
"Yeah. These are the lines." I handed over the sides.
The highlighted dialogue across the two pages made Dad's eyes widen, then his face crumpled as laughter burst out of him.
"You'll be saying these in the film?" He said almost too loudly.
"Yes." I shifted on the balls of my feet.
This was the important part. Mum accepted all my mad schemes, sure — but anything involving swearing or anything even slightly vulgar would not go down well with her. Dad being here was about as good an outcome as I could've hoped for. I had a whole day to convince him the film was fine. There was also the weight of the lies I'd told in the audition room. Confessing to someone else was almost as good as coming clean to another, wasn't it?
"This is some heavy stuff. There's a warning note about other swear words too. What, like?"
"Puffs — poofs, the F word — not just the one you're seeing in there. All sorts, really. S word, T word, W word."
"Funny how you censored that all out but said the P-word. Might as well say it all outright, if you want," Dad said almost daring me.
I paid it no mind, "Also, there's some talk of sex."
"God. Do you even know what that is? Where do you even learn these things?"
"Biology." I rolled my eyes.
"I'm pretty sure that it never came up until Year 9," Dad muttered.
"We haven't really learned it just yet in Biology. But I've got eyes and ears." I scoffed. "It's just stuff kids talk about."
Henry talked about it. So did the lads around the Oval parks. If anyone understood that boys weren't coddled little angels, it was Dad. Mum would've boxed my ear just hearing me say it out loud.
"Is there any depiction of it?" he asked awkwardly.
I tried to think, but there wasn't a way to reveal it without the revelations tightening it's rope around my throat.
"You could ask the casting director. There's also a woman called Marieke — she's the assistant to the director. She might know more than what the sides say."
"They did warn about swearing on the sign-up," Dad recalled, glancing back at the tables. "I just didn't pay it much mind."
The large hall was not as bustling as before but there were actually more people inside the hall than before. At least three more batches' worth of boys to get through. Despite the fact that most children had quieted down, some sort of queue had formed up. The room was starting to smell bad too, sheer amount of puberty being cooped up in tight space would do that.
"I'll go for the dance audition with Marge. Wish me luck." I said with a tap on Dad's elbow.
"Yeah…" he muttered as he made his way towards the signing desk again.
He'd probably get to terms with the swearing. It'd taken some work to get Dad to drive me to Newcastle without Mum. He'd said that he was to go to London anyway and that he would be happy to drive. Perhaps, Mum and Dad had some time at Hanover Gardens since grandparents and I were not there anymore. Hopefully they had some fun and I didn't interrupt their time alone.
—✦—
Marieke Spencer was in her fifties and looked like the kindest woman imaginable. The way she spoke and carried herself made me clock her as a proper theatre kid. She was Stephen's assistant, so it was easy to think that she'd never left the theatre world until now.
"There you are." She said happily. "Peter's that lanky fella there. Take a seat and he'll call on you."
"Howay man." I said, once again trying to pass as a Durham national.
Peter Darling was quite thin as Marieke had described. His hairline had crept up so high from early signs of balding that the man looked almost in his forties. He seemingly had the same advanced aging syndrome that Stephen had. Peter wore a white tee with blue track pants and black and white trainers, perhaps to look younger than he did. It had the opposite effect.
The room was the exact mirror of the audition room that I'd just been to with the stacked chairs that I'd become so used to seeing in rehearsal halls. Boys and their parents sat in loose groups. As usual, most were awkward teenagers going through raging hormones but there were a few who were my height and even a bald kid that had to have been eight years old. So tiny, so cute. Not like me at all, I was almost ten for crying out loud.
"What do you want me to do here?" Margaret asked.
"Chaperone." I replied.
She was unhappy with that ask. Clearly she'd asked for a chance to flex her acting muscles but today just wasn't it. I had some worries regarding what the casting director said about auditioning parents. That's got to be a warning for me from the universe. Cease the fraud or be struck down. Or… it could be alright — every answer was one my mother would give, so in some ways it was not lying.
Come on, remember the slippery slope!
I put on my usual ballet practice gear. White tee, black tights, white socks and white ballet slippers. All of it were approved by Gilles for maximum lines that it would display — the most important thing in ballet. Wearing baggy clothing to a class with him would have me hung and quartered. This collection of boys had not taken a class with Gilles — they wore tracksuit trousers and some even wore combats which most people would know by cargo pants. Worst of all, most wore tees that were at least five sizes too big for them. I could almost hear the French swear words in the air. Gilles didn't worry about swearing as I did.
A lad walked into the audition hall wearing a Newcastle FC strip. Soon as he clocked me, he smirked and made a beeline straight over.
"What ya wearin', puff?" he said.
"Ballet gear."
"Ballet? What are ya — a puff?"
There wasn't much going on behind his eyes. He even looked like a textbook bully — buzz cut round the sides, hair only left on top and gelled down into spikes. Must've spent ages slapping product in and combing it just so for that look.
"No…" I said, honestly baffled.
The doors opened again and two more lads came in. Buzzcut glanced back and jerked his head at me.
"Lads, check this poof ova' here."
They joined him — one blond and chubby with pink cheeks of a ham, the other dark-haired and decidedly average. I caught the name tag on the main one: Lee Darville. He had a big hoop earring in his left ear and was looking for trouble.
"You gonna put a skirt on next?" the fat one sneered.
"Nah, it'll be the makeup. Just watch," the other added.
If they were trying to do an impression of Draco Malfoy and his minions, they were nailing it.
"Divn't bother with them," Margaret said quietly to me. Then she turned sharp. "And you lot — watch your mouths, or I'll box your ears."
Lee scoffed straight away, but his two little shadows weren't so keen to take on a grown woman with authority.
"Where's your parents, eh?" Margaret carried on. "They not clipped you enough? You'd best clear off or I'll tear that earring clean out. I've been in a few catfights meself, I'll fight a hinny as a proper lass would."
Lee's hand flew up to his left ear without him even thinking. Fear flickered across his face as the imagery hit him.
"An' you've got that earring in the wrong ear if you're tryin' to ask me lad out. He divn't swing that way. Now — git!" Margaret stamped her foot.
All three flinched and shuffled off, first steps hurried but they quickly settled to look as casual as possible.
"I think you're worth every quid," I said, full of awe.
"You'd better get a callback," Margaret said, wagging a finger, "or I'll cuff you round the ears an' all."
"I thought you were on my side."
"Mercenary is as mercenary does," Margaret said wisely.
Lee turned back to give me a look that promised payback. Through no fault of my own, I'd already made an enemy just for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Music blasted at ear-piercing volume for a heartbeat, then cut out just as abruptly. Peter gave the speakers an affectionate tap and turned to survey the children gathered around him. The function room now held at least two dozen of us — exactly as many as he'd expected.
"Thank you for coming to the audition for Dancer!" he announced. "As the name rather gives it away, we're looking for dancers — but don't panic. What you can do right now matters far less than how quickly you can learn. We're after potential, not finished product."
The man radiated energy. My stomach fluttered somewhere between excitement and nerves.
"This lovely lady beside me is Lynne Page, and I'm Peter Darling," he continued, sweeping an arm towards her. "We're choreographers. That means we create movement and shape it to whatever the story needs. If we're the artists, you're the oil paint. If we're musicians, you're the strings. So let's see whether we can make some good music together."
At his direction, we lined up by height along the wall. To my surprise, I wasn't anywhere near the shortest. Still, the spread was ridiculous — a good two feet between the smallest and tallest. Fourteen-year-old Lachlan loomed over the rest of us, already six foot three. Puberty clearly had no sense of fairness and some got a blast while others only got a sniff. An eleven-year-old built like my dad would never pass the eye test, it almost seemed cruel to make him audition.
"Follow me," Peter called.
We set off running laps of the room while Peter jogged a smaller circle in the middle so everyone could see him. Dynamic stretches followed — jumps, rolls through the joints, quick mobilisation exercises — one after another. The warm-up barely lasted a couple of minutes, rushed along by whatever timetable he was working to. Better than nothing, I suppose.
"Right," Peter said, clapping his hands. "We're going to learn a routine. Anyone here like hip-hop?"
The lads who'd already hit puberty made their enthusiasm painfully obvious. I glanced down at my ballet kit and immediately regretted my life choices.
At Peter's signal, the speakers burst into life again — full-throttle gangster rap. The boys lit up. Parents, less so.
"We work in eight counts," Peter said over the beat. "Listen to the music. Hip-hop's good for this because the drums are clear and easy to make out. Find the beat. Count it. Hear the bass? ONE, two, THREE, four, FIVE, six, SEVEN, eight."
He demonstrated the first sequence — a simple side-to-side step, left then right, clean and grounded. Two tries were all it took for most of the room to pull it off.
"Too stiff," Peter corrected, pacing along the line. "Let your arms hang loose. Drop the shoulder. Feel the weight hit the floor. That's it!"
The beat looped as we shuffled side to side.
"Now — keep the leg planted. Let the free one move. Five, six, seven, eight."
Another eight count, just as simple, with a small variation. Peter didn't let us repeat it more than twice before layering something new on top. He built the routine steadily — arms added, then hips, then pull-backs and twists. Spins crept in. Tiny jumps. Nothing complicated on its own, but with every eight count, the library of movement grew.
"Right," Peter said, stepping back. "From the top. Let's see what your memory's like. Five, six, seven, eight."
The first beat landed and I ran through everything we'd learned, in the order we'd learned it. Two bars, one combination. Four bars, two combinations. A single measure was never enough for dancers to do anything productive, so we worked in musical phrases instead, letting the music breathe and carry to the movement. The hall felt fuller for the unity we displayed.
"That was very simple, wasn't it?" Peter said brightly.
He had that youth-leader cadence — warm, encouraging, just a touch performative. The sort of fake voice that kept children smiling and compliant without getting them too excited.
"Right. Now we'll learn a thirty-two-count routine, and then you'll dance it row by row."
From there, complexity stepped up quickly. Peter had taught us the alphabet — the basic building blocks — and now he was helping us form words. Eight counts made up a word. Thirty-two counts made an entire sentence. I wasn't much of a hip-hop dancer, but dance was dance. With clear teaching, steady music, and a structure you could map onto the time signature, it all made sense.
The first two eight-count combinations were straightforward. The third introduced floor work. One knee dropped to the ground, the other leg pushed out of a lunge into a rising turn. Simple enough — but painful in tights, my knee protesting sharply against the hard floor. I swallowed it and carried on.
If there was a second audition, I'd have to bring knee pads.
"Good! Great job," Peter said, clapping once. "First row, come up. Let's see where you're at. Face the class. Do the dance. Lynne — hit it."
The problem appeared instantly.
Peter didn't count us in. The music restarted — same track, same beat — but only one of the six boys moved in time. Lee Darville. He looked ridiculous in a football kit, and he didn't move like a trained dancer, but he had rhythm. Real rhythm. He stayed with the beat without hesitation, like it lived somewhere inside him.
A few seconds in, three more lads found the count and snapped into place. The remaining two stumbled along hopelessly, trampling through the steps off-beat, never quite landing where the music demanded.
This was what casting directors watched for.
It reminded me of my first audition for Dolittle. I'd barely been able to dance, but Leslie Bricusse and the panel must have clocked that I was always on time. Technique could be taught. Musicality couldn't. You either had it or you didn't.
Stephen and Ronnie — Lee's mates — didn't have that. You could see it in their faces. They were guessing, they were rushing and dragging.
"Good job, everyone," Peter said kindly. "Back to your rows. Next."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lynne standing to one side, writing briskly in a notebook. Her gaze flicked to the name tags pinned to the boys' shirts — lingering on Stephen, then Ronnie. My stomach tightened.
How many chances did you get? I didn't know. But they'd been marked down.
But one thing was certain — you could never be a dancer if you couldn't feel the rhythm.
The next six all did it on beat and on time. Technical skill varied wildly. A boy named Stuart messed up and only joined in properly the second time they repeated the thirty two count in its entirety. Lynne didn't even wait until he took his place again to write his name down.
The second-to-last group were mixed — some got it right, some didn't. A lad called Thomas slipped during the spin that was meant to launch him from a kneeling position into a side-profile standing pose, but he kept going. Lynne didn't even glance at his name tag.
The pattern was becoming clear to me. You could never be consistently off-beat. You could rush or you could drag, but unless it happened every single time, there was still hope. Messing up a move was different — everyone messed up moves. That was just the technicals, and no one was perfect. Thomas hadn't been marked down because he pushed through his mistake and did his duty.
Back at Hammersmith, performing for thousands, there were always mistakes in every show we put on. Costumes caught where they shouldn't be, trips or slips, missed notes, breath lost to dance choreography. What mattered was pushing through. Looking bad was still better than standing stunned. Flubbing a line was forgivable — freezing wasn't.
Watching an audition like this, especially one without strict technical requirements, one where the skill level was all over the place, made the judging criteria obvious. Understanding how the choreographers were thinking made me hyper-focused on avoiding those specific failures. Being off-beat wasn't even an option — it would grate on my soul. The invisible drum machine in my head let me count half-counts, quarter-counts, the e's and a's without effort. Dancing out of time would be like playing a discordant note. Simply unacceptable.
The skill floor in the hall was too low. I doubted even half of these kids had danced before. If the bar was too low for me to exploit their judging criteria, the only option was to raise the bar.
It was my turn next — the last group of six. Standing in line, facing the class, I couldn't see the others beside me. It didn't matter, I didn't need to compare myself to others. My performance was the only thing that counted.
Dance could be reduced to its smallest components, just like anything else. Movements and counts. Anyone could learn choreography if it was laid out clearly. Anyone who could sight-read music could play the notes on the page.
So what, really, separated someone with the technical ability to do all this from the greatest musicians who ever lived? Why did we still listen to Rachmaninoff or Art Tatum, when everything could be reduced to mechanical precision? Let robots play perfectly notated music at perfectly timed intervals — no one would need musicians at all. You could manufacture the finest Chopin recording in a laboratory and be done with it.
That way of thinking would face humanity's whole voice scream out an answer.
A resounding, unequivocal no of rejection.
Those names were still spoken nearly a century after their deaths because you could hear them in the music. Their soul. Their choices. Their flaws. But more than anything else, their emotion.
That was what I reached for.
I wasn't there merely to hit the right note at the right moment. I had to crash into the keys, lean into the pedals, let the sound bloom, pull it back, cut it dead. Feel it. Shape it. Cut it.
If you stare at the trees, you miss the forest.
I had thirty-two counts — four eight-counts, eight bars of music. Peter had built a combination that climbed in intensity, a third musical phrase would detonate with the beat drop.
Movement came naturally. My body was the piano, the drum, the voice. All I had to do was pour my soul into it and let the music resonate.
One — I slid side to side, loose and fluid, as a snake would trod through the grass.
Two — my feet dragged back and skimmed the floor, friction was optional.
Three — arms, shoulders, neck bouncing to the thud of the bass.
Four — I stamped, shifting from light and flowing to heavy and sharp.
The musical measure couldn't be barred and my energy couldn't be marred by my dance partners.
Five — the bass snapped and I answered with staccato, as a cat startled into leaping.
Six — the connections smoothed out again, fluid as water.
Seven — sharp is sudden, quick is fast.
Eight — flex, hold, catch that quiet breath between moments.
Then it began again.
Only I could see it all.
The whole forest opened up in front of me — the entire musical score laid bare in front of me. I played the notes as the structure demanded, but I filled it with texture, with colour of musicality, with intent of energy. The first count was to set the stage. The second raised the stakes. The third was for the explosion. The fourth was the walk-down.
Rinse but no repeat — change the next loop into a smooth and relaxed take but when the next whole sentence came by again, energy was reapplied. I didn't count the beat as a number, I counted the entire song and sang my duet to it.
That was the music.
Not every phrase was meant to feel the same, and I made sure it didn't. I showed that I remembered every rise and release, every tension and resolve.
And beyond the forest, lay a mountain.
I let them see that I could set my sights far.
"Good work, everyone," Peter called. "Back to your lines. Back to it."
When my group of six walked back, Lee Darville's face had shifted. Instead of anger, as I expected, I saw determination in his freckled face. I'd discarded him for the bully I thought he was — someone who took disrespect at the slightest sign of pushback. He'd promised a payback for something I'd not done before, but now I saw that he would do everything in his power to not be shown up again.
I could only smile at that. He was the boy that Billy's dad always wanted — a boy who liked football and boxing. He'd looked down on dancing, called me and possibly others poofs for enjoying it. His opinion had shifted from seeing me dance and I suddenly had a real challenger now — someone who would take things seriously, someone whose bigotry had been swapped out for competitiveness.
"Now, raise your hands if you have ever trained these styles. First, ballet…" Peter called out.
We were to be divided into another group by the dances that we had a background in. Basic to simple, then complex. Peter and Lynne were testing us as deeply as they could.
I felt an eye on me and shifted to see. Lynne's eyes were on my chest, where the name tag was.
I was being marked down — this time for a completely different reason.