“Twenty-one.”
Relief floods his face, and he exhales deeply.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Twenty-six.” He scans my body for a second, as though he’s reading the language of my movements. “Despite the control I had at the auditions today, I have almost no weight in the final choice. They can pick any one of you, even if I say otherwise.”
The tiny hope he’d given me might have been false after all. “The choreographer dislikes me,” I recognize. He was introduced at the end of the auditions, so I’m certain he’s the man who’ll arrange the aerial silk routine.
Nikolai relaxes his shoulder on the locker again. “Ivan doesn’t dislike you.”
My chest inflates with more positivity.
“He actually hates you,” he says flatly.
It pops just like that.
“Amour won’t last the year if we don’t find a replacement,” he explains. “The Masquerade is threatening to shut down the show, and it needs the aerial silk act to complete the story. So Ivan is under a lot of pressure, as am I, and as will be my partner.”
I want to believe that I can handle the pressure. I can say it every day, all day, but actions speak louder. I haven’t ever been tested to this degree. Nothing this grand has weighed on my shoulders. I can barely even imagine what he’s going through.
“And it doesn’t help that you’re not Russian.” He checks the clock on the wall and heads to the exit.
I frown, his words ringing in my ears. “What does that mean exactly?”
He glances back. “It’s aggravating when you can’t communicate with someone. He tried to cut your audition short because of it.” With this, he curves around the corner, disappearing out of sight. I hear the heavy door open and then click closed.
I stand up, more uneasy but a little more prepared than before. I pocket the false hope like a gem, refusing to believe it’s fake for now. I need it. He gave it to me because I needed it. I won’t let it go that easily.
Act Five
I made the first cut.
I send the group text to my parents and my brother and then another text to Shay. I walk down the long carpeted corridor of the casino floor in sweat pants (over my leotard)¸ still in a daze about the verdict. An hour ago, Helen called my audition number along with Elena, Kaitlin, and another girl’s. I almost couldn’t believe it.
Nikolai even made a point to nod at me when she announced that I made it through to day two of auditions. Maybe it was a pity nod, but it fuels me for the final round tomorrow.
At first, I planned to decompress in Camila’s apartment, maybe finish Bite in the Dark, a vampire romance that I’m three-fourths through. But I think couch-surfer protocol forbids me from loitering. I sleep and go. And sleep again.
So I decided to take advantage of Vegas and soak up the atmosphere while I’m here. If I don’t land the role, then I may never have the opportunity to return to this city again.
The slot machines ping and glow—a group of thirty-somethings clustered at a roulette table. They simultaneously cheer, raising their beers and cocktails. Everyone here seems to be on a high, skiing up it or sliding down.
The energy is new, and I feel a smile pull at my cheeks. Life is slow in Ohio. Not a bad slow. Just different. Vegas begins to take hold of my senses, drawing me deeper into the casino’s sins.
Evening hasn’t set in yet, so the crowds aren’t as thick as they could be. I mosey around the tables and slots, watching people gamble from afar. I understand the enticement of throwing dice, playing cards, and pressing a button.
It’s the dream, right?
To be granted money without any real work or effort. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you look like, where you come from—we all have the same odds.
Vegas may be a genie, willing to grant wishes, but it’s also a devil in disguise, here to slay our dreams just as quickly.
While I observe a really confusing game—craps, I think—my cell pings.
Duh, you made the first cut. Booking my plane ticket already. – Tanner.
I smile and try not to think about my realistic parents, who’ve probably made plans to pick me up from the airport.
Before I pocket my phone, it pings again.
Natalie and Jordan miss you. They keep asking when you’ll be back. – Shay
He’s lying. For one, Natalie and Jordan didn’t even notice when I had bronchitis our freshman year and missed three practices. If we didn’t share a single commonality—the girl’s gymnastics team—I doubt we’d even be Facebook friends. I text quickly: I’ve been gone for a day and a half.
This is reason enough that no one probably misses me. I wouldn’t even miss myself for that long.
I think I’d need a solid month. Then I’d start missing myself. Maybe.
He replies back with a devil emoji. I send him an angel one.
Right as I return to the craps game, I spot someone familiar dealing cards at a blackjack table. My feet lead me there before my head does.
“Oh no,” John says as I approach. “This table is reserved for non-AE artists.”
“I’m not an artist yet,” I tell him, resting my hand on an open stool. “I’m just a gymnast.” If I’m really unwanted, I can go wander aimlessly somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find a good reading bench.
John looks surly, so I begin to back away.
“Wait, wait,” he says slowly and motions for me to return. “It’s been a quiet afternoon, and I’m predicting an onslaught of loud, obnoxious fraternity guys. It always happens. It’s an easy day and then fucking tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing douche bags roll in, pretending they’re professional poker players, leaving two-dollar tips and bottles of brown spit.” He shuffles his cards. “But if you sit here, you’ll most likely detract them from my table. You’ll be my asshole repellent.”
I hesitate to ask. “Why will I repel them?” I settle into the open seat, taking the invitation regardless. I mean, I don’t have many options. Or friends here. So yeah, I’m left with moody John Ruiz. It’s not bad, all things considered.
His eyes flicker to my black leotard and loose pony, flyaway pieces of dirty-blonde hair around my oval face. “They go for the empty tables or the ones with models. You’re neither invisible nor a model. No offense.”
“None taken.” I’m glad he doesn’t ask about my auditions. Not dwelling has alleviated some stress. I watch him shuffle another deck. John wears a tux with a gold bowtie, the dealer’s uniform, and he scowls so much that his forehead wrinkles.
“You have RBF?” I blurt out. I internally grimace. Why did I ask that? Maybe I can relate to someone else who suffers from Resting Bitch Face. I’ve bonded with a girl on the gymnastics team that way. We unite together. But it’s not like that term is common or even a “thing” with lots of people.
His face scrunches more and he gives me a weird look. Then he says, “No, I’m just a bitch.” He smiles dryly.
I can’t help but smile back. And the corner of his mouth even rises in a more genuine one.
“What’s your bet?” he asks me.
“Can I just watch?” I didn’t bring any money to the casino, and this is a pretty expensive table.
“Elbows off the table,” he suddenly tells me.
Okay, that must be a rule. I don’t even know proper poker etiquette. I quickly take them off. And then he passes me a glass bowl of Chex mix. “I’m usually not this nice. But you look like you need a friend, and I’m never that friend. Never.” He shakes his head like this is cemented in truth. “This is only because you’re working for me today. Incentive to stay when I become surly at two-thirty. Happens every afternoon. Prepare yourself for it.”