Chapter 9 - The Audition

The conservatory audition began at eight-thirty on a Saturday morning in a building that smelled of rosin, coffee and nerves.

Poppy arrived at eight.

Sienna arrived at seven-fifty-eight.

“You’re late,” Poppy said.

Sienna stared at her.

“I’m two minutes earlier than you.”

“I’ve been in London. I’m different now.”

“You are worse now.”

They smiled.

For the first time, Elena and Richard were in the same room without an investigation, a committee meeting or a court result between them.

Elena greeted him.

Richard looked uncertain, then offered his hand.

“Thank you for how Poppy treated Sienna.”

Elena shook it.

“They treated each other well.”

Richard nodded.

“That’s fair.”

Celeste was not there.

Sienna had told her about the audition.

Celeste had asked whether she wanted her outside afterward.

Sienna had said no.

Her mother had answered, Okay. Call me if you want to.

Sienna had read the message several times.

No argument.

No guilt.

No sentence about everything Celeste had sacrificed.

It felt unnatural.

Maybe healthy things did at first.

The candidates were given numbers.

Poppy was 37.

Sienna was 42.

Naomi from the London program appeared with 18 pinned to her shirt.

She hugged Poppy.

“You made it.”

“So did you.”

Naomi looked at Sienna.

“This is the famous rival?”

Sienna glanced at Poppy.

“Famous?”

Poppy winced.

“I may have told the short version.”

Naomi held out her hand.

“I’m Naomi.”

“Sienna.”

Naomi smiled.

“I promise not to touch either of your costumes.”

Sienna stared for half a second.

Then laughed.

“Good start.”

The audition had three stages.

Technique class.

Repertory.

Solo.

Cuts would happen after the first two.

The old Sienna would have calculated which dancers were threats before barre finished.

The old Poppy would have watched Sienna doing it and started competing with her in silence.

Instead, Poppy noticed Naomi’s turns.

Sienna noticed a dancer with extraordinary feet.

Both noticed themselves losing concentration and pulled back.

The panel sat at a long table.

No one smiled much.

Poppy liked that.

It made approval impossible to chase.

During center work, she made an error in a traveling combination and corrected on the next count.

Three months earlier, she would have spent the rest of class replaying it.

Now she let the mistake die where it happened.

Sienna saw.

During a turn sequence, Sienna came out early.

Poppy saw that too.

Sienna did not look at the panel.

She finished the phrase.

After technique class, candidates waited in a corridor while numbers were posted.

Poppy stood beside Sienna.

“I hate lists.”

“You love lists.”

“I hate these lists.”

Naomi joined them.

“I am refusing to look.”

“You walked here to look,” Poppy said.

“I contain contradictions.”

Poppy groaned.

“Everyone steals that.”

The door opened.

A staff member pinned a sheet to the board.

Candidates moved forward.

Poppy stayed still for two seconds.

Then all three ran.

18.

37.

42.

They were through.

Sienna exhaled.

Poppy grinned.

Naomi said, “I am going to pretend I was calm.”

Repertory was harder.

The choreographer taught a fast section, changed counts halfway through, then asked dancers to perform it in groups of five.

Sienna thrived.

Poppy struggled.

She missed an arm pathway twice.

On the third run, she stopped trying to remember the shape as separate pieces and listened to the rhythm.

It worked.

Afterward, the second list went up.

Naomi was through.

Sienna was through.

Poppy’s number was near the bottom.

Still there.

She laughed out loud.

“What?” Sienna asked.

“I thought I was gone.”

“You weren’t.”

“I know. That is how numbers work.”

The solo round took place after lunch.

Candidates could watch from the back.

Poppy had decided to perform the contemporary solo she began in London.

She wore simple black rehearsal clothes.

No costume.

No decoration.

No story explained in advance.

Mr. Laurent had told her that if a dance needed a paragraph before the music began, the dance was unfinished.

Sienna went before her.

Her solo was not the classical variation Poppy expected.

It began in silence.

Sienna stood with her back to the panel.

For several seconds, she did nothing.

Then she moved.

Poppy recognized Amara’s influence immediately.

There was control, but not the polished control Sienna used to wear like armor.

The movement seemed to interrupt itself.

A phrase started and broke.

A turn stopped halfway.

Sienna repeated one gesture—a hand reaching toward her own shoulder, then pulling away.

Poppy watched, stunned.

This was not the dancer from the regional final.

Or it was, with something unlocked.

When Sienna finished, the silence before applause was real.

She walked offstage breathing hard.

Poppy met her in the wing.

“What was that?”

Sienna’s eyes widened.

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t tell me yours.”

“Fair.”

Poppy’s number was called.

She stepped into the studio.

The panel looked tired.

That helped.

She placed herself in the starting position.

Her music began.

The solo had grown from the idea of repairing something without hiding the repair.

She had not told anyone that.

She did not need to.

One movement crossed her ribs where the costume had been cut.

Another repeated with increasing space.

The final phrase required her to move backward without looking, then stop before the edge of the floor.

During rehearsal, she had hated it.

Now she trusted where she was.

When the music ended, she was standing upright.

No dramatic collapse.

No final reach.

Just stillness.

The panel wrote notes.

One member asked, “Who choreographed this?”

“I started it with a coach in London and developed it with my teacher.”

“What was the source?”

Poppy hesitated.

She could give them a polished answer.

Instead, she said, “Something happened at a competition that made me realize I was treating every opportunity like it could disappear if I didn’t earn it perfectly.”

The panel member looked at her.

“And has that changed?”

“I’m working on it.”

A few people smiled.

“Thank you, Poppy.”

She walked out.

Sienna grabbed her.

“That was very good.”

“You’re biased.”

“I am literally competing against you.”

“Old habits.”

They waited another hour.

No final ranking would be announced that day.

Offers would arrive within seventy-two hours.

The uncertainty was almost worse than a result.

Outside, Elena had brought sandwiches.

Richard had bought coffee.

Naomi’s parents argued gently about parking.

It felt ordinary.

Poppy liked ordinary.

Then Sienna’s phone rang.

She looked at the screen.

Mom.

She stepped away.

“Hi.”

Celeste’s voice was careful.

“Is it over?”

“Yes.”

“How did it go?”

“I think well.”

“Did you like your solo?”

The question stopped Sienna.

Not Did the panel like it?

Did you like it?

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

Sienna swallowed.

“Poppy was good.”

“I’m sure she was.”

No edge.

No comparison.

Sienna looked across the lobby at Poppy laughing with Elena.

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for not coming.”

Celeste was silent.

Sienna almost regretted saying it.

Then her mother answered.

“You asked me not to.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

“But I’m learning wanting something does not mean I get it.”

Sienna closed her eyes.

“Okay.”

“Would you like me to come for dinner tomorrow?”

Sienna thought.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

They ended the call.

Poppy approached.

“You good?”

Sienna nodded.

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked if I liked my solo.”

Poppy understood the significance immediately.

“That’s new.”

“Yes.”

Elena drove Poppy home.

Richard took Sienna.

Neither girl talked much.

They had spent years imagining that important auditions ended with a feeling.

Triumph.

Disaster.

Certainty.

Instead, they ended with hunger and sore feet.

On Monday morning, Poppy was in mathematics when the conservatory email arrived.

She saw the notification.

Her heart stopped.

She did not open it.

Maya leaned over.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Open it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’m in maths.”

“You have never cared about maths.”

“I suddenly care deeply.”

The teacher looked toward them.

“Something to share?”

“No,” both said.

Poppy waited until break.

She called Elena first.

“Don’t open it without me,” her mother said.

“You’re at work.”

“I have a break in six minutes.”

“That is unreasonable.”

“So is raising a dancer.”

Poppy waited six minutes.

Then they opened it on video.

Poppy Reed,

We are pleased to offer you a place in the Autumn Trainee Programme...

Poppy stopped reading.

Elena screamed inside the staff room.

Someone in the background asked if she was all right.

“No,” Elena said, crying. “I’m excellent.”

Poppy laughed and cried at the same time.

Then she called Sienna.

No answer.

She tried again.

Still nothing.

Her happiness tightened into fear.

Finally, a message appeared.

Can you meet after school?

Poppy stared.

She typed:

Did you get the email?

Sienna:

Yes.

Poppy:

And?

A long pause.

Then:

Meet me.

Poppy spent the rest of the school day imagining rejection.

At four, she found Sienna by the river.

Sienna held a folded sheet of paper.

Poppy approached slowly.

“I got in.”

Sienna looked up.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Naomi posted.”

“Of course she did.”

Poppy sat.

“I’m sorry.”

Sienna frowned.

“Why?”

“I assume—”

Sienna handed her the paper.

Poppy unfolded it.

We are pleased to offer you a place...

She looked up.

“You got in.”

“Yes.”

“You absolute idiot.”

Sienna started laughing.

Poppy hit her shoulder.

“I thought you were rejected.”

“I wanted to tell you in person.”

“You could have written ‘good news.’”

“I wanted drama.”

“That is my thing.”

They laughed until people walking past stared.

Then Poppy read farther down.

Sienna had been offered a place.

So had Poppy.

Different training tracks.

Same program.

The relief was enormous.

Then practical reality arrived.

Fees.

Housing.

Travel.

The trainee program included partial bursaries, not full support.

Poppy’s face changed.

Sienna saw.

“What?”

“The money.”

“We can apply.”

Poppy looked at her.

“You sound like my mother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Never say that again.”

Sienna folded her own letter.

“My grant can cover most of mine when I turn eighteen.”

“That’s good.”

“What about you?”

“Bursary. Work. Loans maybe.”

Sienna hesitated.

“My dad said the competition restitution money—”

“No.”

“I wasn’t offering.”

“Good.”

“I was going to say the sponsor might have a progression fund.”

Poppy relaxed.

“Oh.”

“See? You are traumatized by generosity.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“It is accurate.”

They sat by the river with two offer letters between them.

Three months earlier, a single scholarship had seemed large enough to justify every fear in the adults around them.

Now both girls were staring at a future that cost more, demanded more and promised less certainty.

Poppy smiled.

“This is terrible.”

Sienna nodded.

“I know.”

“We worked this hard to get more problems.”

“Yes.”

“Are we doing it?”

Sienna looked at her.

“Yes.”

Poppy folded her letter.

“Yes.”

The choice was not a trophy.

It was a commitment.

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That made it more frightening.

It also made it theirs.