Five. There are only five bodies between Kya and the part. All lean, all strong, all hitting their marks. But she’s better. She has to be better.
The choreographer demonstrates four full counts for them to memorize and mimic. The first round is without music. The echo of his verbal cues and fingers snapping ring in her ears. Kya breathes and knows the routine. Kick ball change, slide, cross back, turn, flick—the snaps cease. Nothing but heavy breathing and anticipated heartbeats.
“Thank you 12 and 35.” Kya’s chest warms beneath her bib that reads 27.
“Now let’s see how the rest of you move to the music. Impress me.”
Kya resets and closes her eyes. She waits until the beat builds and the count off. Then she lets go. She moves her body, her head, her face, her eyes. Turn, flick—the music cuts. She tries not smile, she killed it. The choreographer struts towards center stage.
“Great Ladies. Thank you three.”
“Thank you 27.”
Kya feels her heart drop to her stomach. No matter how many times this happens, that heart drop always steals her breath. She nods and slips away, off stage left.
*
Six. That was her sixth audition this month and it wasn’t even halfway through. But Kya tried not to think about the numbers. She didn’t want to think at all. She was getting better at getting closer to the finish round. She was one of three. Only a matter of time before she was one of one.
So, for now she gathers her bag from the dressing room and throws an oversized sweatshirt on to cover her pale purple leo. Kya slips on wool socks and worn-out running sneakers, wraps a scarf around her neck, and shrugs into a black winter coat. It’s easier now to glide back onto the midtown streets and blend into the background. Disappearing after disappointment always helps soothe the burn of rejection. She can become nameless and relatively faceless. Just another number in a chorus line.
Kya caught the yellow line downtown, exiting on the border of TriBeCa and Chinatown. She climbs the three flights to an over-priced Pilates studio and sees some of the same girls that had been in the audition just an hour before. She takes a deep breath and settles in again, feeling at home in the company of broken hearts.
After an hour of breath technique, legs in straps, and abdominal burning hundreds, Kya drags herself home. Or rather the four-bedroom nestled in Nolita shared with two best friends and an FIT student transferred from Michigan. It was a third-floor walk-up and Kya’s calves burned from the strain. The apartment felt quiet, all her roommates were either at work or school. It was only 10 in the morning.
Kya goes to her room to strip and shower. She stares in the mirror at her body, turning this way and that. She was dancer-thin. Her muscles display taut against her skin. A deep inhale reveals her ribs. She lifts her arms and inspects the rash that had developed under her armpit, on the side of her breast. Too much friction, not enough air. She was never getting enough air. Even without body fat, she felt weighed down all the time. Kya closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She counted to four. And then she releases. She looks back into the mirror and lets out a strangled laugh.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to New York City Hours to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.