Turned out I left my diner job at Hillstone only to get a diner job in Las Vegas, because it was the only job I could get. I had no qualifications, no experience outside of waitressing, and nothing past a high school diploma. Pathetic.

But I didn’t let that deter me. I didn’t let my absentee roommate deter me, or the constant wailing sirens through the night, or the dude who spit on the street right by my shoes, or the near-crippling loneliness. I was undeterrable.

It took me three days to find my new job, waitressing at a place called Holy Diner! It was nothing to get excited about, that exclamation mark was part of the name. It smelled like grease and sour milk, and an alarming gray fuzz covered the bathroom floor, but my dad would appreciate the name at least.

When I wasn’t searching for a job, I bought some home essentials: bedding for my mattress—a cheery yellow that reminded me of the wildflowers behind my house—and some groceries. Bronwyn didn’t keep much in the fridge or pantry.

My bank account was getting scary low. Luckily, I was saved by my new job at Holy Diner! and my years of waitressing experience. Never thought I’d be grateful for that.

“Hi, my name is Maggie and I’ll be your server,” I said, smiling wide to a twenty-something couple who slid into one of my booths. “What can I get you to drink?”

The man scowled.

“Can you give us a minute?” the woman asked. “I mean geez, we just sat down.”

My smile wavered. “Of course.”

“Why do we always get the peppy ones?” she asked as I walked away. “So annoying.”

That’s what I got for smiling.

“Are you ready to order?” I asked five minutes later. I knew it was only five minutes because I’d been watching the clock.

The woman blew her breath out so loud, her bangs fluttered. “Finally. We’ve been waiting forever.”

A vein in my forehead throbbed. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the Ja-cobb Salad,” she said, “with no bacon, no cheese, no olives, and with the dressing on the side.”

The man chimed in before I’d even finished writing. “The Romans burger, extra cheese, extra mayo, no lettuce, with your Bible fries.”

I jotted it all down while the woman reamed out the man for getting extra mayo. I grabbed their menus and hurried away. They were one of those tables, the kind a waitress will surrender her tips to avoid. Not only did they have to special order their meal, but I could tell right away the woman would never be satisfied.

First, she thought the lettuce looked wilted. Then she wanted her ham cut into smaller pieces, like she couldn’t pick up a fork and do it herself. Then she asked for a different dressing because she didn’t like the vinaigrette. We were a crummy theme diner with cracked leather seats and old bible art on the walls. What did she expect, a Michelin-star experience?

“Waitress, oh waitress,” a young boy yelled, flicking his hand at me.

I plastered my smile back on and headed over to his table. I’d been there just a few minutes earlier. Four boys and one girl crammed into a booth, practically sitting on one another’s laps. Their faces shone with acne and sweat, they cursed too much, and I swear I smelled angst and hormones on their breath.

Man alive, I felt old. Three hours at Holy Diner! and I’d already aged ten years.

“Waitress, what’s the special for today?” the boy asked. He was reclined near the window with his elbow propped on the sill, his other hand braced against the back of the seat.

“I already told you the specials.” I said, trying to sound polite.

“I can’t remember. Could you be a sweetheart and repeat them for me?”

I sighed. “We have the Red Sea Chowder, Shekel pancakes topped with fruit, and our famous Gomorrah pie, made with pecans and butterscotch.”

The boy smirked. “Red Sea Chowder, as in Moses, parting of?”

“I would imagine so.”

“Not that then, I never did like Moses.” The boy perused the menu like he was picking a pricey wine. “I’ll need a few more minutes.”

I walked away.

“Dude, I’m hungry,” one of the boys said. “Pick something.”

“Whatever, she wants me,” I heard as I rounded the corner. “Don’t mess with my game.”

I snorted. Dream on.

My first shift at Holy Diner! lasted seven hours and by the end, I wanted to cry. I’d had a few nice customers and some okay tips, but all around it had been a rotten day. People were rude, annoyed, angry, cocky, bored, disinterested, and basically jerks. Jerks who gave lousy tips. At least in Hillstone people were friendly as they handed me their leftover pennies.

I undid my apron, which was a reprint of a page of scripture (Dad wouldn’t like that so much), and slipped it into my bag. I was so ready to go home.

“Margaret?” It was my new boss, Craig, a late-forty-ish man with a bald spot, hairy arms, and a skinny tie. He seemed like a nice enough guy. “Could you clean the bathrooms before you leave?”

Nice? Sorry, I meant he was a sadistic gorilla with unresolved priest issues.

I scrubbed the sinks and the toilets, mopped the gray fuzz (which didn’t disappear at all from the floor), and emptied the trash cans. I wiped the mirrors clean, my reflection going from murky, to soapy, to clear. But I didn’t want to see myself, or the gold button-up shirt I’d spilled coffee on, or the black mini that was too short for my long legs. I didn’t even want to marvel at my power bathroom cleaning skills. I just wanted out of there.

This wasn’t the fabulous life I’d had in mind at all.

At least I had an audition to look forward to.

To: Margaret Hale,

---

From: Frasier Hale,

---

Bronwyn and I DID make out. I distinctly remember snow up my back and our combined snotty noses while the horrifying sounds of Nickelback serenaded us. Remind her. Remind her of “How You Remind Me.” And then punch her in the face for not being nice.

You know what, never mind. When I get there, I’ll punch her in the face for both of us. I can take her and I’m pretty sure you can’t. Don’t try either, because she’ll probably kick you out and then where would you go? And how could I visit? And seduce my new girlfriend? Miss Brooke is totally my type. I love that whole pale, buttoned-up, stern matron kind of thing. The things Miss Brooke could do with her ruler! Hot. I’m bored with Kimmi anyway. Too clingy. Too why can’t you get a job? Isn’t one job enough for both of us? I left Vancouver and I’m in Seattle now. Home of the plaid flannel shirt and grunge. I have found my people.

P.S. Sit in the back of the cab, it’s more sophisticated.

---

Three weeks I’d been in Las Vegas. Three weeks working at Holy Diner! and coming home to an empty apartment with a ghost of a roommate. Three weeks I’d spent my off-hours stretching on the scratched-up hardwood floor, trying to maintain my flexibility. Three weeks choreographing a short routine in the living room, pushing the big wooden chest out of the way and dancing around the couch. The space wasn’t big enough so I could only mark it, but I’d done it so many times that performing it full-out wouldn’t be a problem.

Essence Dance Theater was a weirdly shaped building, kind of swirly and round, with a balcony on the roof. It was special—I could tell before I walked in the front door.

I waited inside a hallway full of girls who looked exactly like me: wearing dark leotards and light tights, buns slicking back their hair. Some wore ballet shoes, others had on foot gloves or Undeez—shoes that barely covered the balls of the feet and were flesh-toned so you wouldn’t see them off stage. Mine were ones I’d made myself, cutting up an old pair of ballet slippers and patching them together with nude-colored elastic. A few girls saw them and smirked but I didn’t care. So I couldn’t afford Capezio. I would out-dance every one of them.

Probably.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Truth was, my confidence drained as the minutes ticked by and we waited to get called into the studio. I was a good dancer, I knew I was…for Hillstone. But what if I wasn’t good enough for Las Vegas?

Pictures covered the walls of dancers in beautiful costumes and stunning poses, their bodies rippling with muscle and showing off perfect technique. They were inspiring and somehow mocking at the same time.

Nine a.m. hit and we filed into the studio. The wood floors were polished and smooth, the mirrors spotless. They only made me more self-conscious. I was a giant next to most of these girls. Too tall for ballet, an examiner had once told me. Too tall for partnering. At least I was skinny enough that I’d never had to barf my way through my dance years. I glanced at the girls around me. Not as skinny as most.

The head of the company, Mallory Hugo, sat at a desk in front of the mirrors. She looked exactly like her pictures—an older version of Miss Brooke, complete with bun and downturned mouth, the kind that never smiled. Two people flanked her on either side, one of their choreographers and EDT’s principal male dancer. Another woman stood in front, tiny and Asian, appraising us as we stood there trying not to twitch with nerves.

“Three rows, please,” she said. Girls shuffled to get places in the front. I went to the back—seeing over their shorty heads wouldn’t be a problem.

“I’m Miss Aiko, and I run the dance school here,” she said. “If you get accepted into the Company through open auditions, you will take Master classes with me three times a week.”

Miss Aiko paced in front of the table. Some of the girls hunched their shoulders under her scrutiny. “You should know that it is very difficult to be accepted into the Company when you have not attended the school. We might take one or two of you. Maybe. Even our students have to work hard to get accepted into the Company.”

I felt myself shrinking and put a stop to it right away. I wouldn’t get in if I showed weakness. The runts would be the first to go, and I was no runt.

“I will run through the combination twice, you will have five minutes to practice on your own, and then you will perform in groups of three.” Miss Aiko turned and faced the mirror. “Let us begin.”

The combination was extremely difficult. The steps were strange and a little off the music, and the piece wasn’t pleasant to listen to—screechy, jumpy violins and pounding drums. Everything about it was weird. I think Miss Aiko did that on purpose, to see if we could handle it. My body felt awkward in the movements, but I caught on to the choreography with no problem.

When it was my turn to perform, I didn’t miss a step. My mind took my body through the choreography, but that was the problem. It didn’t feel natural. I was thinking too hard about the steps and I didn’t perform.

“Girls to the middle of the room, please,” Miss Aiko called when we’d all performed the routine. “If I call your name, you will stay and show us your solo. If not, you may leave.”

A couple of girls in front of me grabbed hands. I took a breath. Mallory Hugo handed a paper to Miss Aiko. “Can we please see Shonda Jefferson, Nita Santiago, Katherine McDougall, and Margaret Hale. The rest of you can go. Thank you for coming.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. My cheeks threatened to stretch into a grin. I’d made it into the next round!

The rest of the girls filed from the room while the four of us left stood in a row in the center of the studio.

“You will perform your prepared pieces in the order which I called your names,” Miss Aiko said. “Wait outside until it is your turn. Shonda Jefferson, you may take the floor.”

I waited in the hallway, my sweaty hands leaving streaks on my phone as I tapped and swiped. I hoped I’d picked the right song. A piece of music could make or break a dance number, and I didn’t want to blow it because of that. I went through the choreography in my mind while I stretched my calf muscles. The other girls came and went, and I couldn’t tell if they’d made it in or not. Maybe they wouldn’t tell us today.

When it was my turn, I handed Miss Aiko my phone, prepped on the right song. The three teachers had their eyes on me as I settled into my opening pose.

I performed my choreography flawlessly, made every leap, mastered my quadruple pirouette, and only wobbled a little as I came out of my fouetté. The music ran through my veins, my body responding to every shift in tempo. I didn’t have to think the steps, I just did them. When I finished, I held my head high, my cheeks flushed, my chest heaving.

The four of them bent their heads together. They whispered for a long time while my feet shifted. Finally, Mallory Hugo looked at me, her eyes narrowed into rulers.

“You’re not good enough.”

I stood there, frozen. It wasn’t that I hadn’t understood her, I had. Oh, I really had. But the words themselves had molded my feet to the floor, had paralyzed me against walking away from this humiliation.

“You have raw talent, and great musicality,” Mallory said, her voice clipped and harsh, “but your technique is horrendous. You’re not ready for this company. Or any company.”

She turned her head to the papers in front of her, swiping her pen in a giant X across the page. It was like I’d been released from my paralysis. All I wanted to do was run away and cry.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” I said, my voice thick. And then I retrieved my phone and my bag and left the studio.

“Margaret!” Miss Aiko had followed me out. I didn’t want to face her. Didn’t want to hear more of how I wasn’t good enough. Didn’t know how long I’d be able to keep the tears at bay. But I gathered my courage and turned back.

“You came close, Margaret,” Miss Aiko said. She had to lift her chin high to look at me, she barely came up to my chest. “James, he’s a principal dancer, and I, we both fought for you.”

I swallowed. “Thank you.”

“You have great musicality, like Mallory said, and she rarely gives compliments. But your technique does need work. Maybe if you took some classes?”

My eyes dropped. “I can’t afford this school.”

She placed her hand on my arm, a gesture that said I shouldn’t be ashamed to be poor. “There’s a studio near the strip. Fluidity. They have drop-in classes for a decent rate and their teachers are excellent. I know because I taught there before I came here.” I met her eyes. “Take some classes, train, and come back in the spring.”

I blinked rapidly. Those tears didn’t want to stay away. “I appreciate the advice.”

“You’ll come back?”

I shouldered my bag. Right now I didn’t want to step one pointed toe back in EDT. But for some reason I said, “Yes. Yes, I will.”