A Duet is a Dance For Two

         Ch. 1—Dancing auditions and the bastard

         BY: AILENAT

Just 5 months ago, I entered this very stadium-sized ballroom and danced in front of the judges. I remembered the sheer excitement I felt, mingled with the nervous insecurity. I didn’t even think that I was going to get chosen.

         The floor, a varnished light maple coloured wood, doused in arrays of brightly shining spotlights. The walls were a polished royal blue, grand in it’s height, as well as width. The entire room was empty except for a mirror, which was plastered upon every one of the four walls and a thin metal railing running alongside the silver mirror.

 Two long tables were set at the far end and a grand mahogany wood piano was placed majestically in the right corner of the room, opposite the door, which led to the dressing rooms. 

I waited in a long line for hours, the imitations of my frightened expression reflected back at me from the millions of other potential dancers. I was exhausted. That very day, I had woken up at exactly 5:00 in the morning, taken the ferry and spent over 3 hours finding the building, switching from one bus to another. Finally, I wasted 2 hours explaining and negotiating with the security guards that I truly was auditioning and not just another desperate failed actor. Of course, all that resulted in me being in this long line of wannabe dancers, waiting for my chance. All that and I had to ward off scraggly-bearded druggies with their stupid pick-up lines and touchy-touchy hands.

I gasped, tasting the stagnant air, the musky locker room smell, mingled with the sweat of 300-something people. I could feel the ham and cheese sandwich made with stale whole wheat bread gurgle in my stomach, bile rising in my throat.

Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes trying to fall into meditation, which always help to relax me before a big recital. I could feel a calm warm feeling wash over me, the kind you get when your sitting in front of the fireplace on Christmas Eve, surrounded by your family. A calm, stable dark evening blue clouded my vision and I could feel my eyelids relax. My hands, which were clenched into tight fists, finger nails digging into my flesh loosened limply by my sides.

Before I knew it, I was standing at the front of the line, facing closed, heavy-looking, tall oak doors, leading to the ballroom. I remember the smooth feel of the velvet rope, my sweaty hands separating from its writhing state to stroke it.

I stared at the doors, engraved lines curling and twisting about, and finally joining together in an intricate design resembling a cross between a flower and a spider web. Hearing the muffled sounds and the door opening, I prepared myself for my entrance, re-enacting my dance steps in my head. Walking into that giant room, I felt fear, anxiousness, and excitement all together, a swirling, liquidized mass of emotions.

“Remlyn Nichols?” One of the judges at the far end asked in a monotone slur. I nodded, placing my bags down near the door and walking to the middle of the room. The lady said my name wrong, but I didn’t correct her. The table was at the very end of the room, stretching from on end to another. 5 judges stared back at me.

I readied myself in the choreographed stance of the beginning of the assigned dance. Every dancer was assigned the very same dance moves. Hearing the music start, I began to dance. My black, worn in jazz shoes made clipping sounds with each step. I heard the music. I heard the rhythm. I heard my panting breaths echoing. I heard the taps of my shoes upon the wooden floors, the swishing of my clothes’ fabric rubbing together while I twirled. I heard, but not felt. I did not feel the stares, or the burning sensation in my calves. I did not see anything either. I was flying.

The music ended, as well as my frenzied dancing, as I ended in a pose. My chest heaved, gasps breaking the haunting silence. Papers shuffling together, a pen repetitively hitting the desk like the ticking of a metronome.

“Great Remlyn. Your results will arrive in the mail in about 2 weeks.” The same lady finally said, breaking the silence. Disappointment spread over me like a tidal wave. I could feel the rejection like a slap on the face.

Taking out my leather jacket from my pack, I put it on, slung my tan-brown pack over my shoulders and walked out. Anxious and worried eyes followed me as I passed the desperate line of waiting dancers, got in the elevator and walked out of the building.

Three weeks later, I was sitting in small hollow in my porch steps, my black German Shepard looking over my shoulder, it’s large furry paw placed lightly on my collarbone. The mailman walked up to me and handed me a handful of little, bland milky white envelopes, along with a giant mustard yellow envelope. The top fold was firmly closed down by a string, which was twirled around two metal pieces in a figure eight.

Cautiously, I unwound the string and lifted the fold. Three pieces of paper sat snug within the confines of the yellow paper. Fingers trembling, I lifted the papers, which concealed my future within them. Lo and Behold, scrawled in huge block-lettered black print were the words ‘congratulation Remlyn Nichols!’

In smaller print were ‘you have been accepted as a background dancer in the theatre dance play ‘Willowy desires.’ I was almost shaking with happiness. A part in this play was like a guaranteed spot in some of the world’s best dancing schools. However, I was also disappointed. I didn’t get any main character spots, not even a spot as the cousin of the main character. I was just a background dancer with no lines and no spotlight. Yet, considering the amount of people, I’d imagine I was lucky. The auditions were a total of one week, each day as much as the day I went, which was maybe 300 people.

On the second piece of paper were lists of people’s names according to their position in the play. I glanced over it briefly, spotting my name in miniscule writing between Daniel Neet and Rosalyn Nodersopher. The tiny names were all crammed together, maybe 26 background dancers all together. Eagerly, I glanced under the main characters to see who was playing Jack, the prime main character. The name “Trevor Denton” stared back at me. I kept staring at it until the name became a blurry blob of black ink. However, despite my intense glares, the name Trevor couldn’t and wouldn’t turn into Remlyn.

And so, the summer passed and here I am now, again, standing outside the large building. The afternoon sun beat down on my back, sweat dripping down my forehead and weaving through my hair.

I spent my summer with my best friend, seeing as I wasn’t going to be seeing him for months, at least not until winter vacation. My family, my mom, dad, three brothers and two sisters all congratulated me and threw me a big party (which I was crying all through). I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes just thinking of all of them.

Toting behind my suitcase, I followed the rush of people on the busy streets and opened the heavy door. A gust of air condition slapped me in the face as I entered, leaving a tingly feeling on my red, sweat-covered face. I bathed in the cool air, feeling the heat from outside and the sweat plastering my t-shirt to my body evaporating away.

My dirty worn-out no-brand sneakers left a smudge of dirt on the squeaky-clean marble-tiled floor. The entire first floor was just marble. Light literally bounced from every corner, giving the lobby a heavenly shine. Down the hall were two glass doors, and painted across it was ‘cafeteria’. Across from there was the elevator and more hallways leading to different dancing ballrooms and theatres.

Remembering the letter had said to meet on the third floor, I headed for the elevator, a metal door between the black and white marble. I grinned, stroking the smooth glassy feel. I passed several dorm rooms and a hanging-out lounge on my trek to the meeting room. The entire place was like a university. There weren’t actually a lot of people in the room, just a lady who was sitting in a desk handing out keys and stuff.

Walking up to her, I said, “Uh, I’m Remlyn Nichols.” She scrutinized me shrewdly, lifting her glasses a bit and boring holes through me with her hawk-like eyes.

Handing me a key and my schedule she said, “Here’s the key to your dorm, the room number is on it. Practices start tomorrow at 7:30.”

I stared incredulously at her. That was it? She wasn’t even going to give a pep talk or anything? No “go out there and give 110 percent?” no cheesy line like “You’re all winners,” or something?

Numbly, I walked out, with a key in hand, a lightly carved 3044 engraved upon the metal. After several twists and turns in the hallways and passing actors, actresses, and dancers, wearing leotards, or with feathers in their hair, I found 3044.

Inserting the key, I entered the dorm, a giant place with a kitchen, a living room with a T.V and a huge-ass stereo and two rooms (each room had it’s own washroom).

“Whoa,” I took an intake of breath, dropping my suitcase and backpack, taking off my shoes and walking dazed around the room. Odd, abstract paintings hung from the multi-coloured walls, the kitchen cupboards were made of a mahogany wood. The entire place was celebrity fancy.

“Remlyn? I thought you’d be a girl,” a deep tenor voice sounded from behind me. I turned to meet a tall, lean guy with a green Mohawk and deep set brown eyes. His mouth was set in a thin frown, leaning casually against the tan couch.

My mouth gaped open. This guy was cute, really cute. If you haven’t already figured out, I’m actually a guy. It’d be embarrassing to think that the whole time, my readers assumed I was a girl. I’m not though. I’m a guy. That, and I’m gay. Big surprise there, huh? I’ve had enough people in high school walk past me calling me a “fag” to know not to say that out loud anymore. I’ve had my share of bruises and battle scars. “No, I’m a guy,” I answered stupidly, still standing mid-stride in the kitchen.

My roommate snorted. “I can see that.” He walked confidently over. “I’m Luke, and if we’re going to be roommates, I’m setting up some rules.”

This guy was really getting annoying. He had this damn confident air around him. “First of all, no going into my room,” at this he glared daggers at me, his chin making a motion towards the closed twin door to the one on the other side. “If I fucking find anything in my room out of place, I’m going to kick your pansy ass, got that?”

I gulped. “Y-yeah,” I murmured weakly, following him along to the fridge.

“Second,” he flung open the refrigerator door, “Top two shelves are mine, and bottom two are yours. No touching my beers.” 

I was starting to think this guy has space issues. “Third, no mixing laundry around. You do yours, and I do mine. If I so much as see your dirty underwear or boxers in the living room or kitchen…”

I interrupted, “You’re going to kick my pansy ass?”

A small smirk formed on his ruby lips. “Better believe it.” He paused, “Fourth, cook your own meals and Fifth,” he hesitated, this time looking me right in the eye, “I’m straight so don’t try anything.”

I opened my mouth. I didn’t even tell him I was gay yet. “How did you know I was gay?” I questioned.

He stared at me, a lopsided smirk gracing his features. “Please, I’ve hung out with enough gay guys to know.”

“Oh.” Trying to make conversation, I asked, “So what part do you play in the play?”

“Cousin.”

I gritted my teeth. “Oh.” I said again. You bastard. Of course, I didn’t say the last part out loud. I’m not suicidal. The guy had muscles. How’s a scrawny pipsqueak like me any threat to him?

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah. Anyways, there’s your room.” He pointed over to a door painted a milky white on the other side of the dorm. “Have fun unpacking.” With that, he walked into his own room and shut it with a slam.

The letter didn’t say anything about roommates. I sighed, and grabbing my suitcases, checked out my room. The walls were a plain white, which of course could be fixed with a bit of paint and some pictures. The entire moderate sized room consisted of a single bed, a wooden desk, a bathroom, a dresser and a closet. Pretty good, actually, compared to the dorms in regular universities, ours was like heaven.

After about 3 hours of getting everything sorted, brushing my teeth (there’s always that yucky feeling after a long trip) and taking a nice long shower, I went out into the living room. The place looked exactly the same as when I left it. It seemed Luke was still in his room, since the door was still closed and loud, muffled music was blaring from the thin walls.

Sitting back comfortably on the couch, One foot flung haphazardly over the couch and the other one stretched out, resting lightly on the opposite arm of the couch, I reached for the remote. Nothing was really on, a little Jerry Springer; Food Network was featuring some grandmother making her “original oatmeal cookies” and an extremely old episode of ‘The Simpsons.’

I was just getting comfy, in my boxers and an old, t-shirt with purposely-ripped holes in them when the doorbell rang. Was there some kind of welcome wagon here that I didn’t know about? I groaned, waiting for Luke to get the door. I was all relaxed and comfortable, and then this. God…it’s a good thing I’m used to annoying early morning calls or I would’ve never gotten up to get the door.

Of course seeing the person on the other side changed my point of view completely. Dyed black hair fell in layered, wavy tresses to his shoulders, striking amber almond-shaped eyes, decked with long black eyelashes peering back at me. Personally, I think he wore eyeliner. He wore a vintage sports jacket, which showed off his broad shoulders and a pair of loose jeans that looked about to fall off his narrow waist. His tall form stood proud, arrogant two feet planted firmly, his stance impeccably straight, the dancer posture.

To say the least, he was hot. I was almost ready to hit on him when Luke’s monotone voice filled my head mocking, his previous statement still burning fresh in my mind: ‘I’m straight so don’t try anything.’ I felt my cheeks heat up from the nagging dirty thoughts that kept forcing themselves into my head. Something to do with grabbing the guy and doing unmentionable things to him. I swear I’m not usually like this. I’m usually a really conservative guy with a CLEAN mind.

In a husky voice, spoken from his finely shaped ruby lips, he asked, “Is Luke in?”

I stared at him in dumb-founded silence. “Er…yeah, yeah, I think so.”

He flashed me a smirk, sarcasm and irritation dripping from the ends of his next words. “Could I see him?”

I blushed, noting that my body was blocking the doorway. Moving away, I gestured for him to come in. Slipping off his chucks, he strolled languidly around the dorm, and finally settling on the couch where I was just so comfortably lying. “So what’s your name?” I asked curiously, sitting on the arm rest on the opposite side of him.

“Trevor,” he answered back lazily, stretching back on the couch, head resting so that he was looking at the ceiling.

I gawked at him. “Trevor Denton? Are you Trevor Denton?”

Finally he glanced over, amused, hypnotizing me with his bedroom eyes, holding that come-hither look. “Yeah.”

I looked away, embarrassed. “Oh. You’re the lead character.”

I could feel him rolling his eyes. “I’d think I should know that,” he countered back sarcastically. I think he was really getting fed up with me. What was it with Luke and his friend thinking they’re so superior? Just because they’re hot, cool, hot, good actors as well as dancers….hot….

He glanced over at me through half-lidded eyes, his lithe body stretched diagonally on the couch. I gulped. Why couldn’t he have at least ugly floppy, oily hair that covered his face? “What’s your name?” he asked in his sultry voice.

“R-Remlyn.”

“R-R-Remlyn,” Trevor mocked, exaggerating my stutter. I blushed, this time in anger. Just because he was hot, doesn’t mean he could be mean. He was mean. I felt like a little boy who just got his toy truck taken from him by a big bully. “So what part do you play? You’re too short to be a lead, huh?” he asked, looking down at me.

“Background dancer,” I mumbled incoherently, staring down at the abstract coloured rug.

“Thought so,” he mused, getting up, and stretching, his eyes glinting in malice, lips curved in a cat-like smirk. With that, he walked off to Luke’s room, opened the door and left me alone. I sat on the couch, fuming. The guy was a fucking asshole. And I’m not FUCKING SHORT.

A/n: if yeah like it, review it. If yeah don’t, ignore it.

Hopefully you do. So review it.

Remlyn rem-LEEN