As I walked down the street, little girls kept staring at me and smiling. I wondered why, but then I remembered what I was wearing. It’s hard for someone to pull off the spandex look, even in New York City. I told myself today was going to be perfect.
We hailed a taxi and got in. I coddled my sparkly purse and thousands of questions swarmed my brain.
“Would I be good enough?”
You have to be perfect.
“What if they laugh?”
You have to be perfect.
The cab jolted and so did the questions. A parade was blocking the rest of the way, and we had to walk two more blocks. Soon, amongst the confetti, I saw the sign. The sign millions have seen from around the world was only a few feet away.
It was perfect.
I got in line with my mom and my trusty sparkly purse and began to observe the other girls. The steel door suddenly swung open. Some in smiles, some normal, but most were in tears. The questions haunted me once more. Be perfect, Caroline.
Be perfect.
I walked through that door, and it was like I was in a dream. I was in Radio City Music Hall, home of the Rockettes. We got separated into groups and toured the grand theater privately. Seeing old costumes from the Christmas shows made me wish I was there. The thousands of Swarovski crystals put my bag to shame.
They were perfect.
They marched us in the room we would be dancing in, and we began to stretch. Most of the girls were local and a part of major dance studios, which intimidated me. We had two teachers, and they were both Rockettes.
They were perfect.
First jazz, then tap, then the kick routine.
Step, turn, kick, arm, sway, lunge, lean.
Again!
Step, turn, kick, arm, sway, lunge, lean.
Good!
The pianist pounded away on the keys with no mercy. Hours flew by, and all the dances were completed. Audition time.
Be perfect.
An hour passed, and we got to go get our score sheets off the table. The herd of girls scurried to the table. I saw my letter and glanced at it. I was so disappointed in myself. I shoved the paper in my bag. I got pictures with my teachers and left the building.
As I walked down the street, little girls kept staring at me and smiling. I wondered why, but then I remembered what I was wearing. I took the letter out of my bag and examined it.
We hailed a taxi and got in. I coddled my sparkly purse and dropped my letter. Perfect score.
I was perfect.
