Unnaturally Green by Felicia Ricci Read Free Book Online Page A

(1) that this woman’s name was either Corinne or something else, (2) that we would learn a combination that pieced together the hardest ensemble dancing from the show, and (3) that our audition would, for whatever reason, be accompanied by live drumming.
    Actually, we weren’t told that last part, but it was probable from the fact that there was a man sitting on a stool behind a drum set. Maybe he would provide snare, high-hat drum kicks every time I would make a joke, and by “make a joke” I mean try to dance. Whatever the case, the drums felt extravagant—like the callback mattered all the more. Which made me feel all the worse.
    “Okay,” said Corinne, “Let’s start with the ‘Hoi Polloi.’”
    This sounded like a Vietnamese sandwich, but was actually a dance routine involving much stepping, pivoting, changing of direction, and general chaos. The main challenge, it seemed, was not only to remember which foot to walk on when, and in which direction, but to do so while looking like you had no joints.
    As soon as the music started I jolted forward and slammed into Edvard Munch and then a table.
    “I’m not so much concerned with your getting the steps right,” Corinne said to us as the wall and I met. “I want to see that pop, pow! I want to see you hitting it .”
    As she said this she threw her body forward with full force then stopped her momentum by going completely rigid. She did this a few more times, apparently to demonstrate some choreographic sequence, but I saw no pattern whatsoever; just an endless cycle of stopping and starting, each time with board-straight limbs, as you might do when you are nervously, and indecisively, fleeing the scene of your own crime.
    “Okay, let me see you guys give it to me .”
    The drums cut in, as if to startle us into dance, and it kind of worked. My lower body moved in whatever direction it wanted, aimlessly walking back and forth, while my upper body essentially just did The Robot.
    It was obvious the guys were way better than we of the fairer sex. Even though the two girls looked more like dancers than I did—which is to say, their outfits didn’t resemble an incontinent sailor’s—I was pleased to see that we were in the same boat: discombobulated and miserable. In between each pass at the routine together we cowered in the corner, where we were on the one hand united by suffering, and on the other hand fighting off a Lord of the Flies instinct—poised for strangling, punching, gouging, hair ripping. You know: your usually audition-y stuff.
    After about 20 minutes the door opened and Craig the casting director entered, his collar popped, his head hanging down to consult his smartphone.
    This was the worst thing that could happen, in my opinion, as I was at that moment bright red, my hair so drenched it looked like I had just gone swimming. I glanced around. Everyone else was dry and Edvard Munch’s hair was miraculously kempt.
    “Okay, are you ready to break off into groups? Let’s see guys, then girls. C’mon, give it to me .”
    Drum fill, followed by a blast of music. The guys took off, prancing around like the best of them, hitting each step with ease and agility.
    “Girls, let’s do it up. Make it count and work it .”
    This was the inevitable moment of judgment, when we had to “perform for real.” Whereas before it was somehow not the actual audition, now it “counted,” which is ridiculous-sounding, I know, but that’s how dance auditions go.
    The music kept vamping, drums keeping a steady beat, until we were off.
    As I propelled forward, I kept my knees locked while standing on my tiptoes, swiveling around, shooting out one foot forward, then the next. I basically just flailed, hoping my willingness to injure myself would count for something.
    I mean , look at me!
    I was the most insane robot dancer you’d ever seen , whipping and prancing around like it was my last dying wish to convulse to live drums.
    When it was over I found myself