Page 68 of The Failed Audition

Iam sweating.

Not the sexy sweat that glistens with a thin beautiful sheen—if that’s even real. I’m starting to question television and movies and humanity. My red Ohio State shirt issoaked.

In two hours—I’ve done pull-ups, sprints, kettle balls, curls, a plethora of weight lifts, dead lunges, jump rope, and now I’m staring at a vertical beam that resembles a stripper pole, but it’s ten times higher and covered in rubber. I already know I’m going to have toclimbthe pole, my muscles shrieking at me to stop now.

Nikolai breathes heavily like me, hands on his sides, his bare chestglisteningwith sweat. He joined me on the torture-filled workout. It’s a hellish version of what I would’ve done this summer for gymnastics conditioning.

He really is the devil.

But he claims this is his normal routine, only modified for my height and size and discipline.

“When do…we practice…” I pant and gesture to the aerial silk light-years away from me. “…on that?”

His rolled red bandana collects his sweat, damp strands of hair hanging over it. “When you’re strong enough.”

I’ll be soaring forty-feet in the air without a harness, so I understand his concern. But… “You forget that I do an aerial hoop act every night, and I’m strong enough for that.”

He takes two lengthy strides near me and seizes my bicep. He lifts up my arm and points at the reddish burns that mar my skin, from armpit to elbow. “If you were strong enough, you’d be able to support your entire body weight to avoid this.”

“Hoop burns are normal.”I think.The friction of the metal and my skin is like a version of a rope burn—not the most pleasant sensation. “The other girls at Phantom have them.”

“The other girls at Phantom aren’t trying to join Aerial Ethereal.”

He makes a lot of sense.

“No complaining,” he adds, dropping my bicep. “Rule number one.”

“I was just kindlymentioning…something.” My mind travels away from me, especially as he rests a firm hand on my shoulder. My chest falls more deeply than before—and he seems to notice, eyeing my ribcage. Yet, he keeps that hand in place.

“Use your core.” He rests his other palm on my abdomen. “And climb halfway up. If you can support your entire body weight with just your hand, extending your body away from the pole, we’ll move onto aerial silk.”

I blow out a breath.I can do it.Even though I’ve never done that before—I can still do it.My cheerleader sounds less assured than usual.

When his hands fall, I near the pole, clasping it firmly. One more breath and I make the ascent, using the tips of my toes but mostly my arms, my muscles pulling tight.

Up.

And up.

You can do this, Thora.It’s the lamest mantra in the history of mantras. I know this. But it’s the best one I have. It’s the one I always use, clearly. And still, the overuse doesn’t diminish its effect.

I keep my swift pace, the ceiling closer.

And closer.

Then halfway up, my quads spasm.

No.I try to block it out.

Don’t think about it.

I climb a bit higher, and the spasm clenches my entire muscle, spindling towards my ankles.

A cramp.

Twocramps. They’re not the little ones that I can shake off. It’s the crippling kind—from too much strain and maybe not enough hydration.

“Thora!” Nikolai calls.

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