Page 14 of One Last Encore

Whatever. Responsibility was a scam, and accountability? Optional. At least, that’s how it worked for everyone else in his life. Beck was just trying to keep up.

And, as always, the shitstorm had started with Rodney.

Italwaysstarted with Rodney.

Beck had been looking forward to a chill night of bad TV and worse takeout when his brother called, slurring something about "a misunderstanding" at a bar. Which meant someone was bleeding, and it was probably Rodney’s fault.

He’d picked a fight with two random guys over... God only knew. A look? A vibe? Maybe he just needed an excuse to swing his fists at something other than his own reflection. Whatever it was, Beck got the usual call at 1 a.m.Come fix this. Now.

So, he did. Again. He handed over the last of his cash to a bouncer built like a vending machine, muttered half-hearted apologies to whoever Rodney had nearly decked, and hauled his idiot brother home like a drunk sack of poor life choices.

That was Beck’s life. Rodney started fires. Beck cleaned up the ashes. Not because he wanted to. Because no one else would.

Their dad had ghosted before Beck could even spell ‘abandonment’. And their mom? She was a wildcard. If she called once every few weeks, it was practically a family reunion.

So yeah, when Beck got that scholarship to Juilliard senior year of high school, he didn’t just leave Philly. He bolted. Full sprint. No rearview mirror. He would’ve majored in interpretive didgeridoo if it meant getting out. It gave him space from the mess that was his family, put two hours of highway between him and all of it. Breathing room.

His dream had been jazz drums. But the competition was fierce, and he landed in percussion. Fine. He could work with that. Timpani, vibraphone, triangle–he’d hit whatever they gave him. Anything was better than staying.

And just when things were stabilizing, surprise: Rodney moved to New York.

Because of course he did.

One minute, Rodney was picking fights in South Philly, and the next, he was fronting Beck’s band. The Defectors’ lead singer bailed, and somehow Rodney slipped into the vacancy like he’d been waiting for it all along.

Their dynamic hadn’t changed. Rodney ignited. Beck extinguished. Only now the fires were bigger and occasionally featured backup vocals.

Now, junior year had barely begun, and Beck was wandering the dance wing of campus, hungover and undercaffeinated.

Everything was clean. Bright. Floaty. It smelled like eucalyptus and judgment. He already missed the orchestra wing, where things were dustier, louder, and no one cared if you wore the same hoodie for three days straight.

He checked his phone. Fifteen minutes early. Fantastic. He could’ve grabbed coffee. Or a bagel. Or just stayed in bed, far away from whatever this collaborative class was going to put him through.

This semester, he was required to work with the dance department. A concept Juilliard adored: interdisciplinary partnerships, creative synergy, blah blah artistic growth. Beck was convinced it was all code for"please suffer together for the sake of the arts."

He wasn’t thrilled. Dancers had a reputation. All sharp angles and sharper discipline. He pictured getting paired with some overachieving ballerina who spoke only in tempo markings and lived on celery water. She’d hate his rhythm. He’d hate her posture. It would end in violence.

This was going to be painful.

As he approached the dance studio, the unmistakable strains of Tchaikovsky drifted into the hallway. His brain instantly processed the melody, he’d studied his compositions so much last semester that his eyeballs nearly detached in protest. Swan Lake. Classic. Dramatic. Kind of depressing.

Curious, he peeked through the studio’s open door, drawn in by the haunting melody.

Inside, a single dancer moved across the floor, her back to him, her every motion impossibly fluid, like she wasn’t even bound by the laws of physics. She spun, extended, leaped, all with the kind of precision that made him forget, for just a second, that he was supposed to bedreadingthis class. Andjudging by the three people sitting at the front of the room, this was some sort of audition.

Beck folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, watching.

Elevated on her tiptoes, she seemed to defy gravity, gliding across the floor as if floating. Every movement was seamless, controlled, so effortless that it looked like second nature. Beck found himself completely enthralled. Mesmerized.

It was hypnotic, the way she spun, her blonde bun rotating like the hands of a clock, marking each perfect rotation. She didn’t just dance. She became the music. The swan-like grace of her arms, the delicate arch of her back–it all told a story without a single word.

And Beck was sitting there like a damn idiot, holding his breath.

She spun again and again. A blur of motion that should’ve made your head spin, but somehow, it was impossible to look away. Then, just as suddenly, she stopped, perfectly still, her back arched and her chest rising and falling with quick, steady breaths.

"Thank you, Ingrid. Roles will be released next week."

The judge’s tone was so monotone it made Beck blink. Excuse me? That was it? A thank you? No applause? No gasps of awe? No immediate crowning of her as Ballet Royalty?

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