Alex Ko (15 page)

Everyone clapped, and Stephen gave a gentle wave and nod of his head. He had salt-and-pepper hair and bright twinkling eyes. His voice was soft and he had a British accent, which reminded me of Dad. Eventually, he would become a close family friend and mentor, but at the time all I could think was
Oh, wow! No pressure here. . . . Yeah, right.

I’d done some research and found out that Stephen was a big deal. On top of the
Billy Elliot
musical, he’d directed the movie of
Billy Elliot
and the critically acclaimed movie
The Hours
. Auditioning for him could make or break my career.

The rest of the panel was impressive as well: the choreographer, assistant director, dance captains, etc. These were the people who created
Billy Elliot
. I couldn’t mess up in front of them!

When the intros were done, one of the dance captains stood up and walked to the center of the room.
Click, click, click
went her heels. I looked down and saw that she was already wearing tap shoes.

“Okay, everyone, watch me,” she said without preamble. She broke into a quick tap routine. “Pick it up as best you can, and you’ll have a few minutes to practice while we get in lines.”

I tried not to get nervous that we were starting with tap again. I made my way to the back corner of the room, slipped on my tap shoes, and began practicing. Around me, I noticed a few kids who got the routine instantly, but most needed a little time, like I did, which made me feel better. The tap lessons paid off, however, and I was faster and smoother than I’d been last time. By the time we actually performed the routine, I had it down.

Somewhere in the middle of the number, however, my left foot began to ache. Maybe I’d grown a bit in the intervening months, or maybe my foot was swollen, but either way, the shoe was way too tight. I was still using John’s old pair. I hadn’t told Mom they hurt, because I felt bad about how much this trip cost already. I figured it was just one more audition. But I could feel blisters forming on my foot, and every time I kicked my heel against the floor, the leather scraped my skin.

After forty-five minutes, we finished the tap portion of the audition. I thought I did pretty well, overall, but there were some amazing tappers in the room. As soon as we finished the last combo, another coach stood up.

“M’name’s Kate, and I’m the show’s associate choreographer,” she said, with a bright Australian lilt to her voice. “I’ll be teaching you a ballet routine.” All around me, kids started running for their shoes. There was no time wasted in this audition. Either you kept up, or you didn’t. I wanted to check on my foot, but I didn’t have time to leave, and I didn’t want anyone to know it hurt. They might make me stop dancing, and I hadn’t come this far just to get knocked out over a stupid blister. I switched shoes as fast as possible so no one would notice the red, irritated patch on my heel.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about my foot, even as Kate taught us a strange ballet routine. It was very precise and rigid, and all of our movements reminded me of soldiers marching. It was only thirty seconds long, and it ended with a long series of turns.

“Got it?” she asked after she’d run the number a few times. “Practice for five, then we’ll do it for real.”

Everyone started practicing the routine, but my foot was throbbing so much it was hard to concentrate. When I got to the section with all the turns, I did a few, then stopped.

Maybe if I rest for a second
, I thought to myself,
it’ll stop hurting.

All around me, boys were turning and turning and turning. I felt awkward standing still. I looked at the panel and noticed that Peter Darling, the show’s choreographer, was staring at me. He had the weirdest expression on his face, as though he’d eaten something bad. When he caught me looking, he turned to Kate and whispered in her ear. They didn’t look happy.

My blood froze. I started turning like a tornado. The worst thing you can do in an audition is freeze. Mistakes happen everywhere—even on Broadway—so if one happens in an audition, I just roll with it. Show the casting people that you can think on your feet. Never, ever give up.

The ballet routine was actually kind of easy for me, which was a nice surprise. I’d say I did as well as anyone else in the room, and better than most. But my foot was burning, and I knew I was going to have problems for the rest of the audition.

“Great,” Kate said when we were done. “You guys did great.”

Our solos were up next. They brought us back to the room with the curtain and told us that we’d be here for the rest of the day. They read the list of soloists, and I was toward the end. In gymnastics, being at the end of the roster was generally a good thing. That’s where you put your strongest performers. I had no idea if the same was true on Broadway, but I told myself it was, because it made me feel more confident.

“You can leave that there,” Nora said as she saw me carrying my chair out of the studio and into the solo room.

“It’s actually for my dance,” I responded, blushing.

“Oh! Of course,” she said. “Bring it in.”

Well, I’m definitely going to stand out
, I thought. Jacob, one of the other boys, had gone back to grab his tap shoes, and I knew right away he was going to be the best tapper among us.

Watching the other kids’ solos wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. They were all really good, but I felt like my solo had been special. By the end, I felt pretty confident in my skills—it was my foot that worried me. I wanted to check on it, but I also didn’t want to take my ballet shoes off and risk injuring it more. I bit my lip and told myself I could check once my solo was over. But my heel had gone from feeling tight and achy to hot and liquid-y, and that couldn’t be good.

Right before me, Jacob went up. His solo was amazing. He was one of the best tappers I’d ever seen in my life. If
Billy Elliot
had been about a kid who wanted to be tap dancer, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

It’s a show about ballet
, I whispered to myself as his feet flew across the floor.
I’ve just got to show them great ballet.

“Alex Ko,” Nora called out after the applause died down.

I walked to the center of the room, stepping gently on my left foot. Every eye was on me—or well, on the chair. I nodded to Nora to cue the music. The three seconds of silence before it started were the longest three seconds of my life. The room actually spun before me, and all the nerves I hadn’t felt up until that moment came crashing down on me. What if my foot gave out? What if I didn’t remember the dance as well as I thought?

What if they just didn’t like it?

Then the music came on, and the worries were wiped from my mind. Good or bad, all I could do now was dance.

Chapter 16
Callbacks, Part 2

I
n the final moments of my solo, I leave the chair behind, gesture up to Dad, and bring his spirit down into me as the lights go out onstage. It’s my way of saying he’ll always be with me. Never have I felt his watchful eye and protective hand more than at the callback for
Billy Elliot
.

As soon as the music stopped, the applause began—and my foot burst into terrible pain. I forced a smile. I knew I’d done well. And if the pain in my heel was anything to judge by, I hadn’t held back. The panel seemed impressed. Peter, the choreographer, was nodding energetically when I finished. He whispered something in Stephen’s ear, and they both smiled. All the pain was suddenly worth it.

There were a few solos after me, but to be honest, I don’t remember anything about them. I was focused on how I was doing in the audition, and how my foot felt. I couldn’t wait until the break, when the dancing would be over and I could check on it.

“All right, everyone,” Nora said. “We’re on lunch for forty-five minutes.”

Finally!
I thought. I probed the heel of my foot with a tentative finger. Just touching it hurt. I could tell it was swollen too. Getting the shoe off was going to be painful. But at least we were done dancing.

“After lunch, we’ll be working on acting and accents. But don’t put your dancing shoes away yet,” she hurried to say. My stomach lurched. “There will also be some individual dancing later in the afternoon.”

No!
I thought. All I wanted at that moment was to get my ballet shoes off and look at my heel. But if I took the shoe off, and it was really bad, I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get it back on.

I half raised my hand to get Nora’s attention, but as soon as she looked over, I yanked it back down. I didn’t want to be the problem kid.

It’s only a couple more hours
, I told myself. I thought back to my days as a gymnast. I’d hurt myself way worse back then and still performed. That awful competition had been a blessing in disguise, because knowing I’d done it once gave me the confidence to push through a second time.
Pain is temporary
, I thought.

After lunch, it was time for our individual auditions. One by one, they ushered us into a separate room. The rest of us had nothing to do but sit, wait, and worry. I spent most of the time trying to assign myself points for the various parts of the auditions.
If my ballet was a nine, and my tap was an eight, and my solo . . .
etc.
This kind of thinking can drive you crazy, but it’s hard not to do it when you’re stuck at an all-day audition. Let me tell you, it was a long afternoon.

I was one of the last names Nora called. By that point, my foot wasn’t throbbing anymore, but it hurt as soon as I stepped on it. I must have made some noise, because Nora turned to me.

“Don’t worry, be confident,” she said. She walked me down a long hallway toward the final audition. I was so nervous, it felt like walking to a firing squad.

The entire panel looked up as I walked in.

“Alex, this is David Chase,” Nora said, and pointed to the man sitting at the piano that took up most of one wall. “He’s the musical director for
Billy
. Just follow his lead.”

With that, we jumped right in.
At least we’ll get the singing done first
, I thought. It was the part I was least confident about.

“Take a look at this,” David said as I approached the piano. He pointed to a song called “The Letter.” Immediately, I started to worry. Really literal titles, like “The Letter,” tend to be difficult songs, because they’re often big emotional numbers referring to something specific in the show.

A quick sight read confirmed that “The Letter” was tough. But before I could get nervous, I realized that the song was a conversation between Billy and his mother, who had died. Billy talked to his mom when he prayed, just like I did with my dad.

He’s just like me
, I thought to myself.
All I have to do is play myself
.

Suddenly it was as though I were alone in my room, talking to my father. I shut everything else out.

Dad, I hope you can hear this
, I thought.

“Sing this,” David said, pointing to the first line. He played the opening notes.

“And I will have missed you growing,”
I sang. My voice was firm and clear and a bit sad.

“Now this,” David said, pointing to another line. He had me do this a few times with different parts of the song. After the sixth or seventh, he paused and closed the sheet music.

Here it comes
, I thought. They were going to make me sing it without the score. My palms started to sweat.

“Great,” called out Stephen, the director. “Now come sit up here.”

What?
I thought.

That’s when I realized we weren’t warming up. That was the singing audition. The scariest part of the entire day, and I’d gone through it without noticing. I guess the lessons had paid off.

Yes!
I thought. In my head, I danced with joy.

Stephen pointed to a chair directly in front of the panel. All eyes were on me, and up close, they really felt like a firing squad.

“I’m William Conacher,” said the man directly across the table from me. “I’m the dialect coach for Billy. We’re just going to have you say some easy words, okay?”

“Sure.” I nodded.

He explained that the show was set in rural northern England, where they spoke with what he called a “Geordie” accent. Luckily, it wasn’t that different from the Hong Kong accent Dad had. Until I went to kindergarten, I sounded exactly like him, so I didn’t think this would be hard. All I had to do was repeat after William. He had me say words like
window
, which he pronounced “winda,” and
about
, which he pronounced “aboot.”

I felt silly trading words back and forth, but everyone on the panel seemed impressed. It was like playing a vocal game of follow-the-leader. After maybe ten minutes, William nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.

Apparently, that meant we were done, because Stephen handed me a stack of papers from the script, which he called “sides.”

“Find the emotion in the scene,” said Julian Webber, the associate director, who was reading with me. “Imagine what Billy would be feeling.”