Romance Backstage. Kim Shaw

years. Raven breathed, ate and slept dance, and she was focused and dogged in her quest to be the best at what she did, through it all. And even if she wasn’t at her best on her toes, she knew how to make it appear as if she were. She’d been taking acting and vocal lessons since middle school. She’d learned how to reveal her heart and soul on stage when she performed; she’d also learned how to become a different character, with emotions and motivations alien to her own. This triple threat never let anything come between her and the show.

      Today’s dance routine was not overly complicated. It was a sensual number, with lots of short, multi-movement steps that had to be carried out quickly but still give the appearance of being one flowing, leisurely motion. But even though Raven could see the entire piece on her brain’s view screen, and even though she felt the music moving inside of her, she just couldn’t quite let go and flow with it. She told herself that perhaps it was just her nerves. It had only been two weeks since she’d graduated from Julliard and here she was already auditioning for a role in The Salon, Marvin Barkley’s eagerly anticipated new Broadway show. At twenty-two years old, she was faced with a chance to jump-start her career as a professional stage performer—an idea that was equally intriguing and terrifying. The idea of earning the opportunity to entertain a live audience night after night sent an almost electric shock to her heart when she allowed herself to consider the possibility. She was thrilled to even be there at the Minskoff in Manhattan’s theater district, but what was plaguing her was much more than nerves.

      Raven was distracted and had been ever since she’d found an old, tattered photograph in a plastic storage bin in her parents’ closet earlier that week. She’d stared at the photograph for the better part of an hour, until she heard her mother enter their two-bedroom brownstone apartment. She’d stuffed the picture into a back pocket, closed the lid on the container and returned it to its place at the back of the closet. Later that night, alone in her bedroom with the door securely shut, she’d stared at the photograph again, seeing herself in the face of the woman who’d given birth to her—the woman who’d abandoned Raven, then a robust toddler, on the steps of the Convent Avenue Baptist Church at the corner of 145th Street and Convent Avenue in Harlem.

      Raven opened her eyes, dragging her wandering mind back into the present, and shook her arms violently, attempting to release the tension that seemed to be holding her body hostage. She didn’t have time to dwell on negative thoughts.

      Megan began the count with a rapid clapping of her hands and Raven fell in line. The upbeat tempo began, booming loudly from the speakers, and it was on. Raven’s mind got in the zone, and she moved through the routine, not as effortlessly as she would have liked, but she felt more confident in her performance this time around. Barkley continued snapping directions at them, changing steps and counts, and the dancers onstage went through the routine in part and in its entirety nearly a dozen additional times before he finally called it quits.

      Ordered to take an hour break and then report to the stage left door where a list of finalists would be posted, the dancers filed off stage, faces aglow with hope and desire. Those who would make the cut were instructed to report for rehearsals beginning promptly the next morning. Some of the dancers left to grab a bite to eat. Others jumped on their cell phones or pulled out their Sidekicks and BlackBerries, itching to get in contact with agents, parents or lovers. A few, including Raven, sat quietly toward the back of the theater. She pulled a five-by-eight-inch leather-bound journal from her duffel bag, opened to a fresh page and began to write.

      Raven had been finding comfort between the pages of her journal since high school. On these crisp pages she’d been able to give voice to the emotions that wrestled within her. Her fears and desires were all expressed, along with her pains, triumphs and disappointments. Today’s page needed to shout success—it was the only outcome she would even consider.

      An hour zipped by and as the dancers began to file back into the theater, Raven tucked her journal away and gathered her belongings and her nerve. She joined the throng of bodies converging at the stage door, standing on the tips of her toes as she strained to read the list of names that had been taped to the painted metal. It took several minutes of jostling for a position before she was able to scan the list from top to bottom.

      The lead roles were the characters Selma and Darren. There was a supporting cast of about five other characters with speaking and singing parts, and then there were a dozen ensemble spots. Nineteen spots to be had, yet there were thirty-six hungry performers eager to devour them.

      On the pre-audition application, there were three lines on which the applicant was to place their first, second and third role choices. Raven had only made an entry in the first choice slot—Selma. She was trying out for the lead role and had believed from the start that setting her sights on that role and that role only would keep her guardian angels focused on the goal.

      She scanned top of the list once and then twice, her disappointment at not seeing her name causing her chest to constrict as if all of the air had been expelled from her lungs. She turned halfway, prepared to move away from the list, but stopped, her gaze returning to the white sheets of paper once more. She forced her eyes to move downward for the first time, away from the top of the list. In the middle of the page, her eyes stopped roaming. She’d found her name, written directly below as the first entry beneath the word Ensemble.

      Raven’s disappointment was numbing. It was not until that moment that she realized how terribly strong her desire had been to land the role of Selma. She’d known that there would be more seasoned performers at the audition than she, but she’d also known that her talent as a dancer and her considerable singing and acting skills set her apart from most. She had put her heart and soul into the two-minute videotape she’d submitted the week before, performing a short soliloquy from Porgy and Bess that ended with her singing a few bars from “Summertime.” She was good, damned good. She’d obviously impressed Barkley’s people because it was based on that tape that she was even called in for the dance auditions. She believed with every inch of her being that despite her inexperience and her age, her strength was dance. It wasn’t arrogance that made her feel that way. Her confidence was born from the sheer passion that burned inside of her for dance. She honestly believed that, given the chance, she could bring a fire to the role that no other performer there could. But apparently, there were eighteen other people who were just as talented and at least one who Barkley believed would make a better Selma than her.

      Now that her hopes had been summarily crushed, Raven wanted nothing more to do with the production. She would not settle for a two-bit position in the background. She pushed her way back through the sea of bodies and moved rapidly toward the exit. Raven kept her head bowed, her eyes cast downward to avoid making eye contact with anyone lest they see the tears lining the rims of her sockets. In one instant she was at the theater’s back exit door, reaching out to push the door open. In the next second she was in a head-on collision that left her pink leotard covered with frosty brown iced coffee.

      Raven lifted her astonished eyes from the mess that dripped down the front of her body to two outstretched arms and hands now holding virtually empty extralarge Starbucks coffee tumblers. Her eyes continued to travel upward until they landed on the person’s face. At that moment, instead of feeling the chill of the cold liquid seeping into her pores, all she felt was a flush of heat. Deep brown, apologetic eyes gazed into hers and her pulse quickened.

      “Miss, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

      “I…I’m fine…I’m the one who should be apologizing. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Raven stammered.

      She looked at the liquid pooling on the floor between them.

      “Jeez, I can’t believe this. Here, let me pay you for the drinks,” she said with a sigh.

      “No, no, don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal,” he said.

      Raven shot him a look that was a mixture of suspicion and confusion.

      “What? Don’t be silly. It was my fault, and I’ll cover it. Why should you have to pay for my recklessness?”

      “Perhaps because crashing into you is the single most thrilling thing to happen to me all day,” he said.

      This