I could hear him sighing and tsk-ing, could hear the other hopefuls murmuring, but as I twirled around the stage and transitioned from an arabesque to a grand jete, their talking stopped.

The notes lingered longer—darker, as the song progressed and I made sure each motion of my hands was smooth and graceful. As I leapt across the stage and completed a series of perfect pirouettes, I could see Mr. Ashcroft rubbing his chin.

Before I knew it, I was in a trance and I was dancing in the middle of Times Square, underneath flashing lights and a star-filled sky.

I continued dancing long after the last note, humming the additional refrain that most pianists ignored, and I ended by leaning forward on my left leg—holding my right one in the air behind me.

The panelists stared back at me. Their faces expressionless.

“Are you done, Miss Everhart?” Mr. Ashcroft asked.

“Yes…”

“Good. Now, get the hell off my stage.”

I stood upright and bit my lip to prevent myself from breaking down in front of them.

“Thank you very much for the opportunity…” I grabbed my bag and rushed off stage—running down the hallway and outside the building.

I stopped in front of a trashcan and bent over, waiting for the inevitable vomit.

Deep down I knew that I was a good dancer—that I’d just danced my heart out, and I honestly felt like I deserved a second chance.

The thought of failing had never crossed my mind when I signed up for this audition, and the option of returning to Durham was too painful to bear.

Heaving, I tearfully weighed my options: 1) Go home and rejoin Mr. Petrova’s dance program. 2) Go back inside and tell the panel they’re all f**king idiots, or—

“Miss Everhart?” Someone tapped my shoulder.

I spun around, finding myself face to face with a stoic Mr. Ashcroft.

“Yes?” I wiped my face on my sleeve and forced a smile.

“What you just did on stage was rude, unprofessional, and horrible. It was the worst thing I have ever seen a prospective dancer do and I didn’t appreciate it all…That said, be here on time for the second round next week.”

My jaw dropped and I didn’t get a chance to scream or say thank you.

He was already gone.

I pulled out my phone, anxious to tell someone that I’d made it to the next round, but I had no one to call.

All I had were angry texts from my parents, tons of their missed calls, and I knew better than to reach out to them right now. They didn’t really give a damn.

I searched for Mr. Petrova’s number—hoping I’d saved it, but an email from Andrew appeared on my screen.

Subject: Your Resignation.

I was tempted to open it, but my heart wouldn’t let me do it. He was the main reason why I fled here, and I didn’t need him intruding on my new life.

I deleted his message and decided that I wasn’t going to think about him anymore. All that mattered now was ballet.

Months later…

Rebuttal (n.):

Evidence introduced to counter, disprove or contradict the opposition's evidence or a presumption, or responsive legal argument.

Andrew

The fall season came and went, taking the changing leaves and amber sunsets with it. New interns filled the positions at GBH, new cases and clients packed the calendars, and as winter enveloped the city, one thing remained clear: Durham was only one step above the shit ladder when compared to New York City.

At least when it came to the winter, anyway.

This was the coldest winter the city had experienced, and since it was a Southern town, they were ill-prepared. The courtroom I was currently sitting in featured blankets lined against the windows instead of proper insulation, and there were space heaters jutting from every outlet.

There were few salt trucks available to control the icy streets, even fewer people who actually knew how to drive in such weather, and for whatever reason, there were no more suitable women available.

“Andrew?” Mr. Bach tapped my shoulder. “The prosecution is done with the witness…Are you going to redirect? That last line might have influenced the jury.”

“Permission to redirect, Your Honor.” I stood up from the table.

The judge nodded and I stared at the woman on the stand. She’d been lying through her teeth since this trial began and I’d had enough.

“Miss Everhart—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, Miss Everly, do you believe that leaving your husband in his time of need was what was best for your company?”

“Yes,” she said. “I told you that during our first meeting.”

“No.” I shook my head. “You told me that you loved him and that your sole reasoning for leaving him was because you thought he didn’t love you back. Is that not true?”

“It is, but—”

“So, because he didn’t say that he loved you on your terms, because he told you he was actually incapable of loving you that way, you decided to leave him. Didn’t you?”

“No…I left him because he was spending the company’s money on unnecessary things and cheating on me.”

“Did you ever think about his feelings?” I asked. “Did you think to simply ask if your leaving would affect him—whether you were on good terms or not?”

“He was…” She was breaking down. “He was cheating on me…”

“Was he? Or did you just want more than what he was willing to give you emotionally, Miss Everly?”

“Please stop…”

“Is it possible that you could be making all of this up?”

“No, never. I would never—”

“Is it possible that you’re a f**king liar?”

“Order! Order!” The judge banged her gavel and the jury gasped.

“Counsel, my chambers. NOW!”

I stared at the fake tears falling down Miss Everly’s face. This case was a wrap.

I walked into the judge’s chambers and shut the door. “Yes, Your Honor?”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Excuse me?”

“You just called your own witness a f**king liar.”

I looked through the window, seeing that the bailiff was handing her a box of Kleenex.

“Are you on a new prescription?” she asked. “Drinking? Smoking something other than Cubans?”

“Because I’m having one bad day in court?”

“Because you’ve had several bad days in court.”

“I don’t recall calling any of my other witnesses f**king liars…”

“You called for an objection during the reading of a verdict.”

“Maybe I didn’t like the sound of it.”

“Maybe, but you never mess up in my court.” She paused. “Ever…Please go get yourself checked out, Mr. Hamilton. I’d really hate to be the judge presiding over your very first loss.”

She motioned for me to follow her out of her chambers. She took a seat in her chair and announced that the current trial was being postponed due to a rare rule brought up by the defense, and that we would reconvene two weeks from now.

Relieved, I closed my briefcase and ignored a red-faced Miss Everly.

“Mr. Bach,” she said, glaring at me, “I would really like for us to win this case, so could you please—”