This can’t be happening.

My mouth went dry, and I stared at the judge in utter disbelief while trying to process his words. Okay, maybe this wasn't my best performance, but it’s not like I suck!

"A-Are you saying that I'm not...?" I stammered, trailing off at the end. Some questions are better left unspoken.

"Talented, yes. I'm surprised it’s taken you this long to catch on, Miss Sparnak. We all thought you would've given up a couple years ago. Bet on it, even. In the very least, we admire your persistence, but we need to make way for more serious and more qualified candidates. So, thank you, but please, don't come back," the slightly balding man added, clasping his slightly trembling hands before him again and giving me a stern look.

So much for that apology earlier.

Stunned and reeling, I turned and staggered toward the exit, falling into the door in a weak effort to push it open.

"Send in the next person, please!" Mr. Still-Too-Freakin’-Young called out just as the door slammed shut behind me. A spunky teenage boy perked up almost immediately, the green undertones in his hair showing promise of something new.

"Good luck," I mumbled half-heartedly to him, trudging down the hall with my head hung low.

I drove back to my apartment in silence, making it a point to turn the radio off for the time being. You can't force talent. You can't force talent. You can't force talent. Why didn't he just smack me with that foldable chair? Also, why don't actual dancers judge these things?! When's the last time that guy ever danced, the 1400s? Or were there still cave people in his twenties?

The rest of the drive blurred by as my rage continued to boil over. Fortunately, my roommate and best friend was at home, so at least I had someone to rant to who would undoubtedly take my side and see how absurdly harsh that old guy was. Barging in, I kicked the front door shut behind me and blinked in confusion as Alexis jumped away from her apparent date on our tacky sofa. It seems like my timing was only perfect for ruining her heated make-out session.

"Oh, sorry, I...that was loud. My bad, I thought you were alone," I apologized quickly, averting my eyes. I guess I shouldn't really be slamming doors anyways, but it's a bit more inappropriate when she has company. And incredibly embarrassing.

"It's fine! Don't worry about it! He was just about to leave anyways," she assured me, carefully wiping at the corners of her lips to make sure she didn't smear any of her glossy scarlet lipstick. "How was your uh...your thing?" Good to know we're on the level of friendship where referring to something as "your thing" is somehow just as easy to understand as actually saying what the thing is.

"No, you first. Is this..." I dropped my voice down to a whisper, "the boyfriend?" Despite knowing her for nearly my whole life, this was the first guy she had never fully introduced me to, and they've been dating for about two years. Or talking to him for two years...one of those. His name is Marcus, but I was honestly a little worried that he wasn't Marcus and that I might totally insult him. Currently, the guy in question had his back to me, hair hidden under the cover of his hood. Shooting a glance in his direction, I noticed him wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

Yikes, I hope he wasn't touching her face with those.

"Oh, uh, yes! This is Marcus! He's a little shy," she explained before swiftly changing the subject. "There's a new carton of ice cream in the fridge if you're interested! You look pretty stressed out." My smile drooped, brows furrowing in concern. New cartons were for making amends, for faking our way through apologies, for replacing the ones we spent bawling our eyes out over. There were always, always strings attached to new cartons.

Always.

“Call me paranoid, but what’s going on?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady even though I could already feel the panic settling in. My dark eyes flitted across her features, scanning for the familiar signs of betrayal. We might call each other friends, but I’ve never forgiven her. Not since the stunt she pulled in high school.

Alexis paled, caught in a lie.

"It's mint—you know, your favorite," she whispered, staring up with those trust-me-I’m-innocent eyes. People are right when they say actions speak louder than words. I can't believe I called this person my best friend a couple minutes ago.

"Okay,” I croaked, clearing my throat before continuing, “so, what’s the bad news?” There was a long pause, and I could see the words stitching together in her mind. More excuses, more lies, more garbage. “It’s only going to get worse the longer you wait, so you might as well just tell me,” I added with an impatient huff. Her glossy red lips pinched shut, eyes narrowing in defiance.

Fine, I guess today we go to war.