If by Nina G. Jones Page A

selection process, they said they had chosen the dancers.
    “Miller. Stockton. Putanescu. Lynn. Munn . . .” The list went on until we were all thanked. “Campbell” was never announced.
    This one stung more than the others. Sure, I could have been encouraged by it. It was the closest I had gotten to a legitimate gig, but if I had gotten this far, that meant they were open-minded. I knew I fucking nailed it. I knew I did. Sometimes you know. But it wasn’t enough, and I wondered if I ever could be enough.
    As usual, I denied the doubts a permanent home in my thoughts.
    I would be fine. The pain might last a little longer, but that’s just part of show business. And I signed up for it.
    I swallowed back the heavy lump in my throat and made my way to the bathroom as quickly as I could. My bladder was ready to explode while I waited on the results and the only good news about getting them was that I would finally be able to break the seal.
    I ran into a stall, slammed the door closed, slid the lock in and almost audibly sighed as I peed. Not long after, a parade of girls came through all chatter and giggles.
    A few more stalls slammed and then they commenced their conversation.
    “Did you see that girl run out of here? I think she was really devastated. I thought she was gonna cry.”
    “You mean the one with the face?”
    “Yeah. I feel so sorry for her. I wonder what happened?”
    “Probably a car accident or something. Unless Freddy Krueger paid her a visit.”
    A few of them burst into laughter.
    “That’s mean,” another said.
    “Oh come on. She put herself up there to be judged.”
    “For her dancing.”
    “No, her whole image. They wouldn’t pick a three hundred pound dancer no matter how good she is. They aren’t going to pick someone with a face like that. This is LA, the most superficial place on earth.”
    “It doesn’t have to be,” said the one who called them mean before.
    “Listen, I am sure she’s a wonderful person. And she’s actually really pretty on her good side. But unrealistic expectations aren’t doing anyone any favors.”
    “I guess,” the girl replied.
    At that point, I was sobbing into the sleeve of my arm warmer so that I wouldn’t make a sound. With just a few words, I was immediately transported to freshman year of high school when some cheerleaders told me not to bother auditioning because I wasn’t up to their “physical standards.” I was small. I was defeated. There was a heavy pit the size of a bowling ball inside of me full of despair. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional.
    I always had visions of something like this happening, and me triumphantly strutting out, saying something like “My face may be covered in scars, but I will never be as ugly a human being as you are.”
    But I just wanted to shrink into the size of an atom and drift away. I felt the ugliest I had felt in a long time. I felt insignificant. I didn’t feel triumphant or defiant.
    I wanted to forget this entire experience and never talk about it again.
    So I waited for them to leave.
    I slipped out of the stall, washed my hands and dotted my face with tissue, but my eyes were swollen. I exited the bathroom as discretely as I could. The girls were in a cluster down the hall, but one of them spotted me and her eyes widened. I ducked my head down and passed them. They started murmuring, but I got out of earshot as quickly as I could. I just wanted to make the last few hours of my life disappear.

    ASH
    I felt like shit about how I walked out of Bird’s place in a panic. I would understand if she didn’t want to see me again, but I wanted—needed—to see her.
    Muse. I always mocked that word. Cliche. Weak. Sentimental. I was independently brilliant. Eccentric. Productive. I didn’t need a muse. But apparently you don’t get to choose. A muse didn’t just inspire, I learned. She rips the art out of you like a predator rips out guts. It’s messy, it’s brutal, but the artist has no