Her stomach dropped. "Are you going to report me?"
To her surprise, Andre laughed. "Report the most talented dancer in this building? Hell no." He looked at her seriously. "You're something special. The way you move, it's not just technique. You've got soul in every step."
The unexpected praise left her momentarily speechless.
"But this," he gestured to the notes, "this is Melanie playing dirty. What's your plan?"
"Practice all night," Sabrina said, determination flooding back. "Find ways to make the impossible possible."
Andre studied her for a moment, then nodded. "I'll help you. I've seen enough professional dancers to know what works." He checked his watch. "I do rounds every hour. Meet me in Studio A in fifteen minutes. Bring your A-game."
For the next four hours, Sabrina practiced under Andre's watchful eye. He filmed her movements on his phone, offering suggestions based on years of observation.
"Don't try to dance like them," he advised as she struggled with a particularly difficult transition. "Dance like you. Use your center of gravity as an advantage. Where they rely on conventional techniques, create alternatives."
The burn in her muscles intensified as she repeated the moves dozens of times. By 5:00 a.m., her breath condensed in visible puffs in the cold studio. But she'd found ways to execute every element of Melanie's impossible routine—differently, but effectively.
"You're ready," Andre said finally as she collapsed onto the floor, exhausted but triumphant. "But there's something else you should know." He pulled out his phone, swiping to a video folder. "I've been collecting evidence of Melanie's discriminatory practices for years. Recordings, emails, conversations like the one you overheard yesterday."
The blue glow of his screen illuminated their faces as he showed her clips: Melanie and Jason discussing how to eliminate undesirable body types regardless of talent; conversations about keeping the studio's image aspirational by excluding certain dancers.
"Why collect all this?" Sabrina asked, the tension in her shoulders temporarily relieved as she stretched her tired hands, knuckles cracking.
"Because it's wrong," Andre said simply. "And because someday someone would come along with the talent to expose it." He looked at her meaningfully. "Someone like you."
"Me? I'm just trying to survive callbacks."
"You're Midnight Mover," Andre said, surprising her again. "I recognized your style immediately. You've got thousands of followers who have never even seen your face."
"How did you—"
"Like I said: security cameras." He smiled. "The question is, what do you really want, Sabrina? To get through this audition, or to change things?"
Sabrina thought of Theo, of the deadline, of the $15,000 that could transform his future. "I need this job, Andre. My brother..."
"I understand," he said, nodding. "Then we make sure you get it. But maybe, just maybe, we can do more than that." He showed her another video on his phone, this one of Devon Jackson himself speaking about wanting more diversity in dance. "I have connections," Andre said. "People who might be interested in what's happening here. But first, let's get you through callbacks."
As dawn broke through the studio windows, they formulated a plan that extended beyond just the audition. For the first time since this began, Sabrina felt something new blossoming alongside her determination: hope.
Sleep was a luxury Sabrina couldn't afford. After leaving the studio at dawn, she worked her morning barista shift in a fog, then caught a quick nap in the break room at the community center before callback round two.
Her body ached, muscles protesting the night's intense practice. The sting of antiseptic on fresh blisters made her wince as she applied bandages to her feet. The metallic scent of blood had seeped into her dance shoes—battle wounds from hours of repetition.
Andre had helped her break down Melanie's impossible routine into components, finding alternative approaches for each challenging section. Where the choreography called for a traditional petite allegro requiring a small, light frame, Sabrina had developed a grounded variation with the same timing but different energy. Where it demanded extreme flexibility in confined spaces, she'd created transitions that showcased her exceptional control and strength instead.
"They're expecting you to fail on their terms," Andre had said. "So succeed on yours."
The callbacks were scheduled for 4:00 p.m. At 3:15, Sabrina's phone rang. Andre.
"Melanie changed the choreography," he said without preamble. "I overheard her telling Jason she realized someone had been in her office."
The sudden drop in Sabrina's stomach felt like free fall. "What? How am I supposed to—"
"She's added a partner section," Andre continued. "Each dancer will be randomly paired for a lift sequence."
"Randomly," Sabrina repeated, the tension headache already forming at her temples. "Nothing's random with Melanie."
"Word is you'll be paired with Zoe."
Of course. The smallest dancer paired with the largest. A deliberate mismatch designed for failure.
"I have two hours before my security shift starts," Andre said. "Meet me at the studio. We need to rethink our approach."
Sabrina arrived to find Andre already warming up in the small practice room he'd unlocked for her. The chalky texture of rosin dusted his hands as he demonstrated potential adaptations.
"If they expect you to lift her traditionally, they're setting you up," he explained, his confident voice walking her through options. "But what if you invert the expectation? Use your core strength as the base while she provides the mobility."