Cinderella's Shoe Won't Fit!

Aubrey Lane

Aubrey POV

The hallways of Brightwater Institute of Performative Arts buzzed with life, a constant parade of ambition and beauty in every direction.

Even at eight in the morning, it felt like walking through the set of a movie - every student impeccably dressed, voices bright and confident, dreams practically radiating off them like neon lights.

And then there was me.

The worst part of being invisible is that people still find ways to see you when they want to.

Not in the way that matters - not when you are trying to be heard, when you are raising your hand in class, or when you walk down the halls hoping someone might, just once, say hello. No, they only see you when they need something to mock. A punchline to a joke. A reminder of what they don’t want to be.

I am used to it.

So when I walked into the auditorium for the senior play auditions, I already knew what to expect. The usual whispers. The sideways glances. The not-so-subtle snickers from Samantha Heller and her perfectly toned, terrifyingly beautiful army of clones.

I keep my head down as I shuffle toward the back of the theater, hoping to blend in with the shadows. Not that it ever really works. You can not hide when you take up space the way I do.

I sank into a seat at the end of the row, heart beating a little faster despite myself. This was not new. Every year, every project, it was the same story. I was lucky if I got to play "Townsperson #3" or "Girl Carrying Basket." There was no reason to think today would be any different.

Still… a tiny, stubborn part of me dared to hope. This was our senior project after all, with how I would never had the opportunity to shine, it might as well be the last time I'll stand on stage... I shoved it down.

Miss Rebecca Davies, our drama teacher, stepped onto the stage with her usual flair, her bright red scarf trailing behind her like a superhero’s cape. "Welcome, future stars of Brightwater Institute!" she greets, her voice filling the grand auditorium. "As you know, this year’s final project will be critical in determining your graduating marks - and, potentially, your future careers."

A ripple of excitement - and anxiety - moved through the room.

"This year, we are doing something a little different. A musical."

The front row exploded into gasps and delighted murmurs. Brightwater’s acting department rarely did musicals - that was usually left to the separate musical theater division. A musical meant bigger risks. Bigger rewards.

It was true that most of the people in this departement requested to take singing classes, but it was never something that we ought to do. So, it was a suprise that a musical was what was decided upon..

"A classic reimagined," Professor Davies continued, pacing slowly. "A story of resilience, transformation, and defying expectations. Ladies and gentlemen… Cinderella."

Samantha actually squealed. I saw her clutching the arm of her best friend, Laura, both of them practically vibrating with excitement.

Of course.

Of course it would be something like Cinderella - a story where beauty is everything, where grace and charm win the day.

My fingers curled into the sleeves of my sweater.

A murmur spreads through the room. Excitement for some, disappointment for others. I do not react. Not because I do not care - I love acting. I love the stage, the way it transforms you into someone else, someone braver. Someone who does not get laughed at for existing.

But there’s no place for me in Cinderella.

I already know how this will go. Samantha will get the lead. She is the kind of girl people expect to see twirling in a glittering gown under the spotlight. Beautiful, thin, perfect. She was born for roles like this.

And me? I will be lucky if I get cast as a tree.

"Now, now," Miss Davies claps her hands, bringing the chatter to a hush. "We’ll begin with lead auditions first. Let’s start with our potential Cinderellas. Who’s feeling brave?"

Samantha was already standing, a perfect vision in her tight jeans and designer top. She stepped forward with all the confidence of a queen accepting her crown. Behind her, half a dozen other girls - all tall, thin, gorgeous - rose to their feet.

The usual suspects.

Girls who could be on the cover of a magazine. Samantha, of course, is first. She smiles, flashing pearly white teeth, and gives me a pointed look before sauntering onto the stage.

"Shocking," I mutter under my breath.

Samantha delivers her audition with the grace of someone who is already won. Perfect posture, perfect smile, perfect voice. The room practically sighs in admiration.

I sink lower into my seat, relief flooding through me. That's that. She will get the role, and I will get to stay comfortably unnoticed.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Samantha delivered a near-flawless monologue that had half the theater applauding. Even I had to admit, she looked the part - glowing, graceful, radiant.

Blonde, thin; she was Cinderella no matter how anyone looked at it.

Professor Davies, however, remained unimpressed. She scribbled notes without lifting her gaze.

And then, a voice rang out from the front row, sugary-sweet and laced with poison.

“What about Aubrey Lane?”

The words hit me like a slap. My stomach dropped.

There was a beat of silence - sharp, cutting - and then a ripple of laughter. Heads turned. Smirks bloomed. Samantha’s smile widened as if butter would not melt on her tongue.

Professor Davies looked up, brows knitting. “Aubrey Lane?”

My throat went dry.

“Yes,” Samantha chirped, flicking her golden hair over her shoulder. “I mean, shouldn’t everyone get a fair shot?”

Another giggle from her clique.

I wanted to disappear. To melt into the seat, dissolve into air.

But it was too late. Professor Davies nodded thoughtfully, glancing my way. “She is right. Come on down, Miss Lane.”

The world tilted. My vision tunneled. My legs moved without permission, trembling as I stood. I felt every eye following me as I made the long, humiliating walk down the steps toward the stage. The whispers grew louder, crackling like static in my ears.

By the time I reached the stage, my hands were shaking. My breath came shallow.

Professor Davies handed me a script, her face unreadable. “Page four. From the top.”

I stared at the paper, unable to focus on the words. My hands were slick with sweat.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said gently.

I swallowed hard and began.

My voice wavered, weak at first. I stumbled over the first line, cheeks burning hotter than ever.

Someone snickered. Another whisper.

I pushed through the lines, even as my throat tightened, even as my chest ached. My hands clenched the script like a lifeline. I sang the short melody, quiet and breathy, nowhere near my best.

When I finished, a strained silence filled the theater.

Professor Davies was still scribbling. Samantha was whispering into Laura’s ear, giggling.

I stood there, exposed, raw, waiting for some verdict that never came.

“Thank you, Miss Lane,” Professor Davies finally said, her tone neutral. “You may return to your seat.”

I nodded stiffly, my feet numb as I climbed back to my seat.

The whispers didn’t stop. Neither did the laughter.

I sank into my chair, wrapping my arms around myself, staring hard at the stage to keep the tears at bay.

Instead of feeling proud, or relieved, or even hopeful, a crushing weight pressed down on me.

I had been shoved into the spotlight. And it felt exactly like standing there naked.