The air in the private studio is so thick with the scent of floor wax and Diane’s perfume, something heavy, like bruised lilies, that it feels hard to swallow. I stand in the center of the room, my palms sweating against the fabric of my rehearsal leggings. The mirrors that line the walls seem to stretch on forever, catching every flicker of my insecurity. I have dreamed of this for years. Diane Desmond, the woman who has won every award the industry has to offer, is standing five feet away from me, her eyes cutting through me like a scalpel.
"Stop," Diane says. Her voice isn't loud, but it has a jagged edge that makes me flinch. "It’s plastic, Jade. It’s hollow. It’s the sound of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s vanity."
I swallow hard, my throat feeling like it is lined w
