All the Beautiful Girls: An uplifting story of freedom, love and identity. Elizabeth Church J

In her dance bag, she carried a pair of flats and a pair of heels, since she wasn’t sure which the managers would want to see her perform in. She ’d thrown in her tap shoes, too—just in case.

      Ruby walked beneath the fifteen-story sign that held aloft the giant gold Aladdin’s lamp. Leaving behind the day’s heat, she entered the mercifully air-conditioned lobby. The Aladdin was barely a year old, and Elvis had been married here just last month. She looked behind her, for a moment thinking she might see her footprints alongside those of Elvis, sunk into the carpet pile.

      After asking for directions, she made her way through the cacophony of slot machines, blackjack dealers, scattered roulette and craps tables. She saw mostly middle-aged people, a lot of bow ties, women in simple A-line dresses or strapless cocktail dresses and permanent-waved hair. A sign announced that the Gold Room offered around-the-clock dining, and posters advertised Topless Scandals of ’67, Pussycats Galore Revue, and the Jet Set Revue. As Ruby reached the Aladdin Lounge at last, she thought that this casino alone must employ dozens of dancers; surely the odds were in her favor.

      Inside the lounge, two gray-skinned men sat at a table next to the stage, tapping their cigarettes into an overflowing ashtray. They looked up at Ruby, and one of the men thrust his chin in the direction of a door. Ruby made her way through that door, where she found less than a dozen other girls in their dance attire, stretching and warming up. She smiled nervously, but none of the girls returned her greeting. Chalking up their lack of friendliness to pre-audition jitters, she noticed that all of them were wearing heels. At least that question was answered.

      Ruby was bustier than any of them, maybe a little less adamantly muscular, and definitely longer-legged than most. Some—clearly ballerinas—were thinner, and others had washboard torsos beneath midriff tops, the tails of blouses tied beneath their breasts. One particularly thin, limber dancer displayed several medals from national classical ballet dance competitions on a ribbon looped through the handles of her gym bag. Ruby found a spot near the wall and began her stretching routine. She wanted to ask someone what happened next but knew better. This was no friendly competition.

      Deacon, one of the men seated near the stage, identified himself as the choreographer’s first assistant and called them all onto the stage to line up. Ruby found a spot second from the end, stage right, next to a thin-boned ballerina in a black leotard. The girl had pale, milky skin and a blue vein that beat stridently at her temple. While Ruby stood as if at attention, stiff, her feet together, her hands at her sides, some of the other girls posed as if they were being photographed. Ruby felt sorry for them, thinking that they’d confused a beauty pageant with a dance audition.

      The assistant walked along the line, assessing. Ruby smiled a tentative smile, which Deacon either didn’t see or ignored—he wasn’t spending a lot of time looking at their faces. He told the shortest girl she could go, and Ruby watched the girl’s hunched shoulders as she left the stage without having danced a single step. To the remaining girls, he said, “Listen up and watch.” Then Deacon stepped back, and keeping his cigarette in his mouth, pushing up the sleeves of his wrinkled oxford shirt, he clapped twice and executed a surprisingly swift, intricate floor pattern including a series of soutenus, piqué turns, chaînés, a curved walk, ronds de jambe, and kicks.

      “Now,” he said when he’d finished. “One at a time, starting with you.” He pointed his cigarette at the milk-skinned girl next to Ruby.

      Ruby was stunned. They were to perform the identical choreography he’d just completed, and after seeing it only once? She glanced left toward the other girls, thinking she ’d see the same surprise on their faces, but they were impassive. The girl next to her stepped out from the line and flawlessly repeated Deacon’s performance. Ruby watched, counting and saying the names of the moves to herself, trying to will her body to learn the movement combination by osmosis.

      “Good, good,” Deacon said, and then he nodded at Ruby, who stepped forward. He clapped his hands twice, signaling the start of Ruby’s performance.

      Ruby found her spotting point, managed the soutenus and what she thought was the right number of chaînés, but she screwed up on the ronds de jambe and ended up by ad-libbing with her hitch-kick—her most impressive move. Heart pounding, she looked at Deacon and hoped he’d see her skill level, that he’d realize that once she learned a routine she could perform it.

      “I need dancers who follow instructions.” He gestured for Ruby to go, his arm like a broom removing dirt. “Dancers who pay attention,” he added sternly. Mortified, Ruby avoided looking at the other girls and made her way off stage.

      “Next,” she heard Deacon say, followed by his quick double-clap, a sound she knew she ’d hate forever.

      Blushing with humiliation, Ruby returned to the dressing area and rapidly pulled on her skirt. She shoved her heels in her bag, covered her face in the enormous sunglasses she’d found in the church thrift store, and slunk out of the casino.