I’ve been dancing ever since I could walk, but on second thought, I’ve started dancing at three years of age to say the least. I’ve been a fan of Michael’s for long than that. My mother would play his music nonstop for twenty-four hours each day. I know every one of Michael Jackson’s songs from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. Thriller, Bad, You Rock My World, you name it. I know them all.

        Dancing is my passion, but it’s always been a burning desire to meet Michael Jackson in person and dance for him. I mean background dance, not what you men are thinking while reading this. I’m just about to get that opportunity, and believe me when I say, “This is once and a lifetime.”

It’s May 1st of 2009, and I’m going to audition for Michael Jackson’s “This is It” tour. It’s supposed to be his final tour of his career, but I highly doubt that. He’s not only the king but also the god of pop music. A god does not rest, and Michael definitely doesn’t stop for anyone but himself.

        I’m looking up at the banner of the O2 Arena in London. It took me thirty-five years, two months, seven days, and five hours to finally see “Auditions for This is It today!” in flashing red letters. It’ll take me a few more hours to finally hear the words, “Lily Carmichael, you’ve made it!” especially from the king’s mouth. Getting a position on that dance team will be like winning the lottery except you would have to work in order to win this one. There are only eleven spots for the team, and I have to be one of them, or else it’ll be the death of me. I’ve worked too hard to get shot down by anyone on Michael’s concert team…or even him. It is going to be a very bumpy ride.

“Group 9!” calls a manager, “Group 9! Come onto the stage please!”

        I’m in Group 10 along with another twenty individuals auditioning for the same reason as I, to be one of the lucky eleven in Michael’s “This is It” dance team. I’m going insane with practice since this is the case. People say that working too hard could break you in the worst way possible, and I find that to be the most unreal metaphor I have ever heard in my life. I keep spinning and leaping to the song, Bad, until my feet receive blisters, which hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t want it to happen, or else, I’m doomed for the count.

        A young lady with blonde hair in her twenties, Ashley Timberlake, not related to Justin Timberlake by all means, comes up to me and says, “I can’t believe it, can you? We’re actually going to be dancing in front of Michael Jackson himself.,”

        “I can hardly believe it either,” I reply, “How long have you been dancing for?”

        “Since elementary school. My mom got me into it. She’s a dance instructor. How about you?”

        “Well, I was little, and my dad thought it was a good idea to get me involved at a young age. Funny thing is that I’ve only made a few friends in those years. I think I’ve made more in school than in that dance class.”

“Well, that’s what being isolated in a dance school does to ya.” This girl is pale as a ghost, and she sounds like Kim Kardashian if she were black. I don’t think she does drugs though, heaven forbid.

The door to the stage opens and Group 9 exits. Some of the group is neutral while one is crying her head off. Ouch, I don’t think she took the rejection well at all. Looking at the other faces, I can’t tell if they made it in or not. I assume most have not because of the limited amount of spots on the team.

“Group 10!” the manager shouts, “Group 10! Come onto the stage please!”

Gulp!

“Good luck, Lillian,” Ashley says, looking down at my card on my dance shirt. Lillian is my full first name, but I haven’t used it since I was four. I’m used to being called Lily, but if it’s for business, people I don’t know call me Lillian for professional usage.

“Same to you, Ashley.” I take one deep breath before going onto the stage. The intensity I have makes me feel as if I’m on American Idol even though that show is dying because Simon Cowell wants to quit soon (but you do have to admit that Adam Lambert should’ve won instead of Kris Allen. Kris sang like a dying cat) or Hell’s Kitchen (Gordon Ramsey is not a person that I’m dying to meet sooner or later). I’m frightened out of my wits. The seating in front of the stage is pitch black. I mean, I can’t see anyone or anything at all. All of the lights are on the stage, focused on us dancers. The fact I can’t see Michael makes me have the chills.  My spine is tingling to the point that it could break if I stand on the stage any longer. I just want to dance and get the audition over with, so I can stop being scared like a lost child at the park.

A voice does speak through the speakers on the sides of the stage, but it’s not Michael’s. “Alright, let’s get started. Soon as the music starts, get movin’. You only get once chance, one shot.” Those words are attacking me to not screw this audition up. I don’t hear anything else, so I think the music is about to come on.

It does. At the end of the instrumental intro, the whole group snaps their right fingers into the air. That’s the signal to start getting serious; there’s no time to fool around today. I don’t know about me though I’m spinning, leaping, and stomping as I’m supposed to, but Ashley’s not bad when it comes to dance. Her feet are always where they should be, which is Rule #1 of dance. Even though I’m watching the others, I at least know what I’m doing with myself. I have no loss of balance to fall on my rear end and screw up my whole audition in one sitting.

All of the sudden, the music turns off. My heart stops along with it. A song stopping after the first chorus could mean two things. Item one, the artist is picking the best ones already. Item two, the artist hates all of it and wants the group gone in seconds. My dreams is either going to happen or die with Michael’s say.

I hear footsteps coming down the stairs of the audience area. The first things I see are the black suede shoes and the white socks. Holy crap, it’s not! It is! At the foot of the stage, Michael Jackson is out in the open. His pale skin, black hair, everything is there. He is the real thing, and I’m standing in his presence after all.

He shows no emotion as he walks onto the stage and stares at us with his dark, brown eyes. My body tenses up when he comes closer to me. The innocent Michael aura is not there in the slightest, which could scare the living crud out of anybody. The aura is dark and serious, but it’s not that aura people have when they could snap at any point in time. He’s the one that just scares the bejesus out of people when he could. There goes my luck; he stops right in front of me. Double crap.

“Lillian Carmichael?” he asks me, looking at me with only one of his eyes. It is as brown as I thought his eyes would be. It reminds of me of the oak table my grandmother used to own when I would go to her house.

I shake my head in a couple of nods. “Yes, sir?” I respond politely because I want to get on Michael’s good side.

He fully looks at me and says, “You like what you do, don’t you?”

“Uh, of course. Every day of it…sir.”

Standing face to face with Michael Jackson is supposed to be the best thing to happen to you, but for me, having a six-foot celebrity judge your dancing is the most intimidating experience of my life. I go from shaking in my slippers to frozen after Michael starts smiling.

“You see her?” he announces to the rest of the group, “She’s the reason why dance compels the soul and not the mind. Very well. Evaluation is to your left. My director will tell you your score and if you made it into the camp…or not. What are you standing around for? Get going.”

I’m about to head along with them until Michael takes my shoulder and pulls me back.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“Uh, to get myself evaluated, sir?”

Michael starts laughing up a storm. “Oh god, that was the best thing I heard all day. Didn’t you hear anything I said, Lillian? With the praise you just got, you don’t need it.”

“Huh?”

“Let me clear this conversation up for you. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight. Don’t be tardy, or else I’m gonna have to find your replacement within the half hour.”

My whole face lit up in amazement. I feel like a child in a candy shop. I’ve won the lottery. “Oh gosh, Mr. Jackson, thank you,” I say, shaking his hand wildly, “You will not regret this, I promise you.”

“Hold on there, princess. Number one, don’t call me Mr. Jackson. People who say, “Michael Jackson,” sound like my ex-mother-in-law. Just call me Michael. Number two, the only possible way I’ll regret something is if you act on it first. Got it, Lillian?”

“Yes, Michael.”

“Oh, and by the way, do you have a nickname for yourself? I assume Lillian is not your favorite thing to be called, am I correct?”

“They call me Lily, sir…I mean, Michael.”

“Alright, Lily,” he says, smirking a little, “See you tomorrow at eight. Don’t forget it.”