“Technique is the foundation of ballet, but personality is where the dance comes to life. In The Nutcracker, each character serves an important purpose to the ballet as a whole, and that is why we take such care in assigning each of you the perfect part. Who you are comes across in how you dance. I’m sure we all remember when Gerard Celling danced the Rat King last winter, or when Adele Abney danced the Sugar Plum Fairy. These were seminal performances that displayed unbelievable technique as well as exquisite joy and beauty. The students stopped being students and transformed into artists, like a caterpillar leaves its chrysalis and becomes what it was designed to be—a butterfly.”
Mr. K calls us his butterflies. We’re never his students, dancers, athletes, or ballerinas. When we graduate, he’ll give the best dancer a diamond butterfly pendant—Adele still only takes hers off for performances.
“It is because of Adele’s and Gerard’s relationships to the roles of Sugar Plum Fairy and Rat King that they experienced such success,” he adds. “It was the connection they forged with the part.”
I bow my head even farther. Mr. K talking about my sister is another deliberate nod to me, I’m sure of it. Adele’s performance as the Sugar Plum Fairy has been a topic of conversation since the first night she’d performed it six years ago. She was only in Level 6 ballet and hadn’t even turned fifteen yet. It was unheard of for such a young dancer to be given such a role over the older Level 8 girls. And when I was that seven-year-old cherub hugging my sister with my fiercest pride and congratulations, Mr. K approached us both with a confident smile.
“Adele, you are luminous,” he’d said. It’s a word I have been itching for him to call me ever since. He still hasn’t. Not yet. “And darling little Bette, I can tell from your lovely dancing tonight that, in no time at all, you will be following in your sister’s footsteps. A Sugar Plum Fairy in the making.” He’d winked, and Adele had beamed at me with agreement.
He is surely referring to that moment now. He is letting me remember his prediction and assuring me that he had been right all those years ago.
I shift onto my tiptoes, unable to suppress that bit of excitement. Alec squeezes my hand.
Mr. K’s voice softens. “Young Clara, for instance, must be sweet and invoke the wonder of Christmas with every step and glance.” His gaze drifts to a pretty petit rat in a pale blue leotard, her dark hair in a perfect bun. She blushes from the attention, and I’m happy for tiny Maura’s moment of joy. I played Clara when I was eleven. I know the thrill, and she deserves to experience every second of it.
Years later, I still think of that performance as the most fun I’ve ever had. It was right after the Christmas season that my mother started showing me old videos of Adele and asking me to compare my technique to hers. It was that Christmas when everything between my mother, Adele, and me shifted beyond recognition, distorting into a bad TV drama. I get a little light-headed just thinking about it. I can still hear the whir of the X-ray camera like it was yesterday. Looking too hard at those memories isn’t a good idea, so I close my eyes for an instant to make the thoughts disappear, as I always do. I give Alec’s hand another squeeze and try to focus. This is my big moment.
“Uncle Drosselmeyer must be mysterious and clouded—a man with a secret,” Mr. K says. “The Nutcracker Prince should be regal and full of confidence. Untouchable and elegant, but still masculine.” Mr. K looks then at Alec, who breaks out into a fully dimpled grin. He is describing Alec to a tee, and I lean against him a bit. He lets go of my hand and wraps his arm around my shoulders. As if this moment weren’t wonderful enough, Alec’s affection has me soaring even higher. Mr. K lists off a few more characters and the necessary qualities the dancers must bring to them. I smooth my hair to make sure I look perfect for my big moment.
“And the Sugar Plum Fairy,” Mr. K continues, his eyes searching the crowd. “She must be not only beautiful but kind, joyful, mysterious, and playful.” His eyes are still searching the crowd, which is strange, since he knows exactly where I am. I try to dismiss it as a bit of Mr. K playing around, as he’s known to do.
The Sugar Plum Fairy’s ideal qualities—they’re not mine. They are not words anyone has ever used to describe me.
But the part is mine. I know it is because of the way Mr. K finishes his speech.
“Above all else,” he says, “the Sugar Plum Fairy must be luminous.”
I squeeze Alec’s hand again.
That is me.
I am luminous, like Adele. It is me. It has always been me.
But still, Mr. K’s eyes do not find their way to mine.
2
Gigi
I NIBBLE AT MY BOTTOM lip until I taste blood. The spot is a tiny heart thumping harder than the one in my chest. My teeth sink into the cut despite the sting, and I can’t stop. I won’t go to the bathroom to see how bad it is. I can’t miss all the excitement. I can’t be anywhere else.
Shoulder to shoulder, we are a sea of paper-thin bodies. One large gust could push us around, like the fall leaves tumbling past the lobby’s picture windows. We are that light, that vulnerable, that afraid. Nervous excitement flutters through me. Even the little ones, the petit rats, gnaw at their fingernails, and the boys hold their breaths. The gurgles of half-empty stomachs churning a ballet diet of grapefruit and energy tea invade small pockets of silence when Mr. K finally pauses, all showmanship.
We listen intently. The occasional whisper is a firework. The melody of his Russian accent makes the words feel heavier, more important. He paces before us, waving his hands in fiery motions, and leaving the scent of cigarettes and warm vodka wrapped around us. I fixate on every word coming out of Mr. K’s mouth like I could catch each one in a mason jar.
Our other teachers are lined up behind him. Along with Mr. K, there are five of them that decide our fates. The piano accompanist, Viktor, the lowliest of the lot. His smile holds a cigarette, and he barely speaks but knows everything—all the things they think of us. Then Morkie and Pavlovich, our ballet madams. We call them the twins—though they’re not related and look nothing alike. Their narrow eyes flit over us ever so briefly, as if we’re ghosts they don’t quite see.
Lastly, there’s Mr. Lucas, the board president, Alec’s father—and Doubrava, the other male teacher.
Mr. K concludes his speech by congratulating us on making it through the audition process like the budding professionals we are. They all retreat into the admissions office. Someone whispers that they’ve gone to get the cast list. The open space feels lighter without them in it. Everyone starts to talk softly. I hear the words new and black and girl whispered in various combinations. After one month here at school, the first major casting makes me feel my skin color like a fresh sunburn. I’m the only black ballerina aside from a little one named Maya. Most times, I try not to think about it because I’m just like everyone else: classically trained, here to learn the Russian style of ballet, with a shot at moving from the school to the company.