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Tiny Pretty Things(6)
Author: Sona Charaipotra

   It’s not till the end of the list that I realize my mistake. I didn’t cast myself.

   WINTER PERFORMANCE: THE NUTCRACKER

   Cast

   Major Soloist Parts

   Clara: Maura James

   Older Clara: Edith Diaz

   The Nutcracker Prince: Alec Lucas

   Snow Queen: Bette Abney

   Snow Queen Understudy: Eleanor Alexander

   Snow King: Henri Dubois

   Drosselmeyer: William O’Reilly

   Arabian Coffee: Liz Walsh

   Chinese Tea: Sei-Jin Kwon, Hye-Ji Yi

   Sugar Plum Fairy: Giselle Stewart

   Sugar Plum Understudy: E-Jun Kim

   Rat King: Douglas Carter

   Dew Drop Fairy: Michelle Dumont

 

 

4


   Gigi


   IT’S MIDNIGHT. CASTING DAY IS officially over. The shock and the excitement of it all keeps me up. I am the Sugar Plum Fairy. Me, Giselle Stewart! I am Mr. K’s korichnevaya babochka. His brown butterfly. I let the words flutter around in my head like my own little butterflies in my windowsill terrarium, all light and frantic and impossibly beautiful. They keep me company here.

   I got a handful of congratulations that felt mostly strange and hollow and a few stiff hugs. Like it was all for Mr. K and the teachers who were watching.

   I can’t stop thinking, fidgeting. My muscles itch to move even this late—past curfew, past lights out. It’s the only way I’ll be able to clear my head, get some sleep, and be fresh for morning ballet class tomorrow. I slip out of bed and tiptoe from my side of the room, careful not to wake my roommate, June, on my way out. I listen for the nighttime RA patrolling in the girls’ hall before sneaking out. I should rest. Mama would insist on it if I were home. It’s the healthy thing to do. But I know what I really need is to dance. Especially now. I need space to think it through. I need space to get ready for it all.

   The elevators have cameras, so I take the stairs down eleven flights to the first floor. I don’t want anyone to know I’m out of bed. I’m a bit breathless as I tiptoe to my secret place, passing the administrative offices, through the lobby, and dashing from hall plant to hall plant, hoping not to be spotted by the front desk security guard. The whispers from earlier follow me, buzzing in my ears and my head as if the parents and other dancers were still standing there, mocking me.

   The black girl. The new girl. She’s no Sugar Plum Fairy. Her feet are bad. Her legs are too muscular. Her face won’t look right onstage. It should’ve been Bette. Bette’s sister was luminous, you heard Mr. K say it. Gigi could never be that.

   The ghost words push me forward. I walk as quietly as possible down the hall. The ballet conservatory is at the back of the Lincoln Center complex, in one of the beautiful buildings that makes up the performing arts center. The first time I walked along the promenade, it seemed impossible that there was a place that housed it all: dance, theater, film, music, opera, and more. The studios on the first floor are glass boxes that let in light. I graze my fingers along the cool panels as I pass.

   I hold my breath and duck past the nutritionist’s office. Her charts and scales and cold metal examining table provoke hysteria, and the tiny woman wields the power to boot a dancer out of the conservatory for falling underweight. It’s enough to keep me eating, that’s for sure.

   I jump when I catch sight of Alec slipping out of one of the studios. It’s the middle of the night, practically. Our eyes meet. I open and shut my mouth like a fish, and start to mumble out some explanation for why I’m down here. He smiles like he’s not going to tell anyone.

   “What are you doing up?” Alec says, grabbing my hand and leading me to a dark spot in the hall away from a camera. The gesture means nothing, of course. He belongs to Bette, whose face is porcelain and smooth and whose words and expressions are so carefully chosen they are always dead perfect. My hair is frizzy and wild and I never say the right thing. I hope my hand isn’t clammy.

   “They’re always watching,” he whispers. “You’ve got to know where to hide.” His body is close to mine. He smells good, especially for someone who’s been dancing all evening, and I take an illicit breath of his woodsy deodorant and the sweetness of new sweat making his forearms glisten in the dark.

   “I like to dance at night,” I say, trying to remember how easy talking used to be back in California. “I go to the locked-up studio. The one in the basement.” I don’t know why I tell him this.

   “Just came from a late-night workout myself,” he says.

   I try on a smile and force myself to hold on to Alec’s eye contact. Secretly, I’m wondering about him: why he dances, what he dreams about, what kissing him might be like. I’ve never really been this curious about a boy before. Boys are distractions. Well, to ballerinas. Not to normal girls.

   Bette’s boyfriend, I say in my head, even as I take note of how wide his shoulders are, how I can make out the shapes of the muscles under his tights and hoodie. There’s something so romantic about a ballerina couple. You can’t help admiring their beauty and symmetry when they walk down the hall together. Long limbs and blond hair and a graceful ease that can’t be denied. And onstage, I bet the audience can sense that they’re together.

   I mean, obviously.

   “You won’t tell on me, will you?” I try to flirt like girls in the movies.

   “I won’t tell if you don’t, Sugar Plum Fairy,” he mock whispers. There’s nothing sinister in the words, no threat. If anything there’s a laugh underneath it all. I smile back. I’m not sure anyone has really smiled at me for the entire month I’ve been here. Though he’s always been so nice to me.

   “Deal,” I say, and reach out to touch his arm. I don’t know why. The deal doesn’t require a touch to lock it in, but letting my fingers rest on his strong forearm is a strange reflex. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.

   “You’re an interesting choice for a Sugar Plum Fairy,” Alec says.

   I don’t know what to say to that.

   “I mean, you’ll bring a lot of energy to the role,” he says, filling the space where I am not talking. His arm grazes mine—a breath between our skin, so close I can feel the heat of it, but neither of us moves away to get more space.

   “Thank you,” I say, letting myself believe, for just one second, that Alec is just as curious about me as I am about him. “Didn’t Cassandra dance it last year? Wasn’t she only a sophomore?” I don’t know why I say it, and I wish I could erase the words after seeing his face twist into a pained expression.

   He nods. “Yeah, she did. Cassie’s my cousin.”

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