constellation of cobwebs and dust. The air is thick and inviting.
I head to my little corner, plop down my dance bag, and inspect myself in the only uncovered mirror. Descending from the upper corner of the glass, a tiny fracture stretches across my reflection like a lightning bolt. Mama says looking into a broken mirror is bad luck, but I don’t care. My lip has a hilly scab. I can’t believe I bit it so badly. That my nerves made me do that. The ugly aberration replaces whatever is pretty about my face. I won’t let myself get nervous like that again.
My phone buzzes in my bag. My parents. They know I’m still up. I click them to voice mail. I know what they want. They’ll ask if the nurse checked me after the cast list excitement. They’ll gloss over my accomplishment, only wanting to know how I’m feeling physically. Since I came out here, they treat me like I’m sick, some patient who shouldn’t be out or who should be in a wheelchair, or better yet, a bubble. I was officially cleared to dance at the conservatory months ago. I try not to think about it. I don’t want anyone to know. Ever.
I turn on the music on my cell phone. The Nutcracker score sounds tinny and distant, but it will have to do. I need to dance. I dig my pointe shoes out of my messy bag and put them on. My legs start first, extending out of my hips so far I feel like I’m on stilts. Long and tall, I stretch from the top of my head down to my tiptoes, trying to become one straight line. As I dance my mind quiets and my body takes over. I follow the current of music, each chord a wave, each note a splash. My feet move to match the rhythm, drawing crazy, invisible patterns on the floor.
My heart’s racing. I tell myself it’s just from the dance and the excitement of landing the role. But a voice in my head whispers that it’s because I’m thinking of Alec, too. Bette’s Alec . My chest tightens. Control your breathing. I haven’t had one episode, not in ballet class, not in Pilates, not in character dance, not even once all last year at my old regular school. I’m fine. I will my heart to slow. I’m in control of my body.
I come down off pointe, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and put my hands on my head until I can catch my breath. If I stretch a bit, maybe I’ll relax even more. If I focus on the deep pulls in my muscles, I can get it together. I push my leg across the barre to feel the stretch and the calm that usually comes afterward. My muscles tremble, my feet spasm, my hands shake. My fingernails are purple. The light flickers off for a long moment. Sad darkness surrounds me until the light comes on again. Maybe I’m not good enough to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy. Maybe I’m not cut out for the role. Maybe I’ll disappoint Mr. K and Alec and prove everyone right. Maybe Mama was right—I’m not well enough to dance.
“Shut up,” I say to the mirror. “Chill out.” I fight the negativity. “I got the role!”
My heart’s not slowing down. This hasn’t happened in a whole year. My body usually obeys. I sit on the floor and press the soles of my feet together so that my legs form butterfly wings. I press on my knees. I try to breathe like a yogi—deep, slow breaths. Nothing will take this away from me. Nothing.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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NO ONE HAS SPOKEN TO me since the cast list went up, not even Eleanor, who is breathing heavily in the bed next to mine, so comfortable with mediocrity as an understudy that she can sleep right through her failure. I do all the tricks: counting sheep, picturing myself afloat on the ocean, pretending my body is filling with grains of sand and getting heavier and heavier.
It does nothing for me. On endless loop is one impossible thought: I am not the Sugar Plum Fairy. I am not the Sugar Plum Fairy. I assume I have text messages on my phone from Alec, checking to make sure
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