Adam's standing there in full Nutcracker regalia, posing like some tragic hero from a 90s romance novel—one hand on his hip, the other reaching dramatically toward the ceiling. The massive Nutcracker head makes the whole thing about ten times funnier, especially since the jaw keeps clicking open and shut like it's trying to speak for him.
"Care!" his voice comes out muffled and slightly robotic. "How do I look? Be honest—do I make your sugar plum heart skip a beat?"
I double over laughing. "You look like you just escaped from a toy store clearance bin."
"Rude," he says, turning his whole body toward me—because clearly, the head doesn't move. "You wound me, Clara. My wooden heart can only take so much."
"Pretty sure your wooden heart's hollow," I shoot back.
"Only becauseyoutook the filling," he says, pointing in my direction, the Nutcracker jaw clacking open and shut for emphasis.
Someone snorts behind us. "Dude, you sound like an animatronic at a cursed Christmas display."
Adam gasps—at least, I think he does. "You see, Care? They mock our love!"
I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts. "You're insane."
He tilts his Nutcracker head at me. "And yet... you keep coming back to rehearsal with me."
"Because I signed a syllabus, not because I enjoy your company," I say, grinning.
"Lies," he declares, hands on his waist again. "Deep down, you dream of dancing into my wooden arms."
"Yeah, right," I say, grabbing a pink tutu from my rack. "The only thing I'm dreaming of is surviving this week without stabbing you with a candy cane prop."
He pauses for a second—then the Nutcracker jaw clacks again. "Kinky."
I throw a feathered slipper at him.
"Worth it!" he yells, ducking behind a rack of tutus, his muffled laughter echoing from inside the Nutcracker head.
Tracy appears beside me, her neck draped with measuring tape like a badge of honor. "Hold still for me, Care," she says in her usual brisk, no-nonsense tone.
She starts looping the tape around my waist, muttering numbers under her breath. "Just checking your measurements again. Some of the seams need adjusting—Callahan wants the costumes to fit like they were sewn byangels."
"Got it," I say, holding my breath as she tightens the tape slightly. "So no pressure."
Tracy smirks, scribbles a note on her clipboard, and moves on to measure my arm span.
Beside me, Lucy's flipping through the Clara rack, holding up a soft cream nightgown against the light. "Oh, speaking of pressure," she says casually, "I heard from Callahan that we might have to do a mini showcase for the sponsors."
"Wait—really?"
"Yeah," Lucy nods.
The sponsors—mostly arts council representatives, alumni donors, and a few patrons from the local performing arts foundation—were the backbone of the production. Their contributions helped fund the live orchestra, professional-gradelighting, and all the custom costumes currently hanging on the racks.
A "mini showcase" for them would likely mean performing a few select scenes or dance numbers to highlight how far the production had come—and remind the benefactors why supporting the department was always a worthy investment.
"When?"
Lucy lifts a shoulder. "She didn't say exactly when—she was very cryptic about it, really." Lucy rolls her eyes. "But she said it'd be soon."
I groan softly, earning a laugh from Lucy. "I'm guessing next week, maybe two?"
I nod, forcing a smile, but I can already feel that jittery mix of adrenaline and dread kicking in. The kind that makes your pulse quicken in both good and bad ways—like standing at the top of a roller coaster, not sure if you should scream or throw up.
Still, the idea of performing—even just a glimpse of what we've been working so hard on—makes something flutter in my chest.
