Not just because I grew up watching it on repeat, curled up on the couch until I knew every scene by heart. No. It's because of what sherepresents.
The Sugarplum Princess has always been more than just a character to me—she's everything good wrapped in sparkle. She's proof that even when the world throws monsters at you, light still wins.
Getting to play her wouldn't feel like another role. It would feel like stepping into something I've wanted my whole life.
And honestly? It's the closest thing to magic I'll ever get. Like standing in a stadium while Taylor Swift sings directly to you—every word hitting like it was written for your soul, making you believe you're stronger, braver, better than you are.
That's what this role feels like. That's what she represents.
And maybe that's why I want it so badly. Because deep down, I want to be that light. That hope. That beauty that doesn't fade when the spotlight hits, but shines even brighter.
So yeah. Fingers crossed. Knock on wood. Sacrifice a pumpkin spice latte to the theater gods if I have to.
Later that afternoon, Adam and I head down to Professor Callahan's office, and—just like she promised—there it is. The sign-up sheet, taped to the bulletin board outside her door, practically glowing like some sacred artifact.
And holy crap. Ten people have already signed up for Clara. Ten. My stomach does a little somersault when I scan the names—two, maybe three of them are actually good. Like, really good. Talented, hardworking... and yeah, people I just became friends with.
And usually? Usually I'm the type who gives way. I don't like competition. I don't need the drama. But this time? Nope. Not a chance. They'll have to pry this role from my cold, dead, glitter-covered hands.
Sorry, girls. May the odds be ever in my favor... except they're rigged, because I'm about to Katniss Everdeen my way into this role.
Adam leans over the sheet, scribbles his name under the Nutcracker list—only three names there so far, four with his—and I step up. My hand actually shakes a little, but not from nerves. From pure, ridiculous competitiveness.
I grab the pen and write my name in this gorgeous, looping cursive like I'm signing the Declaration of Independence. Italics, flourishes, the works.
Because if I'm going to fight for this role, I'm doing it with style.
We head out together, Adam's arm slinging over my shoulder like it lives there. Typical. He's grinning at me with that stupidly good-natured smile that could probably sell toothpaste commercials.
"So," he drawls, flipping his packet in one hand, "what do you say we run these lines together? Y'know, help each other absorb the characters, nail the auditions."
"You're just looking for an excuse to be alone with me."
He grins, utterly shameless. "Busted. But hey—I'm the best scene partner you're ever gonna get."
"Says who?"
He grins, all dimples and mischief. "Says me. And also, everyone else who's had the honor of acting opposite this face." He gestures at himself like he's a walking billboard.
I snort. "You really can't turn it off, can you?"
He shrugs, squeezing my shoulder like he's laughing through his arm. "What? Me, flirty? Nah. This is just my charm, babe. Factory setting. Comes standard."
I roll my eyes, but I'm laughing anyway.
Adam is just... relentlessly himself. That smooth, cocky charm is like his second skin—he doesn't even have to thinkabout it. Natural. Effortless. He tosses innuendos like confetti at a parade, and the worst part? He's good at it. Too good. Lines that should make me cringe somehow end up making me laugh instead.
He's the kind of guy who could flirt with a brick wall and still make it blush.
Because that's his thing. He's a player, a smooth-talker, a walking rom-com cliché—but not the sleazy kind. He knows exactly where the line is, and he never crosses it. He's bold, yeah, but he's also respectful in this infuriating way that makes his flirting feel less like a move and more like a joke you want to be in on.
And against all logic, I find it... endearing. Like he's a kindred spirit who refuses to let anything get too heavy, who can turn the air light with a grin.
It's just Adam. A playboy with decent manners. A manwhore with a conscience. And damn it—somehow, it works.
I laugh despite myself, shoving him with my elbow. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously charming, yes." He taps his temple like it's science. "It's in the genes. My mom swears I came out winking at the nurse."
