“We’re missing an act.” Christa’s voice crackles in my headset.
Finding an MIA elf was not on my bingo card for tonight.
“Who is it?” Another voice chirps in my ears. It’s Ashley this time. She sounds frustrated.
I don’t hear Christa’s answer because one of the wardrobe assistants rolls a mostly empty rack of costumes through the wings and across my path. There’s a pair of leggings and an unmistakable top hat unclaimed.
I’m off like a rocket in search of Mick.
Ashley was hesitant to cast Mick, worried the nerves might get to them too much. I fought for Mick. I promised that I’d work with them on their poems, help them get performance ready. In the last two months, Mick has displayed an unmatched confidence. Bravado that was sure to earn thembravosfrom the patiently waiting audience.
Stage fright is nothing new. I’ve seen it infect dozens of kids at Oakwood Elementary. That anticipatory vibration that could turn sinister if not tended to. However, back home, by the time the curtain rose, shy kids turned into superstars and mouthy kids learned valuable lessons about being cooperative in the chorus. Now as I run around the backstage helplessly asking after Mick, mere minutes to showtime, I’m not sure I can save this one.
The Voices of Hope choir takes the stage for the opening number—a rousing rendition of “Carol of the Bells”—and I realize there’s one last stone left unturned. The basement door is unlocked. It’s a slate-gray subterranean space that feels out of place in the North Pole, but I suppose even magical villages need storage.
Mick brought me down here one day because they confessed this is where they found the tutu and top hat originally. They were looking for a place to practice before the audition, found the basement, got lost in all the old props and costumes, and decided to don a few pieces.
Among the painted moons and rusty tap shoes, a figure is frantically digging through a plastic box. “Mick, everything okay? It’s showtime.”
“I can’t go on,” they say, hands still burrowing around.Clink, clank, swish.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, drawing closer.
“A pin. A pin. I—” They hold up their tutu. It’s torn in half. The colorful swaths of tulle spiral down to the floor, looking more like a magician’s never-ending scarf than a skirt.
I nod. “Okay. Well, there are plenty of other options up in the costume shop—”
“No,” they cut in. “The tutu. I need the tutu.”
I had feared that. Not only does Mick find confidence in the tutu, but they find comfort in it, too. They can be the character of Blizzard. Perhaps, even above that, the character of Blizzard isn’t a character at all, but a truer version of Mick. At eight, identity starts to form. It’s a lifelong journey, sure, and Mick being an elf,that journey will last into infinity given their immortality. Regardless, it’s beautiful to witness someone so young know themselves so well.
I’m as determined as ever to make this work. “Follow me.”
We race to the costume shop. I put my sewing skills to the test, racing to claim a machine, wind a bobbin, and stitch the unmatched pieces of tulle. I nick myself only once before the machine bends to my will.
Ashley pings into my headset. “Quinn, what’s going on? You promised Mick would be ready. Where are they? They’re on deck.”
“They’ll be there,” I chime back. “Trust me.”
I knot off the stitch, holding up my work. It’s a little lopsided, but it will do. “Better?” Mick nods.
I take Mick by the hand, and we barrel for the wings.
“What if I forget my poems onstage?” Mick asks, worry still hot on our heels.
“That’s the beauty of original poems. Nobody knows them. You can always make something up,” I say.
“What if my mind goes blank?”
“It won’t.”
“But what if it does?”
We curve into the darkness of the backstage area where the other acts mill about, antsy to get out there. I check us in with the stage manager, who sends a message to Ashley. I kneel in front of Mick and look them right in the eyes. “It’s okay. Whatever happens out there, happens. We’ve polished your poems. You’ve practiced. You’re ready. Performance is meant to be fleeting. Do you know whatfleetingmeans?”
Mick shakes their head, eyes as wide as pancakes.
“It means temporary. It means even if you mess up, it’s not the end of the world. It’s one moment in time and another moment will always come right after it. Take a deep breath and do your best,” I say.
