Prologue
As I glance in the mirror one final time, I tap the crown of my head. I’ve used almost an entire can of hair spray to achieve an ultra-slicked-back helmet-hair look. Taking my sparkly snowflake tiara from my makeup table, I place it a few inches in front of my bun and begin the task of jabbing the pointy end of the hundred or so bobby pins into my scalp.
“You were a genius to add the fabric bands to the crowns, Min. This is the first time it’s felt nice and secure,” Corinne says, gently shaking her head side to side. “The wardrobe department should be paying you extra for all the wardrobe malfunctions you’ve helped them avoid.”
“Just doing my job, making sure the show goes on.” I sigh.
As amazing as it would be to work in the costuming department, even on a part-time basis, there’s no way the current wardrobe mistress would let me get anywhere near her precious tutus. I’d be relegated to doing laundry or cleaning up the sewing room. Madame Lim is like an evil troll guarding a bridge crossing. No, make it an ogre. Sheonly likes one or two people in the entire department—her daughters.
“You’re too modest.”
I don’t respond. It’s true, I really am just helping out to help out. I don’t want anything out of it. The girls in the corps know that I’m pretty good with a needle and thread. I’ve always found sewing therapeutic, so I’ve taught myself a few things here and there off SearchTube videos.
“Anyway, are you ready, Min?”
“I guess.”
Corinne stands and brushes off the top of her white tutu. A few stray pieces of glitter cascade to the ground. Like me, she’s exhausted. With the amount of heavy stage makeup we have on, it’s hard to tell, but we both have puffy purple rings under our eyes from a consistent lack of sleep. Every muscle in our bodies aches. It’s been a long, long last couple of weeks. We’re counting down the days until New Year’s.
“Chin up. After tonight, we only have eight more shows to go,” she says.
I suppress a groan. “Eight shows too many.” As if to prove a point, my calf muscle cramps when I stand, causing me to wince.
“Do you need a banana?”
“No, I’ll be fine once we get going.” I jump up and down, pound the top of my legs, then lean against the wall to stretch it.
“Attention, dancers, this is your five-minute call. All corps dancers in the Snow scene, please proceed to the stage,” the stage manager announces over the loudspeaker backstage.
“You sure? Last chance.”
“Positive. If it’s still cramping after Snow, I’ll take you up on it.”
We leave our closet-sized dressing room and power walk down the darkened hall to the stage entrance, finding a scene of organized chaos. Stage techs, dressed in all black, are scurrying around, ushering children dressed as rats and toy soldiers off the stage. They’re whispering animatedly to one another.
“Kids, remember, no talking until we’re fully backstage in the green zone.” A tech puts a finger to his lips. “We don’t want the audience to hear you.”
Despite his best efforts, the children continue carrying on. He huffs, knowing it’s a lost cause, and instead urges them to pick up their pace.
“Snowflakes, I need all snowflakes please,” another tech says in a low tone.
Corinne and I maneuver past the cannon and other scattered props from theNutcrackerparty scene to join the other twenty-five members of the corps de ballet lined up in the stage wings.
“Merde,” we whisper to one another. We’re superstitious, and we’d never tell someone to “break a leg.”
Corinne joins the front of row three, and I, the middle of row two. Around me, everyone is silent. We’re each gathering our thoughts and reviewing the choreography we’re about to perform.
I roll up onto the tip of my toes and test my shoes. The left feels solid, but the right is too soft. I try and remember if I have another pair of shoes I can swap it out for before the “Waltz of the Flowers.” My thoughts are interrupted as the music the orchestra is playing suddenly changes.
Onstage, Clara and her Nutcracker Prince are greetedby the King and Queen of Snow. They’ve already arrived at the enchanted forest.
My pulse quickens. I wipe my clammy hands against my tights and roll down so I’m standing on a flat. My body goes on high alert. I’m laser focused on the dancer in front of me. My ears are preened, listening for our cue.
Thirty seconds later, it arrives. As if I’m racing in a hundred-meter dash, I enter the stage with a series of bounding leaps and chaîne turns, mirroring the timing and the movements of all the other corps dancers. Artificial snow begins to rain down upon us from above.
For the next few minutes, we’re dancing full-out as we enter and exit the stage more than ten different times. We’re constantly sprinting from one wing to another, and in some cases, one side of the stage to the other. It’s a marathon race.
On top of that, we also have to use extreme caution and channel an ice skater. The fake snow may look beautiful to the audience, but it comes at the price of making the stage extremely slippery. One wrong step can send us flying to the ground.
