The stage was silent save for the faint buzzing of one lonely fluorescent light.  Her toe shoes clanking against the worn hardwood, Arabella August took her position on the worn taped “X” in the center.

She raised her arms and tilted her chin.  And then, as the duitiful piano played, she began to dance.

Now, unlike most dancers, Arabella didn’t simply follow a series of intricately timed steps.  To Arabella, there was no eight-counts, no combinations or routines.  To Arabella, there was only music.  When she danced, the emotion flowed through her arms down to the tiny fluttering of her steps across the stage, her toe shoes whispering across the floorboards.  Every move was filled with joy, every leap an exclamation point to the song swirling around her.

When Arabella danced, the audience wept with pleasure.   But she never knew this, as she was unaware at her skill.

So when the director of the ballet company, Max Reed, took her hand, she steeled herself for the worst.

“Arabella, that was amazing.”  Max’s enourmous stomach fell and rose, threatening to burst the buttons of his pants.  “That was incredible.  That was astounding.”

“Thank you.”  Arabella ducked her head and blushed. “I know I’ve only danced in a few ballets, but I’d love to be a snowflake or chorus girl.”

“Chorus girl?  With your talent?”  Max shuddered.  “Arabella, I want you to be Clara.”

“Clara?”  Arabella gasped.

“Clara?”  A tall, thin girl with severe black hair pulled in a pun marched across stage from the wings, her toe shoes slamming into wood like gunfire.  “Max, you pig!  You told me I could be Clara!”

Max’s face reddened.  “Jocelyn, what are you doing here?  All auditions are private.”

Jocelyn snorted.  “You want to tell my father that?  Isn’t donation time coming up again, Max?”

Max’s face was scarlett.  “Arabella, this is Jocelyn Jones, one of our star ballerinas at the company.  Her father is a great lover of the arts.”

“No, my father is a great love of me,” Jocelyn corrected.  “And if you make this–this–thing Clara, you can bet he won’t make a donation this year.  Think anyone can see the “Nutcracker” in a theater without lights or heat, Max?”

“Now, Jocelyn, I’m the director,” Max stuttered.  “We make decisions based on talent here…”

“Are you telling me I don’t have talent?” Jocelyn screeched.

“No, I didn’t”–

“Are you telling me I’m not good enough to be Clara?”

“No, that’s not”–

“Then why are you giving my part away, Max?”  Jocelyn’s voice rose to a near scream.  “What’s this brat got that I don’t?”

“She…she can just dance!”  Max slumped his shoulders.  “How about the Sugar Plum Fairy?  That’s a huge role.”

“No.”  Jocelyn jabbed a long finger into his chest.  “Clara or nothing.  That’s it.”  Glaring at Arabella, she stormed from the stage.

Rubbing his chest, Max gave her a feeble smile.  “Don’t worry, Arabella.  You’re still Clara.  The role is yours.”  Kissing her hand, he wiped his sweaty brow.  “If you excuse me….I need a donut or chocolate bar…or twelve.”

Watching the pudgy director toddle off the stage, Arabella’s head spun.  Before she realized what was happening, her excited feet were rushing down the stairs to the stage, weaving down the aisles of the chairs and bursting through the lobby doors.  Spotting a tall thin girl with long dark curly hair, she launched herself into her arms.

“Leonette!  I’m Clara!”

“No, you’re Arabella,” her friend corrected.  “A flying form of her, I believe.”

“No, silly!”  Arabella laughed.  “I mean I got the role!  Well, I think I did.”  Her face clouded over.  “This girl named Joceyln came and yelled at Max and said it wasn’t fair.  She said she was supposed to be Clara.”

“Jocelyn Jones?”  Leonette made a face.  “I know her.”

“How do you know her?”  Arabella raised an eyebrow.  “You just got here on the exchange program from France!  How do you know her and I don’t?”

Leonette shrugged, tossing her long dark curls.  “I like gossip.  You know that.  Her dad is some rich guy, practically owns the company.  She always gets the plum roles.  Supposedly her twin brother dances here too, but I’ve never seen him.  If he’s anything like her, I hope I don’t ever see him.”

Arabella knitted her brows together.  “So I’m not Clara, after all.”

“Oh, you are Clara.”  Leonette slung an arm around her.  “No one could dance like you and not be Clara.”   She tossed her curls again, slapping Arabella in the face and tickling her nose.  “Don’t worry about her.  Jocelyn Jones does not rule this company, no matter what she thinks.”

Arabella bit her lip.  “She seemed pretty determined.”

“Oh, she’ll fight for it until opening night,” Leonette agreed, steering her towards a cafe.  Leonette was obsessed with cafes.  “And she’ll make your life miserable.  Just watch your stuff and stay away from heavy lights, opened water bottles and food packages, empty closets, that sort of thing.”

Arabella shuddered.  Squaring up her shoulders, she changed the subject.  “Isn’t it exciting? I’ve never been in the “Nutcracker” before!  And to be Clara, that’s wonderful!”

“I’m a rat,” Leonette said dourly, crossing her arms.  “A rat.  I’m French!  I’m a French ballerina!  How can I be a rat?”

“But you’re not just any rat.  You’re the Rat King!”

Leonette glared at her overly cheerful friend.  “I’d rather be the Rat Queen.  Then, at least, I could wear a tutu.”  A wicked grin spread over her face.  “A black tutu.  With shredded silver tulle and slashes of red velvet across the bodice, like I’d been stabbed.”

Arabella raised her eyebrows.  “That seems a little…violent.”

“I’m the Rat Queen!”  Leonette tossed her black hair, her eyebrows arched.  “Shall I eat crumpets and drink tea instead?”

Arabella grinned and clapped her hands.  “Isn’t this exciting?  We’ll be in the “Nutcracker”, on Christmas!  What a fun treat for the holidays?”

“Fun?” Leonette echoed.  “Bleeding toes and aching muscles is fun?”  She shook her head and singled to the barista.  “Coffee is fun.  Chocolate is fun.  Flirting is fun.  Dancing is exercise, work.  An art to be produced.” She wrinkled her nose.  “If I didn’t like what it did for my figure or my image with boys, I’d quit.  Even though my mother would have a heart attack.”

Arabella laughed.  “I just love to dance.  All that doesn’t matter.”

Leonette shook her head.  “You love to dance now,” she pointed out.  “But we’re 15.  What are you going to do when you’re 20?  Dancers have to leave the stage sometime, you know.”

Arabella grinned.  “I’ll dance some more. I’ll never stop dancing.  The only thing I love more than dancing is Christmas.”

Leonette sipped her coffee and made a face.  “Well, you’re a perfect Clara then.”  She signaled the waiter.  “The only thing Jocelyn loves more than dancing is herself.”

The next day after school, Arabella rushed down the sidewalk and hurried the full mile and a half to ballet class.  After a two hour rehearsal and a squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich from her backpack, she flipped on the music in the tiny studio, turning on a single lamp.  If she hurried, she could get in an extra hour of practice before her mother noticed she was gone.

And that was how he found her.

The night was cold and dark, the icy wind whistling across the streets in early November.  Arabella leaped across the studio floor, sashaying and twirling as the trilling piano rang around her.  Leaping onto a single toe, she extended her arm and legs into an arabesque and pose.

The applause made her nearly tumble to the ground.  Whirling around, she stared at a dark haired boy grinning at her.

“I take it you’re Clara?”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new recipe tomorrow and a new Butterfly Dress Friday!  Stay tuned!

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