Page 4 of Of Might and Mettle

Lorelle could see the glistening tears threatening to escape Isabel’s eyes. She was maybe five years Lorelle’s senior, and she’d been principal ballerina in their performances for all the time that Lorelle had been in the company. She was a captivating performer, and her smiles onstage were as genuine as they were backstage, even if they seldom were aimed at Lorelle. Isabel, like the other dancers, sensed some tension between Lorelle and la directora and no doubt didn’t wish to become a target herself.

Isabel stood, but Lorelle noticed the way she favored her left leg. Even from this distance, Lorelle could see Isabel’s ankle swelling by the minute.

La directora’s flippant attitude evaporated. “Stagehand,” she called. “Get some ice from the kitchens. And you, Isabel, get off the stage. You won’t be dancing. We need to be in our best shape, and you clearly aren’t.”

Isabel’s eyes widened, her nostrils flaring, but she swallowed her pride and nodded. The wooden soldier, Oliver, helped her hobble down the stage and stayed with her in the seats—no matter that la directora would summon him onstage again soon, more than likely with a scowl for making her wait.

The dancers on stage were frozen in anticipation, and even Lorelle had forgotten about needing to put on her shoes. There was no understudy, given they had stretched their small company to take on more roles to fill a bigger stage, even having to rush order more costumes. Someone would need to be elevated from soloist to principal, even if only for this week.

Vanesa’s red skirt flitted at the edge of the stage, all too much like a bird puffing its feathers for admiration. “Directora,” she called. “We don’t need three cardinals to deliver the message to the wooden soldier. You could spare me to take the role of Maria.”

La directora waved her away with a hand, but her brows drew together in thought. “Snowflakes,” she called. “Start at the beginning. Act 1.”

Snowflakes flew across the stage as ballerinas got into position around the wings, and Lorelle’s heart skipped a beat. In a few minutes, she would be on, and she needed her shoes. She started up the side steps to the stage, about to dart into the darkest corner of the wings, when an arm stopped her.

“Not you,” a voice said. La directora. “Vanesa, you’ll take Lorelle’s role.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Isabel, get up here. Give Lorelle your costume.”

Lorelle’s jaw dropped.

“Don’t look flattered,” said la directora. “You’re the soloist with the best memory. But don’t make me regret it.” She looked pointedly at Lorelle’s glove.

Lorelle collected herself, dipping her head, though she wanted nothing more than to smile and laugh and tell—tell who? Who would be happy for her but friends and a family? But she spotted a few grinning stagehands in the audience, one that even threw her a wink as Lorelle followed Isabel to a private room where they could switch costumes.

Lorelle had undone the front buttons of her cardinal costume by the time Isabel had pulled off her gloves and turned, showing her back to Lorelle. She blinked for a moment, unsure of what to do, then her fingers set to work loosening the laces up the back of Isabel’s dress with one hand. She had seen these interactions between girls from across the room but had never expected to be doing it herself, and Isabel tensed with every moment that Lorelle’s fingers got caught trying to loosen the strings. But she loosened them enough for Isabel to get free, and they switched costumes.

She could hardly believe she was standing in as Maria, the princess of the toy kingdom. The skirt was longer than the wide feathers of the cardinal tutu, and instead of stiff tulle, soft waves of cream silk fell to her knees. Red ribbons decorated the hem.

A voice cut through the closed door: “Hurry up! La directora is waiting.”

Lorelle tensed. She eyed the door and then Isabel, then her untied shoes around her feet. She still needed to tie them and she couldn’t do it in front of Isabel. She would ask questions.

Suddenly, Isabel crouched, and her hands gripped the pink ribbons pooling around Lorelle’s feet.

“Ay, ¿qué haces?” Lorelle squawked. Had she been found out? “You don’t need to—”

“It’s faster,” she said. “La directora is waiting.” And through the pain in Isabel’s eyes as she balanced on her good ankle, Lorelle thought she could see a sparkle of friendliness. Isabel straightened. “Go.”

“Gracias,” Lorelle said, offering a trembling smile. “I—”

“Anda,” she repeated. “Go.” Isabel gently shoved her out the dressing room ahead of her. “And watch your back.”

Isabel hobbled to the front row while Lorelle stepped forward, crossing the edge of the stage to meet la directora.

The next few hours passed in a surreal blur as la directora walked her through the choreography. Isabel offered a few silent tips from her position in the audience, though her features stiffened when Lorelle reached the same scene in which she had fallen.

The wooden soldier came out, breaking through the mice circling at the edges of the stage. The trombones blared in warning as the circle of mice pressed around the soldier. A painted mask covered his face, and he danced with stiff, wooden movements, like a puppet with creaky joints not oiled for some time. In his hands he held a wooden musket, which he aimed at the first mouse that came forward. He jerked just as the cymbals clashed, and the first mouse went down.

Mice squeaked with the cry of the flutes, and figures danced down the aisles as more mice came forward. This was a new addition from la directora, making the dancers come from the aisles as well as both sides of the stage, heightening the tension as Maria and the wooden soldier defended the toy kingdom.

The soldier aimed at a mouse in the audience and fired with another clash of cymbals. Maria was separated from the wooden soldier as mice surrounded them, but she spun free and joined her protector in the middle of the circle of mice, all claws and fur and turns.

Suddenly, Lorelle was thrown off-balance by a shove to her shoulder. Though she wobbled, she held her form, wincing at la directora’s disapproving glance. Another shove came to her side, but this time Lorelle spun, deflecting the movement, and the mouse stumbled.

The music came to a halt.

“Again,” la directora barked. “And you can blame your fellow mouse this time. If it wasn’t so close to the performance, I would replace you.”

The mouse that had tried to shove Lorelle ducked her head in shame, but Lorelle could make out nothing of her features through the mask. The guilty mouse disappeared into the throng of mice as everyone went to reset from the start of Act 2.