My First Ballet

The dainty but sublime snowflakes, the entrancing Sugar Plum Fairy, the romantic flowers gathering for a waltz. Ah, the possibilities turn Pria’s mind around and about with delight. But she knows she couldn’t possibly choose just one role. Not with so many that spin about her, taking her hand in gentle invitation. Frustrated, she shakes her little head, shimmying her short-cut midnight hair. She knows she’ll have to set a decision in stone; the troublesome part is summoning the initiative to do so.

The ballet academy has become her second home, its layout more familiar than the construction of her own room. She’s ever grateful to “Grandpa Persnickety” for his allowing her to visit on Sundays when the school slumbers. The soft crinkle of the carpet and the cool zephyr from the AC system set her at ease.

The office at the summit of the school stands open, dimly lit, and the single side of a phone conversation rings out along the hall. Pria ignores it, shuffling her feet along the hall and drawing her fingers upon the wall’s tall wooden trim. Standing in the doorway, Pria’s petite figure casts a distorted, ominous shadow upon the principal, and he catches a sneeze.

“I promise I’ll call you back,” he shouts. “I’ll call you back later.” Mr. Marnet slaps the phone back on the receiver, taking a relieved sigh as though he’d just squashed a rogue wasp hanging around his desk. Sitting up straight, he shuffles a cloth around his glasses. “Oh, Miss Pria,” he comments, not realizing she was there. “You caught me at a good time. I couldn’t wait to hang up on that guy.”

“Who was it?” Pria questions, folding her hands behind her back and sauntering into the room like an idling fish savoring the current.

“Oh, it’s not important. Just boring business calls,” Mr. Marnet swats away the conversation with his right hand. “You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about working in an office job.”

With perusing eyes, the little ballerina picks up a heavy globe marble off the shelf and turns it in her hands, cherishing her imaginary force of control over the melon-sized Earth.

“Is there…any particular reason you’re in my office, Miss Pria?” Mr. Marnet queries, his question dangling in the air precariously.

Pria’s focus remains on scoping the minute planet. “Not really.” Squinting one eye and magnifying the other, she tries to spy the distorted planets hiding among the marble.

“Well, I’d prefer it if you didn’t play with my things. They’re not toys, Miss Pria.”

“OK,” she responds, a tiny hint of disappointment in her voice.

“I don’t have much work to do now, so if you’d like, I could unlock the auditorium for you so you can practice your steps.”

Pria instantly faces the other way. “You can do that?”

“Well, of course. I have all the keys,” Mr. Marnet displays pridefully.

“Can I have a copy?”

“W-what was that?” His smile sinks.

“I want a copy of the keys! Then I can dance whenever I want!” Her tiny eyes light up and hands grasp playfully for her treasure.

“No! Absolutely not!” The principal acts childishly, pulling the keys away.

“But why not?” Pria mumbles, turning her toes on the floor.

The principal sighs heavily. “We’ll see.”

Pria tucks away her confidence for later, when she’ll have to muster it up to prove her responsibility.

Leaving the office, Mr. Marnet locks the door, making sure to keep the keys out from Pria’s viper grasp when her eyes reflect their shimmer like giant glass orbs.

“How are you doing in your studies so far?”

“Oh, just fine.”

“Do you like it? Is it OK?”

Pria walks beside him a moment, plodding her footsteps to keep up with his pace. With a rise of her arms, she twirls and comments rather loudly, “Mr. Marnet, why can’t I just dance all the roles in the ballet?”

“Miss Pria!” the principal shouts, aghast.

“What?” she questions innocently, her arms out like a plane.

“W-why I don’t even know where this comes from!” the professor complains, wiping his forehead with his ever-present companion, the handkerchief.

“I just can’t decide which Nutcracker role I want to play. They’re all too fun to dance, so I can’t decide. So then, why can’t I just do all of them?” Pria explains, keeping them on schedule for their arrival downstairs.

“Miss Pria,” the principal preludes his discourse, stuffing his handkerchief pack in his coat pocket, “you can do whatever you like at home, but for the production, you can only choose one role; do you understand?”

“I suppose so,” Pria lowers her face dejectedly.

A stray thought passes through the professor’s mind, allowing the presence of a fond memory to dwell. “Well, since you’re so adamant,” his tone lightens cheerfully, “I’ll take you to see the costumes. Then maybe that will help you decide.”

“I like the pretty costumes,” Pria comments with a subtle smile.

“Then we’ll go. It’s in the back room behind the stage, anyway.”

They keys chime, teleporting Pria to the plush, palatial interior. Though the ballerina would normally rush through the aisles to her destination, she lingers this journey, acquainting herself with the velvety seats and the circular lights that subtly illuminate her path like a runway. Careening her head, she expects to find pointillist lights dangling from the ceiling like stars, but whatever lies above is clouded by the light’s refusal to finish its artistic form.

Pria appreciates that Mr. Marnay is moving a little quicker today than he usually does, and with a bit of spring in his step at that. Nevertheless, Pria gains momentum and lands gracefully before the dressing room’s imposing door locked firmly in place with the wall. But, to her surprise, her chaperone passes her and unlocks a secret passage behind the reams of curtains. Pria’s youthful heart skips a beat.

Vast doors, heavy and imposing, that look fit to guard a giant from the world, loom before the two of them.

“Is this where the costumes are hiding?” Pria asks, half-startled for a beast to emerge and half-excited for the possible unearthing of buried treasure.

“Yes, it’s so no one will take them. They’re quite expensive, you know,” the professor comments, flipping through his set of keys for the right one.

The ballerina stands firm on her feet, grasping for safety to her chaperone’s coat-tails. She draws in and out of her quiet, gaspy breaths.

The passage unlocks with a raspy chink, and Mr. Marnet sighs and braces himself. “The doors are rather heavy,” he explains, then proceeds to strain himself to slide them open.

Delicate silhouettes stare back at Pria.

“Phew!” Mr. Marnet exhales strongly. “There we go.”

And with a flick of the lights, Pria’s soul illuminates.

Before her is anything short of a dream she hardly believes she could have conjured unless forthright inspired to do so. Dresses and costumes of all dyes, tailored in all styles and shapes, line up perfectly in rows across this clandestine palace. It is likened to spotting both the pot of gold and the rainbow shimmering in harmony in the same space.

Mr. Marnet stops Pria from running off like a freed gazelle. “The costumes for The Nutcracker are over here, though they are all the adult ones. The ones the kids order are sized for them.”

“So, why are all of these here then?” Pria questions, though she refuses to admit it could be only an illusion manifested by wonder.

“For the professionals to use. They are very expensive, as I said, so we hope to accommodate their sizes. Your mother wore some of these.”

“Really?” Pria’s eyes twinkle like the sequins dazzling the dresses.

“And, as for the kids, they get to keep their costumes! They’re a bit lucky.”

Little Pria makes a fist. Now she really wants to choose the right one. Not only will she get to play the role, but she’ll have a souvenir she can wear again and again! Her eyes burn passionately with resolve and focus.

“Oh, I hope they did their job organizing this again,” the principal sighs, scouring the aisles for the familiar palettes. “Ah! Here we are!”

Pria stands at attention like a trained soldier.

“You can get an idea from all of these on this rack,” Mr. Marnet explains, then steps back to let the little ballerina peruse to her liking. Though, his focus sharpens to stand in close supervision just in case.

Relaxing her stance, Pria draws her fingers along the beautiful robes, a little cautious and concerned that the lace will fall apart at any slight provocation. Lost in the colors, she doesn’t know where to start, so she returns at the beginning of the row. Bulky outfits in black and red make Pria’s lip and eyebrows turn up like at the sense of a sour smell.

“What are these?” she questions aloud, partly hypothetically, picking up one of the dark skins. Though not heavy, the unpredictable weight of something so seemingly light draws her off guard.

“Be careful with those, Miss Pria.” Mr. Marnet sets out one hand to reach for her and draws another to his heart to keep it steady.

“These are strange,” Pria admits.

“Those are the ones for the mice and the mouse king, Miss Pria. They’re supposed to look like mice.”

“But it’s not Halloween, Mr. Marnet. It’s a ballet!”

“W-well, yes, but in order to—”

His explanation is cut off by the prima ballerina’s astute observation, “I don’t want to wear anything so silly! This silly stuff is for the boys to wear!”

Mr. Marnet sighs. “I didn’t expect you to, Pria. We’re just looking at them.”

Pria returns the costumes to the rack with a sigh, slightly disappointed. She passes over the ones for the candy canes, the angels, and the toys, which she also finds to be silly. Suddenly, she stops at the presence of a neat, white gown.

“What’s this? Pajamas?” Pria questions, holding it in front of her to see how it falls to her frame.

“That’s Clara’s outfit. She’s in a dream, so she’s in her nightgown for the production.”

“Isn’t that a little silly, though? To be dancing in your pajamas?”

“It’s a little fancier than pajamas, Miss Pria…” Mr. Marnet sighs, hesitating to give her a lecture on good fashion and just how much that article happens to cost.

Pria eyes the delicate ruffles on the sleeves and the intricate embroidery along the collar. She smiles at the blue trim, which reminds her of the sky. “I guess it’s not so bad,” she comments, putting it back.

Drifting along, she passes more outfits: one a man’s formal wear made entirely of crinkly velvet, an array of simple white dresses decorated with different color ribbons and bows, and the formal attire of the titular Nutcracker soldier. Then she stops and paints her face with a wide, innocent smile.

“I found the dancers,” she says with a slight chime in her voice. First, she procures the Arabian outfit, recalling the dreamy experience from her previous class.

“Oh, yes. Those are nice, aren’t they?” Mr. Marnet comments, a bit proud.

Pria examines the outfits, her memories of going to the ballet inspiring her. The Arabian outfit shimmers in gold trim, the burgundy sleeves and pants wistfully clothing the wearer like smoke. The Chinese outfit immortalizes the battle between the gold and red prints of the dress. The Spanish robe is stained in scarlet with black trim and lace pouring from it like feathers. While the snowflakes fall softly beside them, the dress ruffling like paper cutouts and glistening like diamonds.

“Now I know I can’t choose,” Pria complains wistfully.

“Just take your time,” Mr. Marnet assures her.

A sharp gasp sets Pria in motion, and she stops, entranced, before the visions of gold, purple, maroon, and posy.

“You found the Sugar Plum Fairy,” Mr. Marnet says with a bit of eventual expectation.

“This one’s my favorite,” Pria voices, admiring the garb and drawing it into her arms in a loving embrace.

“Don’t crush it!” Mr. Marnet calls out in a tense, worried voice.

“That and this. The one for the flowers,” Pria indicates, pulling another piece to her arms. The gown for the flowers, another magnificent dress, is flecked with sparkles like dew drops and cradled with a myriad petals on its dish skirt. “It’s just too bad it’s so pink,” Pria admits, sullen.

“I don’t see what’s so bad about it be pink, Miss Pria.”

“I’d look silly,” Pria states manner-of-factly. “Mr. Marnet?”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a big frisbee with the dress?”

“You’ve never seen these kinds of skirts before?”

“That’s a skirt?”

“Yes,” he returns, his inflection indicating it’s a kind of obvious fact.

“But I’d look ridiculous.”

“Well, those kinds of skirts are usually for the adults, Miss Pria.”

The little ballerina sets the lovely garments back in their respective places. “I hope I never grow up then, Mr. Marnet.”

The principal sighs, hoping he can make it for the trip back to his office without a crippling headache.

Now that the excitement has worn off, Pria sulks a bit, still unapt to make a decision.

Mr. Marnet puts a hand to her compact shoulder. “Well, at least you narrowed down some of your choices, yes?”

“I guess so,” Pria mutters.

“And if you ever need to come back, I’ll take you again.”

Pria’s heart makes a running start. “You mean I can come back here whenever I want?”

The principal stops in his tracks, haunted and tainted by what he just said. “I-I meant!” he stammers. “When I’m not busy in the office, but I have a lot more work to do today!”

“You’re no fun, Mr. Marnet,” Pria comments, shuffling her way outside.

The little ballerina feels a bit of remorse slide through her as the doors seal themselves off once again. Out of all the costumes, she misses the one for the Sugar Plum Fairy the most. But then again, possibilities dance in her mind like visions, and she halts for a moment to make up for herself.

“Mr. Marnet?”

“Yes, Miss Pria?”

“Can I stay here to practice for a while? That way I won’t bother you.”

The principal feels the light of Heaven upon him. “All right. But no sneaking around, and I’ll come get you later, OK?”

“Promise.” Pria curtseys.

With a breath, Pria closes her eyes and summons her thoughts. She fans her feet in first position and bows her arms to form a circle.

“Do you want the lights?” Mr. Marnet calls from across the hall.

“No, thank you,” Pria returns, practicing her pliés.

“OK,” Mr. Marnet replies, shrugging to himself.

The ballerina huffs, setting away her troubles for good old dance. When she can’t think straight or is troubled, she finds that is the best way to just forget about everything and let life solve itself. And so, with the fading visions of tantalizing possibilities as her only accompaniment, she researches the roles in the best way she can: to follow in their footsteps.

Next Chapter: The Choice