Page 68 of June
I groaned. "First of all,no sequins.Second, yes, they're breathable. I'm not that cruel."
"Debatable," Marchy muttered.
"And," January cut in with a grin, "do we finally get normal lighting? Or are you planning to blind us with another migraine-inducing strobe?"
"It wasartistic choice," I shot back.
"It was an epileptic hazard," she corrected.
We all burst out laughing.
"Fine, fine," I said, raising my hands. "This time it's soft lighting. Very celestial. You'll thank me later."
"Okay, but real talk..." May added, "are you going to, like, fly from the ceiling this time? Because if you are, I'm bringing popcorn."
"What? No!" I laughed.
"Fine, then at least tell me you're wearing glitter. Big, messy, in-the-hair-for-days glitter. That's performance law."
Marchy raised her hand like she was in school. "Question: if I clap at the wrong time, will you be able to tell from the stage? Because I'm warning you now—I have terrible rhythm."
"Yes, I will notice and yes, I'll glare at you."
"Good," she said, smirking, "I live for your stage glares."
May leaned back in her chair. "Will there be snacks? Like, intermission snacks? I don't care if it's just sad little peanuts. I need food to emotionally support you."
I groaned, laughing. "You are unbelievable."
"Supportive!" May corrected. "We are supportive!"
"Yeah," Marchy added. "We just have no idea what we're talking about."
********
The theater smelled faintly of dust and polish, like all old stages do. Backstage, the muffled hum of the audience seeped through the curtain—low laughter, shuffling feet, the occasional cough. My stomach felt like it had been replaced with a colony of butterflies, each one beating its wings against my ribs. This was it. D-Day.
Around me, the other dancers, students from all walks of life, buzzed with their own nervous energy. A few younger ones were pacing, chewing their nails, whispering to themselves. Leo was stretching in the corner, his headphones crooked around his neck, watching everyone with the calm of someone who'd been here a dozen times.
"Hey," I said, clapping my hands together, pulling their eyes toward me. "Let's do the ritual."
They gathered in a loose circle, some hesitant, some eager. We did what we always did before rehearsals: shook out our arms and legs until we felt silly, shouted the name of our favorite food (the louder the better), then touched the floor together, palms pressed to the boards, as if grounding ourselves in the stage. The silliness cracked the tension—laughter broke out, and the younger ones started bouncing, energy turning from nervous to electric.
"You're going to be brilliant," I told them, looking at each face, from the trembling twelve-year-old in ballet flats to the sixty-something man who had joined classes late in life. "This isn't about being perfect. It's about being alive out there. Remember that. Enjoy it above all!"
When the call came—"Ten minutes to curtain!"—they scattered to fix costumes and run last stretches. I slipped away, needing a moment alone.
In the dressing room, silence rushed in like a tide. I stood before the mirror, gripping the edge of the table, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth. Focus. Just focus.
That's when the door opened.
"Aaron?"
He stood there, slightly out of breath, holding the brightest bouquet of sunflowers I had ever seen. The golden heads almost swallowed him whole, a ridiculous burst of summer in his arms.
"I thought—" He smiled. "Well, I thought these might calm your nerves. Sunflowers always face the light, right? Even when they're heavy, they lift their heads. You have always loved these flowers, sunshine!"
For a beat, I just stared at him. He looked so sincere, so determined to be thoughtful, I just smiled and said, "They're beautiful. Thank you."
