35. Stage Fright-Or-Flight

35

STAGE FRIGHT-OR-FLIGHT

QUINN

208 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

Electricity surges through the backstage for the Elf Extravaganza. I'm helping with any final touches before joining Patrick out in the audience.

I'm stuffed into the tailored tuxedo Christa made for me. It doesn't matter that it was cut to my exact proportions or that the finest maroon fabrics were used, I'm still a sausage inside a casing. Mashed-up bits masquerading as something I was never meant to be.

"We're missing an act." Christa's voice crackles in my headset.

Finding an MIA elf was not on my bingo card for tonight.

"Who is it?" Another voice chirps in my ears. It's Ashley this time. She sounds frustrated.

I don't hear Christa's answer because one of the wardrobe assistants rolls a mostly empty rack of costumes through the wings and across my path. There's a pair of leggings and an unmistakable top hat unclaimed.

I'm off like a rocket in search of Mick.

Ashley was hesitant to cast Mick, worried the nerves might get to them too much. I fought for Mick. I promised that I'd work with them on their poems, help them get performance ready. In the last two months, Mick has displayed an unmatched confidence. Bravado that was sure to earn them bravos from the patiently waiting audience.

Stage fright is nothing new. I've seen it infect dozens of kids at Oakwood Elementary. That anticipatory vibration that could turn sinister if not tended to. However, back home, by the time the curtain rose, shy kids turned into superstars and mouthy kids learned valuable lessons about being cooperative in the chorus. Now as I run around the backstage helplessly asking after Mick, mere minutes to showtime, I'm not sure I can save this one.

The Voices of Hope choir takes the stage for the opening number—a rousing rendition of "Carol of the Bells"—and I realize there's one last stone left unturned. The basement door is unlocked. It's a slate-gray subterranean space that feels out of place in the North Pole, but I suppose even magical villages need storage.

Mick brought me down here one day because they confessed this is where they found the tutu and top hat originally. They were looking for a place to practice before the audition, found the basement, got lost in all the old props and costumes, and decided to don a few pieces.

Among the painted moons and rusty tap shoes, a figure is frantically digging through a plastic box. "Mick, everything okay? It's showtime."

"I can't go on," they say, hands still burrowing around. Clink, clank, swish.

"What are you looking for?" I ask, drawing closer.

"A pin. A pin. I—" They hold up their tutu. It's torn in half. The colorful swaths of tulle spiral down to the floor, looking more like a magician's never-ending scarf than a skirt.

I nod. "Okay. Well, there are plenty of other options up in the costume shop—"

"No," they cut in. "The tutu. I need the tutu."

I had feared that. Not only does Mick find confidence in the tutu, but they find comfort in it, too. They can be the character of Blizzard. Perhaps, even above that, the character of Blizzard isn't a character at all, but a truer version of Mick. At eight, identity starts to form. It's a lifelong journey, sure, and Mick being an elf, that journey will last into infinity given their immortality. Regardless, it's beautiful to witness someone so young know themselves so well.

I'm as determined as ever to make this work. "Follow me."

We race to the costume shop. I put my sewing skills to the test, racing to claim a machine, wind a bobbin, and stitch the unmatched pieces of tulle. I nick myself only once before the machine bends to my will.

Ashley pings into my headset. "Quinn, what's going on? You promised Mick would be ready. Where are they? They're on deck."

"They'll be there," I chime back. "Trust me."

I knot off the stitch, holding up my work. It's a little lopsided, but it will do. "Better?" Mick nods.

I take Mick by the hand, and we barrel for the wings.

"What if I forget my poems onstage?" Mick asks, worry still hot on our heels.

"That's the beauty of original poems. Nobody knows them. You can always make something up," I say.

"What if my mind goes blank?"

"It won't."

"But what if it does?"

We curve into the darkness of the backstage area where the other acts mill about, antsy to get out there. I check us in with the stage manager, who sends a message to Ashley. I kneel in front of Mick and look them right in the eyes. "It's okay. Whatever happens out there, happens. We've polished your poems. You've practiced. You're ready. Performance is meant to be fleeting. Do you know what fleeting means?"

Mick shakes their head, eyes as wide as pancakes.

"It means temporary. It means even if you mess up, it's not the end of the world. It's one moment in time and another moment will always come right after it. Take a deep breath and do your best," I say.

Once I send Mick onto the stage, it's a bit like I'm sending a piece of me out there, too. The lights pick up on the glitter dabbed on Blizzard the Poet's cheeks, the subtle sparkle embedded in the fabric of the tutu. The words shine just as brightly, spoken with clarity. I couldn't be prouder.

After congratulating Mick on a job well done and sending them back to the greenroom to hang with the rest of the acts before the big finale, I start toward the audience and then make a pit stop in the costume shop.

While I was sewing, I noticed this jumpsuit on one of the mannequins. It was a Christa design, and it looked to be about my size. It has a deep V neckline, a gathered waistline, and long, flowing legs. Delicately, I undress myself before undressing the mannequin.

The lights are low in the house when I finally make it out to my seat. Patrick's box is pivoted toward the stage, where heavy, red curtains hang down. Golden fringe tickles the boards below as it sways. The cast must be moving behind it, prepping for the next act.

Patrick sits alone, thumbing through the program. It's not until I clear my throat that he looks up. His cheeks lift one at a time. "You're here. And you changed."

"I did," I say, trying to combat the self-consciousness that always comes with being perceived, even by my husband. "It was hot back there." Though there's no reason I should have to qualify how I present myself. Except maybe to Christa, who will probably want to know who stole her creation.

"You look great," Patrick says, standing to allow me to pass and get to my seat. He kisses me on the cheek. His big, calloused hand slips down the silky fabric from my shoulder and lands in the crook of my lower back. Desire rolls through me. "And Mick was— Wow. Really something. They were lucky to have you."

I smile and nod, but ultimately say, "I think it was the other way around."

The smile doesn't slip from my face for the rest of the show, which goes off without another hitch.

"What do you plan on working on next?" Patrick asks during our slow amble back to the chairlift after it's all over. The streets are filled with elves still buzzing about the show, but Patrick and I stick to the sidewalks, to each other. I don't want the bubble of our perfect night together to pop too soon.

I shrug. "Enjoying the freedom of not having my days planned down to the second?" Working with Mick has shown me that I was never married to the academic aspect of being a teacher. Maybe I only ever wanted to help young people, be a mentor. The connection is the part that I love. "I have a lot of options."

"Seems like the elves really like having you around," Patrick says. "Every time you're out and about, the happiness meter in my office spikes."

"That's nice to hear," I say, feeling a blush rush up my neck and across my cheeks.

He guides me closer to him, so we fall into perfect step, and he leans in to whisper: " My happiness meter spikes when you're around, too." His voice is feather-light and his breath ghosts over my ear.

The blush from a second ago becomes a scorch. I laugh at his dirty joke, shove him playfully away.

As we approach the town center where the gargantuan tree glistens against the evening sky, a faint song floats on the wind. It echoes against the buildings. The snow flurries slow to a nearly choreographed flutter. Flakes catch on Patrick's long, blond eyelashes as his pupils dilate.

"Do you hear what I hear?" Patrick asks, eyebrows bouncing. Everything is a Christmas pun around here. I've grown to love it even if it's corny.

Straining, I faintly make out one of our favorite songs to joke-sing together. "Baby, it's cold outside," I say.

"I know it is. Why do you think I'm all bundled up?" he jokes, performing an overblown shiver.

I shake my head, biting back a smile. "What a dork."

"Yeah, but I'm your dork," he says. He whisks me into the square where some musicians are playing outside of an overflowing pub called Hand over Hearth. The cast and crew from the Elf Extravaganza are raising frothy, chilled pint glasses in celebration while some of them harmonize along to the lead singers that are dueting the holiday classic for all to hear.

Plenty of elves have taken to the street and are holding each other close. The indigo evening overhead is swished with green and has the distinct aesthetics of a Thomas Kinkade painting. My breath gets swept away as Patrick sweeps me into a dance hold.

I fall into the steps easily, even after so little practice. "Go easy on me," I say. "I don't think we've danced together since our wedding night." In our first apartment, after particularly stressful days at work, in the cramped living room, we'd move the coffee table and the couch out of the way, and we'd put on a rowdy playlist to dance our cares away.

Close by, Ashley and Samson are dancing to the song as well. He twirls her under his muscular arm.

Ashley notices me and without missing a step says, "Quinn, sorry about my attitude earlier. The Elf Extravaganza is my one big task a year and it means a lot to me. You really came through. Thanks."

"No sweat. It was fun," I say before she twirls away, leaving me with a hope that I've finally garnered her favor.

"We're coming up on our anniversary. Can you believe it's almost been one year of marriage?" Patrick says, continuing to lead us in a step-touch.

"Time flies," I say. Though, it doesn't quite fly here. It ripples. Every day is more expansive than a simple X on a paper calendar.

"We'll have to do something special," he says, sounding serious.

I blink back at him, a million love bugs tickling my heart. "I'd love that," I say before swinging him out, rolling him in, dipping him low, and kissing him hard on the mouth.