The third week of November was pure chaos. Between classes, rehearsals, and babysitting Lily, I barely had time to breathe. But the highlight of the week—what I'd been both anticipating and stressing over—was today: Wednesday. The day of the costume try-ons.

Today, I'd finally get to try on the Sugar Plum Fairy costume. The very thought of it sent a shiver of excitement and nerves through me. Ever since I found out I'd gotten the role, the pressure to live up to the name of the Sugar Plum Fairy had weighed heavily on my shoulders. She was elegant, ethereal, perfect. I wanted to be all of those things, and more importantly, I wanted my performance to reflect how hard I'd worked to get here.

But today wasn't just about me. I also had my kids' costumes to oversee—my little Polichinelles were buzzing with energy, and the thought of wrangling them into outfits made my already pounding headache worse. Still, I was determined to make sure everything ran smoothly.

I stood in the crowded dressing room, leaning against the wooden cubbies as dancers buzzed past me. The air was filled with excitement—fabric rustling, costume zippers being tugged, and nervous chatter echoing off the walls. The space smelled faintly of hairspray and polished floors, a familiar scent that reminded me of every production I'd ever been part of.

I shifted nervously, smoothing the lavender practice leotard I'd worn underneath my warm-up sweater and leggings. My hair was already tightly pinned into a neat ballet bun, and I fiddled absentmindedly with the ends of my sleeves as I waited.

"Amber Lee!"

The sharp voice of one of the assistants broke through my thoughts. I straightened up, my pulse quickening as I stepped forward. The assistant, a wiry woman with a clipboard and glasses perched low on her nose, barely glanced at me as she waved a hand toward the back of the room.

"Costume's ready. Go to the fitting area and stand on the platform for adjustments. The couturier is waiting for you."

The fitting area was tucked behind heavy velvet curtains. As I stepped inside, the space felt both intimate and grand—a small room with large mirrors lining the walls, each reflecting back the lights strung along the ceiling. The polished hardwood floor gleamed beneath me, and in the center of the room was a low wooden platform surrounded by racks of costumes.

And there it was.

The Sugar Plum Fairy tutu hung delicately on a mannequin to the side, glowing under the soft lights. The bodice was a creamy blush color, embroidered with intricate gold detailing that swirled like vines across the fabric. Tiny shimmering pearls and crystals were sewn into the embroidery, catching the light with every angle. The sleeves were delicate, sheer puffs of tulle that made the whole ensemble feel airy, like it belonged to a fairy who'd just stepped out of a storybook.

The skirt itself was breathtaking—a classic, stiff pancake tutu made of layers upon layers of blush-pink tulle, each layer dusted with a faint shimmer. I couldn't tear my eyes away from it. This was it. My costume.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I turned quickly to see the couturier—a short, silver-haired man with measuring tape draped around his neck and pins sticking out of his wrist cuff. He was already studying me like a scientist with his subject, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he gave me a once-over.

"Don't just stand there," he said briskly. "Let's get you into it. Come on."

I nodded quickly, stepping behind a partition where a stand of hangers had been set up for privacy. I slipped out of my warm-up clothes, the leotard underneath feeling snug but familiar. When I held up the bodice, my fingers trembled slightly, overwhelmed by the detail and delicacy of the fabric.

Sliding it on felt surreal. The bodice hugged my torso perfectly as I tied the inner ribbons and carefully adjusted the sleeves. When I stepped into the tutu, I was almost afraid to touch it, but the couturier guided me gently, fastening it securely at my waist before stepping back to admire his work.

"On the platform," he directed.

I walked carefully onto the low wooden platform in the center of the room, feeling as though I might float instead of walk. When I looked up, my reflection in the mirrors took my breath away.

The Sugar Plum Fairy was staring back at me.

The creamy blush tones of the costume complimented my skin, and the shimmer from the pearls and crystals glowed under the light. The tutu flared perfectly, the layers of tulle swishing softly when I shifted my weight. My posture straightened instinctively, as though the costume itself demanded nothing less than elegance.

I turned slightly, watching the reflection of the bodice's golden swirls catch the light. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I deserved this. I wasn't just wearing the role—I was the Sugar Plum Fairy.

The couturier moved around me quickly, making soft sounds of approval as he tugged and adjusted.

"Stand still," he murmured as he knelt down to pin a section of tulle. "You've got the frame for it. Good lines. The bodice will need only a slight adjustment around the bust."

I nodded, trying not to move as he worked. The pins tickled slightly as he shifted the sleeves and fussed with the skirt, but I didn't care. I was still mesmerized by my reflection, by the feeling of finally seeing myself in the role I'd dreamed about for so long.

When the couturier stood, he gave a sharp nod of approval. "You'll do well in this. Don't let me see you slouch."

"I won't," I said quietly, unable to tear my gaze away from the mirrors.

After my adjustments were done, I changed back into my warm-ups carefully, reluctant to part with the tutu even for a moment. When I stepped back into the main room, the kids I taught were already filing in, their chatter loud and excited.

"Miss Amber!" Jessie called, running up to me with wide eyes. "Did you see our costumes yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm about to," I said with a grin, ruffling her hair.

The little Polichinelle costumes were adorable—striped puffy pants, bright suspenders, and colorful hats that made them look like characters straight out of a whimsical dream. The kids practically vibrated with excitement as they tried them on, spinning around and chasing each other like buzzing bees.

"Are we going to be in the real show now?" oliver asked, tugging on my sleeve.

"You are," I said proudly. "And you're going to steal the show, I just know it."

As I watched the kids prance around in their costumes, a warmth spread through me. All of the stress, all of the endless practices, the hours spent working with them—it was all worth it. The magic of The Nutcracker was coming to life, and for the first time, I realized how close we were to making it real.

I touched my chest lightly, remembering how it felt to wear my own costume just minutes earlier. My role felt heavier now—but in the best way.

This was going to be my moment.

And I wasn't going to let anyone—or anything—take it from me.

The teaching session passed by in a whirlwind of energy, laughter, and excitement. The kids were practically buzzing today, more animated than ever since they got to try on their costumes. Watching them light up as they twirled around in their Polichinelle outfits made my heart swell. Even the most reluctant students seemed to feel the magic of their roles come to life.

"Miss Amber, look at me!" one of the boys shouted, hopping in place with his colorful suspenders bouncing up and down.

"You look fantastic," I called back with a smile. "Just make sure you save some of that energy for the real performance!"

The room felt alive, every inch filled with excitement and anticipation. I couldn't blame them—I remembered what it was like to try on my first big performance costume as a kid. It was like slipping into a new version of yourself, one where you felt unstoppable.

But as the class neared its end, a reminder tugged at the back of my mind. I still had to break the news to the kids about my upcoming absence.

When the music finally stopped and the kids settled onto the floor, their cheeks flushed and their hair damp with sweat, I took a deep breath. My nerves jittered in my chest, not because I was scared to tell them, but because I hated the idea of leaving them.

"Okay, everyone, listen up!" I called, clapping my hands for attention. "You all did amazing today, and I'm so proud of how far we've come."

A chorus of giggles and small cheers erupted, and I couldn't help but smile.

"But," I continued, softening my tone slightly, "I have some news. For the next two weeks, I won't be here to teach your classes."

"What?!" a little girl gasped, her eyes going wide as her striped hat slid slightly to the side.

The others echoed her reaction, their excitement dimming a little as they looked up at me.

"I know, I know," I said quickly, holding up my hands to calm them down. "I'm not leaving you forever—I promise! I just have to go on a school trip, and I'll be back before you know it."

"But who's going to teach us?" one boy asked, his brows furrowed as he hugged his knees to his chest.

"Don't worry," I reassured them, crouching down so I was at their level. "Mrs. Lawson will be here to cover the next two weeks. You already know her, and she's going to help you stay on track. Plus, I'll leave her notes about what we've been working on."

"It won't be the same," one of the girls said with a pout, her arms crossing stubbornly over her costume.

"I know," I said softly, ruffling her hair. "But I'll come back ready to make our rehearsals even better. You'll barely have time to miss me."

That earned a few giggles, and I took it as a small victory.

After the kids left, still chattering about their costumes, I gathered my things and made my way to one of the private practice rooms I'd reserved for myself. With everything happening—the birthday celebration on Friday and the flight to Costa Rica on Monday—I couldn't afford to waste a single minute.

The reality that I'd lose ten days of practice time hit me hard earlier in the week. I knew I'd barely have time for a plié between the hiking, ziplining, and whatever other activities Señora Álvarez had planned for us. That thought made my stomach twist.

If I wanted to perfect my role as the Sugar Plum Fairy, I had to put in the work now—before and after the trip.

The studio was empty when I walked in, the polished wood floors gleaming under the bright overhead lights. I dropped my bag by the door and pulled off my sweatshirt, leaving me in a fitted lavender leotard and a pair of soft ballet tights. My pointe shoes dangled from my hand, the ribbons already fraying slightly from hours of rehearsal.

I breathed in deeply, letting the familiar scent of rosin and wood settle my nerves. There was something about being alone in a dance studio that always felt grounding, like stepping into a space where nothing else mattered.

I sat down, methodically lacing my pointe shoes. My fingers moved quickly, out of habit more than anything, as I tightened the ribbons and tucked them carefully under the knots.

I stood in the center of the room, staring at my reflection in the massive mirror that lined the wall. My heart raced in anticipation as I positioned myself, my arms extending gracefully into first position. I could feel the lingering energy from teaching the kids earlier, but now it was mine to use.

The music began softly—Tchaikovsky's familiar, dreamlike notes filling the space. I exhaled and started to move, my muscles waking up instantly. Every step, every extension of my limbs felt sharp but deliberate as I worked through the Sugar Plum Fairy choreography.

I practiced the pirouettes over and over, losing count of how many times I fell slightly off balance before nailing the triple turn perfectly. My calves burned, my toes ached in my shoes, but I didn't stop.

The jump sequences pushed me to my limit, the tutu I imagined in my mind swirling around me as I soared through the air. I pictured the stage—bright lights, an audience hushed in awe—and me, in that perfect blush-pink costume, bringing the role to life.

When the music finally stopped, my chest rose and fell rapidly as I stood in the center of the room, sweat dripping down my back. I braced my hands on my knees, catching my breath.

I glanced at the mirror, where my reflection stared back at me—tired but determined.

"This is yours," I whispered to myself.

The thought of missing ten days was still stressful. But I could make this work. If I practiced harder before I left, and doubled down when I returned, I could still give the performance I'd been dreaming of.

I stood straight again, my shoulders pulling back, as a quiet resolve settled in my chest.

No matter what, I was going to make this role mine.

The music played on, the hauntingly beautiful melody of Tchaikovsky filling the empty studio as I pushed through my exhaustion. Sweat dripped from my temple, trailing down the side of my face as I reset my stance and began the choreography again. I couldn't afford to stop—not now.

Each movement felt sharper, more deliberate, as though I could dance away the nerves eating at me about the trip. Ten days of barely being able to practice was already weighing heavily on my mind, and the tight ball of stress in my chest refused to loosen.

"Push harder, Amber," I thought, setting up for another jump.

I moved across the floor, extending into a series of fast-paced jetés, my pointe shoes striking the floor with quick, precise taps. The image of the polished tutu flashed in my mind—the golden embroidery, the shimmer in the light—and I imagined myself on stage, perfect and untouchable.

I leapt into the final step, pushing off my right foot with every ounce of strength I had left.

And that's when it happened.

My foot landed wrong.

Instead of feeling the familiar stability of my pointe shoe connecting with the floor, my ankle buckled sharply to the side. Pain exploded through my right foot as I wobbled, a cry tearing from my throat. I crumpled to the ground in an ungraceful heap, my knee slamming into the floor while my hands shot out instinctively to catch me.

The music played on, oblivious to my collapse.

For a moment, I sat there in stunned silence, the throb in my foot growing sharper with every passing second.

"No, no, no," I whispered, my breath ragged as I carefully sat up and looked at my foot.