Play & Book Excerpts
The Nutcracker Chronicles
(She Writes Press)
© Janine Kovac
At first I’m nervous because I’m afraid I’ll forget my counts, but then there is a whole list of reasons to be nervous: Sofia’s candle spills some wax on the stage when she blows it out. What if someone slips on it? I can’t find the maid who is supposed to take my props, and I’m late for handing out presents. I feel like the shy girl at a party, which I would be if I were at a real party.
The stage lights are hot and my wig is itchy, reminding me I have to wear it because I do not dance like a pretty girl.
When Drosselmeier unveils the nutcracker, Dee Bee’s eyes light up and her chest expands with a perfect stage gasp, as if she can hardly believe the gift is for her. As if she’s never seen a nutcracker before, even though she’s spent the last twelve weeks lugging it around and like me, like all of us onstage, probably can’t remember a time when she didn’t know what a nutcracker looked like.
Faker.
And in that moment, I hate her. I really hate her. I hate that all the teachers at school know she is Clara but none of them even know I dance right beside her in every ballet class and every rehearsal. I hate that the grown-up dancers treat her as something special. I hate her curls that bounce up and down with each piqué arabesque.
But most of all, I hate that stupid nutcracker. It’s not a prize. Anyone can see that. The paint is chipped. The boots are scuffed. The head is wobbly from years of use.
The rock in the pit of my stomach shifts. I glower at Dee Bee with her perfect curls in her perfect yellow dress and its perfect bow until she feels my stare.
When she looks up across the stage at me, I wrinkle my nose and make a face. Slowly, like a vapor, the envy makes its way from my stomach to my heart. This is my stage too.
I don’t care about her pretty dress or stupid curls. I don’t even want that nutcracker. I just don’t want her to have it.
When the maid rings the dinner bell and the parents follow her offstage, Dee Bee tiptoes out with her precious prop. She looks exactly like a little girl who is excited to have a moment to herself with her new doll.
I’m next. In rehearsal, I walked as if strolling through my living room. But tonight I think Fritz knows exactly what he’s doing; he’s trailing his sister. The envy takes its time, like a veil winding itself around my limbs, whispering, “It’s okay to be this mad. You are supposed to be envious.”
The rest of the cousins enter, and Sofia begs to hold the nutcracker. When Dee Bee hands over the doll, I seize my moment. Grabbing it, I gallop away.
“Noooooooooooo!” comes a yell from the audience. A little kid. It makes me smile harder. This is my stage. My party.
My music is a set of trills that sounds like a patter of feet running down the stairs, the musical equivalent of a situation getting out of hand. Tonight the trills mirror the unraveling of envy in my belly. Holding the nutcracker over my head, I can feel the audience watching me with a kind of intensity. It feels like a surge, a tidal wave.
I slide into a kneel downstage right and bang the nutcracker on the floor harder than I ever did in rehearsal.
Whack!
The head slides off from the rest of the body. The audience is silent, sucking in a collective breath. I wait two counts, the way the director told me to. I can feel it again—another message from the audience. They want to see the damage. The cousins onstage are still as statues. They are waiting to react until I give the cue.
I look at Dee Bee and smile.
Oh. I’m sorry. Is this your nutcracker? my eyes say. I hand her the headless toy, waiting a beat before I give her the head.
Sofia shakes her finger at me and runs offstage to tattle. I’m in trouble now. Of course, I knew this moment was coming. We’ve been rehearsing this scene for three months.
It will be an actual spanking, not a stage slap. After years of being spanked at the front of the stage, David has finally graduated from Fritz to the role of Herr Stahlbaum, and now he is determined to pass on the experience. On stage left, Drosselmeier has reattached the nutcracker head, securing it with his handkerchief while Dee Bee clasps her hands in anticipation.
But really, all eyes are still on me. Herr Stahlbaum turns me around and bends me at the waist. He delivers three hard thwacks, harder than anything he did in rehearsal. It’s loud enough for the people in the last row to hear.
“Yay!” screams a little kid, happy that justice has been delivered.
I’m happy too. I can still feel the audience. They are still watching to see what I will do next.
Now that I have the audience’s eye, I’m not about to give it up. My job is to annoy Clara. As soon as the music tells me to, I lunge for the nutcracker again.
But this time, Dee Bee grabs the doll from the littlest cousin and smacks me over the head with it. This is not something we rehearsed, and I freeze at her improvisation. Then she reaches over and with one swift tug, unties my perfect silk bow.
Perfect little Dee Bee has retaliated. This is war.
Inspiration ignites through our collective brains like a string of lights on the Christmas tree. All eight cousins get the same idea at the same time.
We have license to misbehave as we have never misbehaved in our lives.
The stage lights are hot and my wig is itchy, reminding me I have to wear it because I do not dance like a pretty girl.
When Drosselmeier unveils the nutcracker, Dee Bee’s eyes light up and her chest expands with a perfect stage gasp, as if she can hardly believe the gift is for her. As if she’s never seen a nutcracker before, even though she’s spent the last twelve weeks lugging it around and like me, like all of us onstage, probably can’t remember a time when she didn’t know what a nutcracker looked like.
Faker.
And in that moment, I hate her. I really hate her. I hate that all the teachers at school know she is Clara but none of them even know I dance right beside her in every ballet class and every rehearsal. I hate that the grown-up dancers treat her as something special. I hate her curls that bounce up and down with each piqué arabesque.
But most of all, I hate that stupid nutcracker. It’s not a prize. Anyone can see that. The paint is chipped. The boots are scuffed. The head is wobbly from years of use.
The rock in the pit of my stomach shifts. I glower at Dee Bee with her perfect curls in her perfect yellow dress and its perfect bow until she feels my stare.
When she looks up across the stage at me, I wrinkle my nose and make a face. Slowly, like a vapor, the envy makes its way from my stomach to my heart. This is my stage too.
I don’t care about her pretty dress or stupid curls. I don’t even want that nutcracker. I just don’t want her to have it.
When the maid rings the dinner bell and the parents follow her offstage, Dee Bee tiptoes out with her precious prop. She looks exactly like a little girl who is excited to have a moment to herself with her new doll.
I’m next. In rehearsal, I walked as if strolling through my living room. But tonight I think Fritz knows exactly what he’s doing; he’s trailing his sister. The envy takes its time, like a veil winding itself around my limbs, whispering, “It’s okay to be this mad. You are supposed to be envious.”
The rest of the cousins enter, and Sofia begs to hold the nutcracker. When Dee Bee hands over the doll, I seize my moment. Grabbing it, I gallop away.
“Noooooooooooo!” comes a yell from the audience. A little kid. It makes me smile harder. This is my stage. My party.
My music is a set of trills that sounds like a patter of feet running down the stairs, the musical equivalent of a situation getting out of hand. Tonight the trills mirror the unraveling of envy in my belly. Holding the nutcracker over my head, I can feel the audience watching me with a kind of intensity. It feels like a surge, a tidal wave.
I slide into a kneel downstage right and bang the nutcracker on the floor harder than I ever did in rehearsal.
Whack!
The head slides off from the rest of the body. The audience is silent, sucking in a collective breath. I wait two counts, the way the director told me to. I can feel it again—another message from the audience. They want to see the damage. The cousins onstage are still as statues. They are waiting to react until I give the cue.
I look at Dee Bee and smile.
Oh. I’m sorry. Is this your nutcracker? my eyes say. I hand her the headless toy, waiting a beat before I give her the head.
Sofia shakes her finger at me and runs offstage to tattle. I’m in trouble now. Of course, I knew this moment was coming. We’ve been rehearsing this scene for three months.
It will be an actual spanking, not a stage slap. After years of being spanked at the front of the stage, David has finally graduated from Fritz to the role of Herr Stahlbaum, and now he is determined to pass on the experience. On stage left, Drosselmeier has reattached the nutcracker head, securing it with his handkerchief while Dee Bee clasps her hands in anticipation.
But really, all eyes are still on me. Herr Stahlbaum turns me around and bends me at the waist. He delivers three hard thwacks, harder than anything he did in rehearsal. It’s loud enough for the people in the last row to hear.
“Yay!” screams a little kid, happy that justice has been delivered.
I’m happy too. I can still feel the audience. They are still watching to see what I will do next.
Now that I have the audience’s eye, I’m not about to give it up. My job is to annoy Clara. As soon as the music tells me to, I lunge for the nutcracker again.
But this time, Dee Bee grabs the doll from the littlest cousin and smacks me over the head with it. This is not something we rehearsed, and I freeze at her improvisation. Then she reaches over and with one swift tug, unties my perfect silk bow.
Perfect little Dee Bee has retaliated. This is war.
Inspiration ignites through our collective brains like a string of lights on the Christmas tree. All eight cousins get the same idea at the same time.
We have license to misbehave as we have never misbehaved in our lives.
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Janine Kovac enjoyed a 12-year career as a professional ballet dancer in Iceland, Italy, San Francisco, and her hometown of El Paso, Texas.
In addition to The Nutcracker Chronicles: A Fairytale Memoir, excerpted here, she is the author of Brain Changer: A Mother’s Guide to Cognitive Science and Spinning: Choreography for Coming Home, which received a National Indie Excellence Award. |
Janine Kovac
Photo Credit: Terry Lorant |
