CHAPTER TEN #17
"We are going to adapt The Nutcracker into a theatrical play—your Winter Showcase will be built on spoken dialogue, character work, and emotional truth. With movement, yes, but movement in service of acting."
Lucy raises her hand half-heartedly, then drops it when she realizes Callahan's already looking her way. "So... just to be clear, we won't be... dancing the whole thing?"
"Not unless you wish to audition for the Dance Department," Callahan shoots back with a smirk.
A ripple of laughter goes through the room.
"There will be stylized sequences—some music, some movement, perhaps even a simple duet for our leads—but the soul of this production is the acting — the story you tell with your voices, your choices, the emotional spine of each scene.
You will not be background figures twirling silently while Tchaikovsky does the work. You will carry the story."
Adam leans in again, stage-whispering, "Translation: we don't have to wear tights."
"Thank God," Lucy mutters, and I catch the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
"Okay, so here's what you need to know. There are a few different ways this story has been told, and whichever one you pick will decide how our script takes shape."
Professor Callahan snaps open the red folder and begins handing stacks of papers down each row. "These," she says, "outline the major versions of The Nutcracker you'll be choosing from. Read them, mark them up, argue over them—I don't care, as long as you leave this room today with one decision."
The room quiets as the papers shuffle from hand to hand. I glance down at mine, the headings bold across the page.
Callahan paces slowly, her voice carrying easily.
"First, the original Hoffmann story. Dark and twisted.
Clara—sometimes called Marie—goes with the Nutcracker into a dangerous magical realm ruled by the evil Mouse King.
Lots of danger, plenty of fight scenes. And at the end of the story, she even becomes the queen. "
She gestures to the next section on the page.
"Second, the Dumas retelling. Softer and turns it into a lighter, whimsical holiday fairy tale, which is what most people think of when they hear The Nutcracker.
This is also where we see the introduction of the Sugarplum Fairy—a character not in Hoffmann's.
Here, she rules the magical land and welcomes Clara and the Nutcracker at the end. "
"And finally, the modern adaptations. Same core story, same characters, but with more emphasis on Clara's transformation. Instead of meeting the Sugarplum Fairy at the end, Clara herself is revealed as the Sugarplum Princess..."
Callahan lets the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing, "That interpretation puts the weight of the ending on her, and gives her a more dramatic, conclusive arc. If you've seen Barbie in the Nutcracker, you know the version I mean."
She glances down at the watch strapped to her wrist. "All right. You've got forty-five minutes. Read through the packet, talk it out, argue if you must—but by the end of class, I expect one decision. That's the version we'll adapt, and auditions on Friday will be based on it."
We form into a circle, like some kind of cult about to summon theater gods. Everyone's got their packet out, flipping pages, already arguing about which version is superior.
And shockingly?
People are actually making good points. Even the quiet kids who usually just vibe in the back. Callahan leans against the mirror wall, arms crossed, doing that slow professor nod like yes, my children, thrive.
Of course, there's always drama in drama class. Two people nearly go at it over Hoffmann's original—one says the dark version will wow the audience, the other says nobody wants creepy nightmare fuel at a holiday showcase.
I was ready to grab popcorn. But they chill out after a minute, and the debate rolls on.
It goes like this:
Hoffmann's original = edgy, cool, but maybe a little too niche.
Dumas's retelling = safe, wholesome, family vibes, but also... boring. (Sorry, Dumas. Not sorry.)
Modern adaptation = basically has everything. Big emotions, a perfect dramatic ending.
And that last one? Yeah. Everyone lights up at the thought. It just feels bigger. Better. Something the audience will actually remember.
By the time our forty-five minutes are almost up, the choice is obvious. And because I've been practically vibrating in my seat like a Nutcracker-obsessed chihuahua, of course I'm the one who blurts out, "I'll tell her!"
Subtlety? Never met her.
I clear my throat, and suddenly twenty-six heads are staring at me like I've been elected President of Theaterland. Great. Love that for me.
"So... yeah," I start, sitting up a little straighter. "We went through everything and decided the modern adaptation makes the most sense for us. That's the one with impact. The whole story feels... bigger. More dramatic. More memorable."
I glance around the circle, making sure people are with me. "And as actors, it gives us so much more to work with. Dialogue. Emotion. A real payoff." I let that hang for a beat before continuing.
"It's also the version that actually hooks an audience. Especially with that twist at the end... when Clara and the Sugarplum Princess turn out to be the same."
Professor Callahan's smile widens, slow and approving. "Excellent," she says, clapping her hands together once. "I happen to like the modern version too."
She scans the circle. "Now, before we leave today, I need to know who's interested in writing the script. We'll need a team to start shaping this adaptation into something we can actually put on its feet."
Lucy's hand shoots up first, no surprise there. Tammie follows, then Katie.
"Good," Callahan says, nodding." The three of you can start brainstorming together. Build a compelling script—something that does justice to this choice—and I want to see a draft outline on my desk by Friday."
She tucks her folder under her arm, already moving into the next order of business.
"For those of you planning to audition for the lead roles—Clara, the Sugar Plum Princess, and the Nutcracker Prince—I'll be posting a sign-up sheet outside my office later today.
If you're interested, put your name down. "
"I'll also provide each of you with an audition piece. It won't be the final script, but it will reflect the core traits of the characters. That's what I'll use to judge whether or not you're the right fit."
My pulse kicks up like I've had three espressos. I can't wait.
This is it—the kind of role you dream about landing. I've done plays before, plenty of them.
Back at NYU, I threw myself into every production I could get my hands on, and I'm proud of all of them.
Not to brag (okay, maybe a little), but I've always been able to slip into a character and give her justice. Acting feels like second nature to me.
But this? The Nutcracker? Clara—the Sugarplum Princess? This one hits different.
Not just because I grew up watching it on repeat, curled up on the couch until I knew every scene by heart. No. It's because of what she represents.
The Sugarplum Princess has always been more than just a character to me—she's everything good wrapped in sparkle. She's proof that even when the world throws monsters at you, light still wins.
Getting to play her wouldn't feel like another role. It would feel like stepping into something I've wanted my whole life.
And honestly? It's the closest thing to magic I'll ever get. Like standing in a stadium while Taylor Swift sings directly to you—every word hitting like it was written for your soul, making you believe you're stronger, braver, better than you are.
That's what this role feels like. That's what she represents.
And maybe that's why I want it so badly. Because deep down, I want to be that light. That hope. That beauty that doesn't fade when the spotlight hits, but shines even brighter.
So yeah. Fingers crossed. Knock on wood. Sacrifice a pumpkin spice latte to the theater gods if I have to.
Later that afternoon, Adam and I head down to Professor Callahan's office, and—just like she promised—there it is. The sign-up sheet, taped to the bulletin board outside her door, practically glowing like some sacred artifact.
And holy crap. Ten people have already signed up for Clara. Ten. My stomach does a little somersault when I scan the names—two, maybe three of them are actually good. Like, really good. Talented, hardworking... and yeah, people I just became friends with.
And usually? Usually I'm the type who gives way. I don't like competition. I don't need the drama. But this time? Nope. Not a chance. They'll have to pry this role from my cold, dead, glitter-covered hands.
Sorry, girls. May the odds be ever in my favor... except they're rigged, because I'm about to Katniss Everdeen my way into this role.
Adam leans over the sheet, scribbles his name under the Nutcracker list—only three names there so far, four with his—and I step up. My hand actually shakes a little, but not from nerves. From pure, ridiculous competitiveness.
I grab the pen and write my name in this gorgeous, looping cursive like I'm signing the Declaration of Independence. Italics, flourishes, the works.
Because if I'm going to fight for this role, I'm doing it with style.
We head out together, Adam's arm slinging over my shoulder like it lives there. Typical. He's grinning at me with that stupidly good-natured smile that could probably sell toothpaste commercials.
"So," he drawls, flipping his packet in one hand, "what do you say we run these lines together? Y'know, help each other absorb the characters, nail the auditions."
"You're just looking for an excuse to be alone with me."
He grins, utterly shameless. "Busted. But hey—I'm the best scene partner you're ever gonna get."
"Says who?"