Chapter 7 Holly
Holly
The theater is chaos. Kids everywhere in practice clothes, parents trying to wrangle them, Mrs. Kowalski's voice rising above it all. Rehearsal starts in ten minutes.
Emma and Tom are standing with us near the wings, watching it unfold.
“So,” Tom says, turning to Evan. “How'd you get roped into all this?”
Evan doesn't miss a beat. “Holly needed help. I was happy to volunteer.”
“That's it?” Emma's grinning. “Just happy to help?”
“Well.” Evan glances at me. “I love seeing Holly in her element. She's incredible at what she does. Anything to make her smile—” He shrugs like it's obvious. “I'm in.”
I stare at him. Is he performing right now? Because he sounds genuine.
Emma catches my eye and gives me a massive thumbs up.
I wave her off, trying not to laugh.
Then Tom does it too.
All three of us are barely holding it together, while Evan pretends he hasn't noticed.
“Aunt Holly!”
Marie comes running up in her leotard and tights, hair in a bun, looking exactly like I did at her age. Same energy, same excitement barely contained.
I catch her before she barrels into me. “Hey, you. Ready for tech?”
“I think so? What if I forget the steps?”
“You won't. We've practiced them together so many times, remember?” I smooth down some whisps of hair. “But if you do forget, you make something up. That's what Clara would do.”
“Make something up?”
“Clara's brave. She figures it out.” I squeeze her shoulders. “Just like you.”
She's smiling now, some of the worry fading. Then she notices Evan.
“Who's that?”
“This is my friend Evan. He's going to be one of the party scene parents this weekend.”
“Hi,” Marie says with a little wave. “Do you like The Nutcracker?”
“I do,” Evan says, crouching down to her level. “Did you know that in some productions of The Nutcracker, Clara is actually named Marie?”
Marie's eyes go huge. “What? Really?”
“Really. The original story calls her Marie. Some ballet companies use Clara, some use Marie. But you?” He leans in conspiratorially. “You get to be both.”
“That's SO COOL!” Marie's practically bouncing now. “How do you—”
“Party scene parents!” Mrs. Kowalski's voice cuts through the chatter. “Are my party scene parents ready? We're starting in five minutes!”
I exchange a look with Evan. Here we go.
“That's us,” I tell him. “Ready for your Nutcracker debut?”
“I’m so ready.”
Marie grabs his hand. “Come on, I'll show you where you're supposed to stand!”
The party scene is simple—walk in with the other couples, greet the hosts, mingle while the kids dance. Evan picks it up immediately. Mrs. Kowalski runs through the blocking once, and he's already counting under his breath, tracking the music cues.
“You're a natural,” I whisper during a pause.
“I was paying attention yesterday.”
He was. He learned it.
I'm also aware, based on the number of looks he's getting from the ballet moms clustered near the audience seats, that I’m not the only one noticing how gracefully he moves.
How the curves of his arms show through his t-shirt when he gestures.
Too bad that'll all be hidden beneath the costume tonight.
The party scene wraps, and Mrs. Kowalski moves on to the mice. Evan and I slip backstage to check our costumes.
I assess mine first. “I need to take in the waist a bit. Maybe release the bottom hem. No problem.”
Then I look at Evan's costume. The pants are too short, and when he holds up the jacket—
“Yikes. Okay, let me see what we're working with here.”
“Turn around,” I say, measuring tape in hand.
He turns his back to me, and I drape the tape across his shoulders. Too narrow. Way too narrow. I run my hands along the seam of the borrowed jacket, checking where it would need to be let out. His shoulders are solid under my palms, warm through his t-shirt.
The fabric would need at least two inches released on each side. I flatten my hand against his shoulder blade to check how the current seam sits, and I can feel him breathing. Steady. Even.
“The problem is the shoulders,” I manage, taking a small step back to give him a proper look. “It's too tight across here. I'd have to let out the entire back seam, and that's going to be conspicuous. Plus these costumes need to go back to the Johnsons next weekend.”
“I brought my tuxedo. If that will help.”
I blink. “What?”
“Two, actually. One with a regular jacket and one with tails. They're in the car. I figured we might need them.”
“You brought—” I stop. Process. Look down at the measuring tape still in my hands. “Why did I just spend the last ten minutes running my hands all over you if you had a perfectly good tuxedo in your car?”
His mouth quirks up. “Well. It's good to be thorough.”
My face is actually burning. He's teasing me. He knew I was—
“You're ridiculous.”
“Is that a yes to the tuxedo?”
“Yes. Obviously yes. Go get them.” I'm trying very hard to look annoyed instead of flustered. “The one with tails. More formal.”
“Whatever you think.” But he's smiling as he heads toward the exit.
I turn back to my sewing kit, face still warm, and catch Emma watching from across the room. She's grinning.
I ignore her and focus on my own costume adjustments.
Ridiculous man.
Rehearsal continues on stage. I can hear the music, the stomping of little feet in mouse costumes. I keep stealing glances through the wings, checking on Marie. She's waiting in position, bouncing on her toes.
The music builds and the tree starts to grow—the painted backdrop rising slowly, branches extending upward until they reach toward the theater ceiling.
“Oh, this is my favorite part,” I say to no one, pausing mid-stitch to watch.
The tree towers now, impossibly tall, transforming the intimate Christmas scene into a magical world. Marie steps onto the stage in her costume nightgown, eyes wide with wonder as the Nutcracker Prince appears.
EVAN
I return from the car with both tuxedo bags and find the theater in full snow scene mode. Paper snow is falling from above, the tree backdrop is towering, dancers are moving through the choreography. I set the tuxedos down on a chair near the wings and watch.
A small boy in a mouse costume approaches me.
“Are you a real dad?”
I look down. He can't be more than eight, with brown hair sticking up at odd angles and his mouse ears askew.
“No, I'm just helping. Party parent for the weekend.”
“Oh.” He considers this. “Can you do a backflip?”
“No.”
“That's okay. I can't either.” He sits down on the floor next to me, pulling at his shoes. “My laces keep coming undone.”
I kneel down to look. Jazz shoes—the kind with the split sole. The laces are tied, but they're loose, the knot already starting to slip.
“Want to know a trick?” I ask.
He nods eagerly.
I show him how to loop the laces differently—over and under, then pull tight before tying. The same way Elsbeth taught me, frustrated that my tap shoes kept coming loose mid-routine.
“There,” I say, finishing the second shoe. “Try that.”
He stands up, bounces on his toes a few times. “They're not slipping!”
“Good.”
“How do you know that?”
I hesitate. “I used to dance.”
His eyes go wide. “Really? What kind?”
“Tap. A long time ago.”
“Why'd you stop?”
The question is so direct, so honest, that I don't have a prepared answer. Why did I stop? Because my father told me to. Because it wasn't ‘appropriate.’ Because I learned to put away the things that made me happy if they didn't fit the person I was supposed to become.
“I thought people would make fun of me,” I say.
He frowns. “That's stupid.”
“You're absolutely right.”
“Josh!” His mom calls. “We need to fix your tail!”
He scrambles up, mouse ears bouncing. “Thanks!”
“Anytime.”
I stand up and realize Holly's been watching from her station at the prop table. She smiles at me before another parent pulls her aside with a question about costumes.
The snow scene ends—the dancers taking their final positions, the music swelling to a close. Mrs. Kowalski claps her hands.
“Beautiful! That's Act I. Twenty-minute break, everyone. Act II starts in twenty!”
The stage clears. Kids scatter to find parents and snacks.
Holly is now in the wings with Marie, still in her Clara nightgown, bouncing on her toes.
“Can we run through the Act II entrance one more time?” Marie asks. “The part with the Nutcracker Prince. I keep forgetting where I'm supposed to be.”
“Of course. Let's find some space.”
They move to a clear area backstage, and Holly starts humming the music—soft enough not to disrupt everyone else, but clear enough for Marie to follow. Then they're walking through the steps together, side by side, working through the choreography.
I watch from a distance.
Holly knows these steps. The way her arms move, the exact placement of her feet, the timing of each phrase. Her body remembers them.
Marie stumbles out of a turn, and Holly catches her elbow, guides her through the correction without breaking the rhythm.
They finish the sequence, and Marie's beaming.
“See? You've got this,” Holly says, squeezing her shoulder.
Marie runs off to find her water bottle, and Holly looks up. Sees me watching.
I walk over.
“You danced this,” I say. “You were Clara.”
She looks surprised that I noticed. “Almost. I almost was.”
“Almost?”
“Holly!” The stage manager appears, looking frazzled. “We have a problem with the angels—their candles aren't lighting up. Can you—”
“Yeah, I'm coming.” She glances back at me. “Later?”
“Later.”
She hurries off, and I watch her disappear into the backstage chaos, already problem-solving before she's even reached the angels.
I'm supposed to be helping her this weekend.
The truth is, I'd do this every weekend. For the rest of my life. If she asked.