Page 45 of Loan Wolf
Even Gabe, who was not that familiar with classical dance, recognized the steps from The Nutcracker…but there was still no music playing. The audience had silenced in expectation, but the only sounds were Clara’s strong, careful movements around the stage.
There had been several dance numbers in the revue, and Gabe had thought they looked professional enough, but Clara’s skill by comparison was obvious. Every move was perfect.
And there was still no music.
There was no applause or whispers. No one coughed. No one even breathed, Gabe included.
His wolf whined in anticipation.
Clara came to stage center and stopped, still facing the backdrop, then pulled off the hood of the cloak. She let the whole thing puddle at her feet before putting the squash in the nest that it made. She was wearing a torn black leotard beneath her short tutu, but no tights, so that the scraped knee and elbow that had so scandalized her manager were painfully obvious. Her hair was in a tight, bright bun and Gabe caught one sly sideways smile before she reached up and in one smooth motion, pulled it out, leaning forward to shake her loose hair wildly as the opening strains of Joan Jett’s Bad Reputation came belting out.
Gabe didn’t know how to classify what Clara did next. It wasn’t just ballet, but it wasn’t not ballet, either. She danced with her whole body and soul, every move deliberate and strong. She did a fake fall that made Gabe surge to his feet in alarm. Before he could move, she undulated up in an impressive act of athleticism. She did jumps and shimmies and impossibly flexible back bends, all fast and furious to the pounding punk rock beat. She held poses that required incredible strength. She spun long enough and fast enough to make an ice skater jealous. There were imperfect moments, Gabe thought, because she was improvising it all, but she grinned and danced joyfully on.
She ended the song with a gravity-defying leap and landed on point, both hands in the air like a gymnast. She blew kisses as the audience erupted into applause and cheers, and then walked off the stage, holding a middle finger up behind her.
37
CLARA
Gabe met her at the edge of the curtain and swept her up into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet. “You sexy, gorgeous rebel,” he growled, close to her ear.
Clara could barely hear him over the roar of the audience.
She’d performed on bigger stages, to larger audiences, but she was not sure she had ever gotten a response so enthusiastic.
They cheered and clapped and stomped their feet, and when Clara went out to do a curtain call holding the flowers that Gabe had given her, they were all standing and whistling and demanding more.
She waltzed to the center of the stage feeling like her feet had wings instead of shoes, and bowed and blew kisses and waved. Dozens of bouquets were tossed onto the stage. Then she gestured to the rest of the cast to join her and gave them their bemused due. Then Clara insisted that Linda take the stage and get her share of the appreciation, and she was sure that the audience must have stinging hands from all the energy that they put into their applause.
The house lights finally came up and Clara could scamper offstage and back into Gabe’s arms.
“I wasn’t sure how that would go over,” she admitted. “Green Valley isn’t exactly off-Broadway, and I was afraid I would violate their expectations.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Gabe said, like Clara knew he would. “You were you, and you were wonderful.”
Clara saw Twiller over his shoulder and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “There’s an afterparty in the lobby. I’ll see you there.”
Gabe grudgingly let her go and Clara, with a few pit stops to shake hands with other cast members and congratulate a few of the funniest actors, made her way to her dance instructor.
They stared at each other without comment for a long moment, then Twiller opened her arms. “You were amazing,” she said warmly.
Clara’s last reservation vanished and she stepped into the woman’s embrace. “I didn’t think you’d approve.”
“Oh, I definitely did not,” Twiller said with a chuckle. “It was frightfully sloppy. The choreography was a trash fire. The song was awful. You were late on the beat at least three times, and your posture—!” she shuddered. “But you were pure art, and I am proud of you.”
Clara felt tears prick her eyes.
“Oh, don’t cry,” Twiller said in horror. “You’ll make your face blotchy. There will be photographers out there. Put your chin up and get those shoulders back!”
Clara obeyed automatically, drawing herself up proudly. “I’m planning to stay in Green Valley,” she said firmly.
Twiller snorted “That much is painfully obvious, child. It’s a shameful waste of good talent, but I’m sure you’ll be happy here with that feral boy of yours. Pinch your cheeks and let’s go out to greet your adoring public now.”
The lobby of the theatre was teeming with people who wanted to meet Clara, or pretend they already knew her, and praise her for the unexpected performance. She heard ‘Come back, Baby Jesus!’ a hundred times and laughed every single time. Twiller coolly declaimed credit for the act, but traveled the room supportively at Clara’s side. “I would have left the middle finger off at the end,” she said severely, several times.
Clara hugged her stepmother and her sister, who had loved every moment of it. “I’m going to get a tattoo of you in your tutu giving the middle finger over your shoulder,” Vicky said.
“Please don’t,” Clara begged.
