Page 2 of Hello Dr. Christmas

Chapter One

A few days before…

“Christmas comes but once a year, and so does Clara.”

I hear everyone burst out into laughter at this, just outside my dressing room. I don’t know whether my colleagues are aware that I can hear them, but I don’t think they care. Making fun of me after each performance has become their favorite activity. This latest statement has me red in the face, and I want to march out of my private dressing area to defend myself.

“Seriously, the girl can’t relax and let go,” David is saying. “She does not know how to have fun, or how to have an orgasm.”

“Poor thing,” someone responds. “All she can do is dance.”

I am furious. David is one of our best male dancers, who I dated briefly last season—if you can even call it that. I thought he was into me, but it turned out that it was just a dare, or a bet, or something. He just wanted to have sex with me so that he could make fun of me later. I have to really restrain myself from leaving the room and announcing to everyone that maybe Iwouldhave been able to climax if David didn’t have the tiniest dick I’ve ever seen.

Maybe I can start a new trend of calling him tiny-dick David. That would be amazing.

But I know that it isn’t just David—everyone dislikes me.

“If I stopped dating, and didn’t spend any time with my friends and family, and just practiced ballet all day, every day, I’m sure I’d be just as good as Clara,” someone says. “But that’s just not healthy. It’s not normal.”

“She’s like a robot,” someone else says.

I sigh. Reaching for my phone, I put some wireless headphones into my ears and begin playing some music to drown out the negativity. I start withEcho Beach, a song about nostalgia for a beautiful place. I think about Snowflake Creek instead of any beach, of course, as I take my hair out of its bun. The only difference between my situation and this song is that I actually love my job. I live for the moment those first few bars of Tchaikovsky begin to play, and I begin the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

I never feel more alive than when I’m on the stage, with thousands of eyes on me, in total command of the room. Everyone seems to hold their breath in wonder. When I can feel my muscles straining to their limit as I gracefully, weightlessly soar across the floor, that’s my greatest joy.

The only problem is that my fellow dancers don’t seem to like me very much. We work together well on the stage, but they make things hell for me behind the scenes. Despite the fact that I finish each performance perfectly, and come back to a dressing room filled with flowers and cards from adoring fans, I still feel empty.

I read all the cards, and smell all the flowers, but they are all from strangers. I don’t have someone who really cares waiting for me after the performance to give me a hug. Someone in the audience to cheer me on. Maybe the others are right, and I am just a robot.

As I remove my makeup and change out of my glittering dance costume, the song playing in my ears switches toBlue Bayou.Another one about homesickness and longing for a different place. I sigh as I tug on my jeans and other street clothes. Then I reach for the calendar in my purse, where I have a list of our remaining performances, a countdown until I can leave these people and go home to my family.

Only one more performance in New York. Four in Chicago. Toronto. Los Angeles. How am I going to get through all of that? I grab a red marker and cross off today’s performance with a big X. Then I lift my fingers to press against my tense forehead, which is knotted up in a frown.

A loud knock on the door behind me makes me jump. I remove my earbuds as a female dancer walks into the room.

“Clara, why don’t you just quit and let me take over?” asks Amy Sanders. “It doesn’t seem like you want to be here anymore. I know all the steps just as well as you do.”

I sigh. Amy is my understudy, and she has been gunning for my job for years. “Why would I quitThe Nutcracker? This is my favorite ballet. It’s a lot easier on my feet and ankles thanSwan Lake.”

“With a much bigger paycheck,” Amy says. “I just feel like you aren’t a great fit for the company. We all have a certain… comradery between us here, and you never seem to want to participate. You never come out with us for drinks, you never hang out with anyone. People are talking, Clara. It’s just weird.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but I came here to dance. I didn’t know that I had to socialize with anyone. Also, I don’t drink when I’m dancing. I get dehydrated too easily. This is my job, Amy. I’m good at it, so what’s your problem?”

“You should really just quit,” Amy says quietly. “People seem really bothered by you. I don’t think they want you here.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask her.

“No,” she says awkwardly. “I’m just looking out for you, Clara.”

With that, she turns to leave. I sigh. Sometimes I really wish Icouldjust quit and go home to Snowflake Creek. As wonderful as it is to perform in front of thousands, I never feel happier than I did when I was a little girl, dancing alone in my bedroom. Or a teenager, practicing in my basement studio, with my family as my only audience.

Well, I should have listened to Amy.

Lying in the hospital with my ankle swollen and turning fifty shades of black and blue, I replay the accident in my mind, over and over again. It was just a routine part of the show. I was doing thepas de deuxwith David, and a few lifts where the guys had to toss me around in the air. Amy was part of that number too, and I swear that I noticed her nudge one of the guys off balance just before he was supposed to catch me.

The next thing I knew, I was crashing to the floor and seeing stars.

Amy apologized immediately after, and she seemed really shocked and upset. It’s hard to believe she didn’t intend for this to happen. It doesn’t matter now.

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