A Wright Christmas - K.A. Linde Page 0,15

the piece for this event. It wasn’t a real struggle. We’d both already known the part. It was just rearranging the partners. The dance itself was a formal nineteenth-century ballroom piece, typically performed in full-length dresses and suits.

Kathy started us all at the midpoint of the dance and counted us in, and then we were off. As so often happened when I danced, everything else disappeared. There was no stage. No lights. No faces watching from the crowd. It was just me doing the thing that I loved most in the world. The job that had chosen me as much as I had chosen it. I’d sacrificed nearly everything in my life so that I could have this. The feeling that coursed through me was indescribable and unlike anything else I’d ever experienced.

Too soon, the dance ended. I was still lost to the exhilaration of the dance as Kathy critiqued the performance. Then, she called for Clara to come forward.

Bebe hastened to take her place, but Katelyn beat her to it. For a second, the two just stared at each other. Katelyn arched an eyebrow in defiance. Bebe ground her teeth together, a flush coming to her cheeks.

The gall of this girl. It took all my will not to tell Katelyn to get back into the corps, where she belonged. But I knew Kathy could handle it.

“Katelyn, I asked for Clara.”

“I’m the understudy,” she said quickly. “I thought it would be good for me to practice…just in case Bebe can’t perform the role.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. Well, if that wasn’t a threat, I didn’t know what was.

Kathy pinched her lips together. “There’s no reason Bebe cannot play Clara. None at all. Bebe, step forward, dear. Let’s go through the new turn sequence in the middle.”

Bebe raised her chin and moved past Katelyn to take her position. My heart was thumping for the girl. I couldn’t imagine what Bebe must be feeling. But I sure as hell knew that someone needed to put Katelyn in her place. She hadn’t chosen this moment for no reason. She wanted to embarrass Bebe. She’d succeeded, but none of us would forget it either. Kathy was going to have to nip that in the bud before it went any further.

Bebe, to her credit, didn’t falter once through the turn sequence. She ended to an even louder round of applause than I had gotten, which was good. She needed the confidence boost and the proof that Katelyn was wrong.

Kathy gestured to all of us. “One more round of applause for our wonderful dancers.” Once the audience quieted down, she continued, “There are refreshments in the main lobby after this, and our dancers will be out there to mingle with you. Thank you so much for attending and for your generous support of the Lubbock Ballet Company.”

We all ran back into the wings and started for the dressing rooms to get into street clothes for the rest of Open Barre.

“Katelyn Lawson,” Kathy snapped, stopping the girl before she could scamper off.

“Yes, Miss Kathy?”

“Here. Now.”

Katelyn walked over to the artistic director without fear in her heart. I sure hoped that she learned an ounce of humility from this moment.

I left Kathy to deal with it and changed into a long black romper that tapered at the waist and ankles. I left the ballet bun and stage makeup, grabbed my purse, and went to see if Isaac had ever made it. My stomach fluttered at the thought. I’d been reckless to invite him to this, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

But as soon as I walked out, I was bombarded by wealthy donors, some that I recognized from my time with LBC.

“Peyton, you were spectacular,” an older gentleman said.

“Yes, we went to see you perform the same role in New York City a few years back, and again, we saw you recently in Giselle,” his wife said.

“I’m so pleased,” I told them. “It’s such an honor that you came all the way to the city to see me perform.”

“We’re huge fans,” the man said. “We remember watching you when you were just a little thing. It’s been amazing to see you transform.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Oh, Peyton,” another woman in her middle years said, drawing my attention away. “I read that article you did in Time magazine.”

Oh God, here we go again. I still cursed myself for ever being in that article.

When Macy had approached me about my injury and the work I was doing to