“This cannot happen tomorrow!” Mr. Higginbottom yelled like the diva-possessed creature he had become.

A stageful of blame-filled eyes turned toward me, the primary offender. Technically they turned down on me to where I lay in a crumpled heap, having just fallen during my dress-rehearsal solo. Crap. Twenty-four hours to go until opening night and my legs had deserted me, leaving me with two clumsy stand-ins who didn’t know the dance, or who just possibly — like me — had had enough. Neither I nor my impostor legs were in any hurry to get up.

“From the top,” Mr. Higginbottom called, smacking his clipboard against his thigh.

I scrambled to a stand.

For the past three weeks, rehearsals had taken over my life like an invading army. Mr. Higginbottom was a perfectionist. A good thing, in my humble opinion, for exact sciences like calculus and microbiology. Bad for anything dependent upon high-school kids learning their lines, hitting their marks, and nailing their dance solos all day, every day.

And if tomorrow’s show wasn’t enough to have my nerves skittering like live wires, there was plenty else to fret about. Ofelia had been avoiding me ever since my placement of Jacob. It wasn’t like I missed her or her nosing into my thoughts, but I couldn’t help but question the reasoning behind that old saying, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” But how did you even figure out which category they fell into if they were avoiding you?

Also weighing on me was the fact that I hadn’t heard anything about a pregnancy announcement from Julia. Not that I was in her friends-and-family network, nor that she would be announcing anything this early, but, still, I wanted to know if my enterprise was operational.

Luckily, I didn’t have all that much time to dwell on it; I was simply too busy with school, planning for the only-days-away Iceland trip, taking care of my still-bedridden mother, and trying to keep track of an even-busier-than-me boyfriend.

Somehow, I got through one fall-free version of my dance, a small miracle given the ridiculous contraption of wired wings, gauzy layers, heavy glittery doodads, and eye-lashing ribbons that Penny and I had designed. Note to self: Next time, junk the jewels and ban the spangles. Finally, Mr. Higginbottom felt he could move on to Penny’s pivotal encounter with the evil Snow Queen.

I sat in one of the seats of the auditorium unlacing my slippers when I was startled from behind.

“What happened to you up there?”

Only Brigid’s “What” sounded like Vot; still, I turned in surprise.

“Nerves, I guess,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have expected it from you,” she said. “I thought you were made of tougher stuff: more mettle, more grit.”

My head bobbed forward in shock. Who said such things to someone so close to opening night?

Brigid’s mouth opened in a broad smile. “It is stage tradition not to boost or plump the ego before a big show. We never say ‘good luck’; we never compliment. It is kiss of death onstage. You know this surely from the expression, ‘Break a leg.’”

I honestly couldn’t stop gaping at the woman. “Break a leg” was in no way funny to someone who had just taken a face-plant in front of the entire cast and crew. And “kiss of death”? I didn’t care frick or frack about stage traditions, but death omens — now, those I took seriously.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, smiling, as much as I could, anyway, while inwardly hissing. “I’ll be full of grit tomorrow.”

“Good,” Brigid said. “And how do they say it here? Knock ’em dead.”

From the director’s table, Mr. Higginbottom called Brigid over. I watched her walk away, shivering at another mention of the snuff of life, but at least this time I wasn’t on the receiving end. Because if it came to it, I had mettle. Heavy mettle.