The gingerbread scene was the most comical in the ballet. As lead gingerbread, Liberty had to duck under Mother Ginger’s huge hoop skirt and leap out at the audience.
“Let me get this straight,” Liberty said, complaining to Marcus. “You want me to crawl on the floor under some granny’s skirt and then pop out and make a complete fool out of myself ?”
Marcus rested his hands on his hips. “If you choose to make a complete fool out of yourself, then that’s your decision. I expect you to burst onto the stage exuding joy and excitement. If you can’t handle that, there’s the door.”
“Ooh, I like him,” Rochelle whispered to Scarlett. “Anyone who disses Liberty gets my vote!”
“Fine,” Liberty said, taking her place. “I am a professional.”
“The lead gingerbread has to really ham it up,” Miss Noreen instructed her.
“That won’t be a problem for Liberty.” Rochelle chuckled.
Miss Noreen showed her the choreography, a combination of arabesques, pirouettes, and something that resembled a waddling penguin.
“Elbows should be shoulder level, palms open wide,” she demonstrated.
The other gingerbread dancers looked cute and funny as they raced around the studio. Liberty looked mean and ornery and practically bit Mother Ginger’s head off when she got too close.
“Gingerbread don’t growl,” Marcus corrected Liberty. “You’re supposed to be smiling.”
“I’m supposed to be Clara,” Liberty muttered under her breath. “This is totally humiliating.”
At the end of the scene, Liberty had to turn her back to the audience so Mother Ginger could give her a playful kick.
“No way,” Liberty said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I am not getting my butt kicked in a ballet.”
“Oh, this is a dream come true!” Rochelle roared with laughter.
Scarlett was enjoying every minute of the dance as well—especially when Liberty had to do a somersault and land facedown on the stage with her arms and legs wide apart.
“Gingerbread go SPLAT!” Anya said, cracking up.
“This is a riot!” Bria added. “I’m gonna post it on Instagram!”
Liberty spotted her teammates laughing at her and stopped in her tracks.
“It’s not funny!” she screamed at them.
“No, it is funny,” Marcus insisted. “It’s brilliant. Liberty, you have great comic timing. I could see you playing Coppélia one day.”
Liberty’s scowl softened. “Wait. Really?”
“Absolutely,” he answered. “It’ll be even funnier when we get you in the big brown suit.”
Liberty rolled her eyes. Even if Marcus thought she had prima ballerina potential, this was the most embarrassing role she had ever danced.
“About the costume,” she said to Marcus. “Would you mind if I made a few tweaks? My mom just met Katy Perry at a party in Hollywood, and I know Katy would be totally cool with lending me some of her wardrobe …”
“Yes,” Marcus huffed.
“Yes, I can call Katy?”
“Yes, I would mind if you tweaked your costume. I am the director and I am the only person who tweaks anything around here. Now, get your butt back on the floor—literally.”
Gracie wasn’t paying much attention to Liberty’s tantrums. She and Olivier were getting along fabulously—thanks to an icebreaker that Miss Noreen insisted they play to get to know each other. While the others rehearsed, they sat in a corner, asking each other crazy questions.
“What’s the grossest pizza you ever tasted?” Olivier challenged Gracie.
“Oh, that’s an easy one: barbecue chicken with marshmallows.”
“Eww!” Olivier cracked up. “Now you go.”
“Funnest day ever?” Gracie asked.
Olivier tapped his finger to his nose. “Give me a sec. I’m thinking …”
“Ten seconds,” Gracie warned him. “Miss Noreen said ten seconds to answer.”
“Catching a foul ball at the Wilmington Blue Rocks game and eating six hot dogs at Frawley Stadium. I could have gone for seven, but my mom worried I’d throw up.”
Gracie’s eyes widened. “You like hot dogs?”
Olivier nodded. “With ketchup, relish, onions, mustard … the works.”
It was as if he had said the magic words. In Gracie’s mind, no food on the planet could top hot dogs. Her dad always made them for her on his backyard grill. She could eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and never get bored.
“I love hot dogs,” she gushed. “My record is nine—but the last one had no bun, so I don’t think that really counts.”
“Nuh-uh.” Olivier shook his head. “For the official count, it has to be bunned. Maybe we can have a dog eat-off sometime?”
Gracie smiled and they pinky swore on it. Clearly, Mr. Minnelli had been right in casting them together. It was a match made in hot dog heaven.