We take off our shoes in the wings.

Mr. C, our drama teacher, says barefoot acting is grounded acting.

It’s dark, and the stage is covered in ice. I spread out my arms for balance and slide to my place, then wait for the candles to light. I make out the Producer’s horned hood in the otherwise empty auditorium. I dance from foot to foot to unstick them from the ice. My soles burn.

In the candles’ glow, I deliver my speech, addressing my queenly court and lamenting the scarcity of suitors. I try not to check the Producer through my breath’s fog. This year—my senior year—I  won the lead role; I’m onstage the entire show, an adaptation of The Winter’s Tale that Mr. C. wrote. Mr. C. came to our school from New York City. His friends, the Producers, sometimes watch and take the chosen off to Broadway.

Whispers speak of a sign, some token given to the ones they desire: a coin or, perhaps, just a tap on your arm or a wink. Dreams do come true.

I stand still too long and must yank my foot off the ice. Warm blood slicks my foot as I cross to my throne.

The candles wink out.

The bear grumbles in the dark.

In the next scene, I use my cape to cushion myself from the frosted throne while it melts to its iron frame underneath. Two boys chatter their way through their scene, freshmen who haven’t learned their lines, who don’t respect the opportunity Mr. C grants us. They play soldiers who explain how the kingdom’s turned to ice, and why.

Love abandoned us.

One freshman loses his place, looks confused, and the ice breaks. He falls through, and continues while thrashing in the hole, pulling himself partway up, soaking and blue, spluttering ad-libs.

 He’ll take us all with him; I stand and gesture to the other soldier who stomps the thrasher deep into the hole. The bear’s growling, impatient and hungry. I finish the scene: I know everyone’s lines. The remaining freshman scurries off stage.

The candles wink out.

The bear rattles his cage and its bars squeal.

They skate an ice piano out. Mr. C says shows need music to sell. I play and sing as my suitors waltz on—the other upperclassmen. One couple crashes through the stage. They should have dieted on apple skins and water, as I did. The piano keys shrink to slivers as my fingers warm them.

I should slow down, but the bear despises slow music. The dancers flee and I have no suitors. I rush through the coda until the piano shatters and collapses inward.

The Producer is clapping. He jingles. Silver keys hang from his robe sleeves. He stomps his cloven hooves. The show isn’t over, but I bow as instructed.

My fingers burn. I shove them in my mouth—I can’t help it—and return to my throne, which has melted down to the iron; it will stand as the rest sloughs away.

The candles wink out.

Darkness and the bear shuffling, sniffing and huffing. He’s free.

For the final scene, the candelabras float on ice islands. I stand on my throne, feet frozen to the metal. My speech is about love and joy and brings tears to my eyes—Mr. C. is a poet.

 I don’t rush the words when the bear comes rumbling on, rolling his massive white shoulders. It finds steps on the floating hunks of stage. It discovers my bloody footprints and runs its pink tongue along one. It has a taste for me.

I will not break; I speak with a measured cadence.

Downstage, the bear watches, mesmerized by my words’ beauty.

But I stumble, tripping on a “th” sound, which has always been a problem. The bear lumbers upstage.

I collapse, thrust out my legs, and offer it my torn feet. The hot stink of its breath precedes it, tongue slapping like a wet towel—my eyes are closed, and my left foot is inside its sticky mouth. It sucks, gripping my ankle between tombstone teeth; it presses as I bite my wrist not to scream.

“Enough!”

The orange glow of the house lights rises. It’s the Producer, who’s moved to the edge of the stage, clasping furry hands in front of his hooded face. The bear tamers fight the beast back with whips.

Mr. C. hurries down from the booth and argues the play isn’t over.

“It was making me cold. And the bear’s clumsy—a tiger would work better,” the Producer’s saying. “But the girl’s good. She’s the show.”

I’m weeping. I know I’m not meant to hear this. I tear my cape to bandage my feet and stagger to the dressing room. None of my friends speak to me. They stare daggers, then flood out of the dressing room.

Waiting at my place is a black rose. My token. This is what the last years—my entire life—have been for.

Dreams do come true.