"What now?" Clara asked, gritting her back teeth in frustration as she watched through the hotel window as the tow truck drove off with the remains of their motorcycle.
Henry shrugged, even though she couldn't see it with her back turned to him.
"We don't have the money for bus tickets home," Clara told him, not waiting for a response. "We've barely got money to pay for the room for one more night – we're completely fucked."
He rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, babe. We'll figure something out."
"Like what?" she challenged, turning on her heel to fix him with a skeptical look.
"I guess we'll have to get jobs," he said simply.
It was Clara's turn to roll her eyes. "Ha ha," she said sarcastically. "Really funny."
"I'm serious," he insisted. "Just until we save up for bus tickets." When her expression remained dubious, he pressed, "What other choice do we have? Selling our organs?"
She heaved an irritated sigh, but she had to admit that he was right. It wasn't like they had options here.
Grinning, knowing he'd convinced her, Henry reached over to hook his fingers in her belt loops, pulling her into his chest so he could kiss her. "Since we'll be here for awhile anyways, we might as well just apply for a marriage license here and get hitched. It's no Vegas, but it is a rather scenic little place to tie the knot..."
A shy little smile played about her lips. "I suppose that would be acceptable," she conceded.
An idea seemed to strike him then. "When we were driving in, I saw a sign advertising children's ballet classes up the road. Maybe they need another teacher," he suggested. "You should go check it out."
"I'm terrible with kids," Clara argued.
"But you love ballet," he replied.
She couldn't argue with that.
The bouncy strains of the Coppelia mazurka faded out as Clara entered the little ballet school, bell tinkling overhead as she pushed the front door open. No one sat at the front desk, presumably the teacher running the class in studio beyond was the only employee.
"Alright now, ladies, let's do rond de jambes," came a voice from beyond the door to the first studio and Clara followed the sound, peering through the little window to observe the class. Fifteen or so little girls – no older than ten, if she estimated correctly – stood at the barres in their matching black leotards and pink tights, hair in perfect little ballerina buns.
The teacher had the clean lines and elegant limbs of a lifelong ballerina. She wore a wine coloured leotard with black tights and a gauzy pink dance skirt that fluttered about as she moved, marking the movements she called out.
"Let's start in fifth," she instructed. "Four rond de jambes to the front. Plie to the front, straighten side, plie to the back. Reverse. Developpes in four counts – front, side, back, side. Port de bras forwards, port de bras back. Balance in sous-sus."
She started the music, then startled Clara by opening the door suddenly, causing her to stumble backwards.
"Can I help you?" the woman asked.
"Oh, I, umm..." she stammered, suddenly feeling awkward and shy. "I was just..." She stopped, shook her head, bolstering her confidence. "I'm new in town and I was wondering if you were looking for another dance teacher?"
"I'm sorry, I don't really have the class size to support another teacher right now..." the woman apologized.
"Please," Clara begged, "I danced in the corps with the Boston Ballet for three years and..."
"Then what are you doing in Storybrooke?" she asked, perhaps a little distrustfully.
"It's a long story," she said, "I won't be here for long, I just need to earn some money to buy a bus ticket back to Boston." She offered a smile she hoped was charming and just a little bit sad.
The woman scraped her teeth across her bottom lip in thought. "I suppose I could use a little help. We're coming up on our year end show and I don't have anything choreographed yet," she explained.
"I love choreographing," Clara said, a little over-eager, but genuinely excited all the same.
"I'm Alex," the woman introduced herself, extending a hand to shake.
Clara was leaving the studio, feeling significantly more hopeful about the future, when she collided with someone, knocking them to the ground. "Oh, God! I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" she asked, flustered.
The woman on the ground stood slowly, dusting herself off. "I'll survive." She brushed her hair away from her face and offered an apologetic smile. "I'm sure it was just as much my fault as yours."
"Hey, it's you," Clara said with recognition. She bent down to help pick up the scattered books that had fallen from the woman's arms. "Emily, right?"
"I thought you were long gone," Emily said by way of answer. "What happened to your big Vegas plans?"
Clara huffed, still rather sour over the whole thing. "Stupid bike crapped out on us," she muttered. "And we don't have money for bus tickets home, so it looks like we'll be staying here until we can save up for them."
Emily hummed a note of what might've been curiosity. "Not a lot of people hiring in Storybrooke," she cautioned.
She gestured over her shoulder at the ballet studio. "I convinced the ballet mistress to hire me as a choreographer for their upcoming performance." She realized then that she was still holding one of the woman's books hostage in her arms. "Welcome to the Monkey House?" she read skeptically.
Emily's cheeks flushed a little. "I was just dropping it off for a friend. It's our favourite author and I wasn't sure if he'd read this one..." she rambled, unsure why she was opening up to this complete stranger, only knowing that she felt familiar and safe.
Clara offered a faint smile and passed the book back to her. "Well, I hope he likes it."
She nodded slowly. "Me too..."