by Jamie Sumner
On the way home, I take the spearmint candy out of my pocket and snap a piece off to dissolve in my mouth. I feel pretty good after our talk—hopeful even. Like Mom and I are actually learning to talk to each other. It’s not until I’m lying in bed in my blue room that night that I realize Mom never really answered my question. She never said we’d quit the shows.
* * *
It’s Friday night—opening night.
Mary Katherine is in the bathroom with Geneva, who looks like she’s about to poke Mary Katherine’s eye out with a pencil. But then she tucks the pencil between her teeth and dabs at the corner of Mary Katherine’s eye with her fingertip. Geneva is also our makeup person.
“Are we almost done here? My mom’s just dropped off sushi,” Mary Katherine whines.
Geneva might still poke her eye out yet.
“Yeah, we’re done.”
I let Mary Katherine, our Cinderella, brush by me in a swirl of burlap skirts. She hates this costume, the dirty rags of “Cinder” before her makeover to a princess.
“She thinks the fajitas we had catered are too heavy for her delicate stomach,” Geneva says, jabbing the eye pencil into her hair like a chopstick. We roll our eyes at each other in the mirror. We don’t have time to deal with Mary Katherine right now. So after Geneva draws a big unibrow and hairy mole on herself as the witch, I ask, “Are you all set?”
“Yep. I’m good. But you better check on Maxwell. He looks like he’s going to puke.”
I find him backstage leaning against the cardboard cutout we use for a cow.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he says weakly.
“You okay?”
“I’m all right,” he mutters. “I just need a minute.” He’s picking at his nails. They look naked without any polish. Mrs. Nicky made him take it all off for the show.
“Hey, listen—” I sit beside him against the cow. “You were great in rehearsal. Really. You know all your lines and your blocking. You’ll be fine.”
“Oh, I know I’m awesome. But—” He starts to run a hand through his hair, then stops because Geneva hair-sprayed it up into a hard shell. “Lou, this is my first show.”
“I know—it’s opening night. Everybody’s nervous,” I say.
“No, I mean, this is my first show ever.”
“But—”
“I know. I went on and on about being a thespian, but they don’t let you do theater until sixth grade! So even though I’ve been an actor in spirit since forever, this is, you know, my first time being onstage.”
I know this is my moment to give the big inspirational “go get ’em” talk. But I’m not Mrs. Nicky, or Well for that matter, with the speeches at the ready. I’ve only got one thing that might help, but I don’t know if I can do it. I look at Well’s pale nails, the line under his chin where the makeup stops in an awkward swipe. He’s swallowing over and over again, like he might really vomit. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. I’m not even sure I can. But I’m going to try.
“Okay, listen, don’t get used to this, but… three-second firm hug, okay?”
He sits up. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” My stomach churns like a million fish in a net. “Now. Do it before I change my mind.”
I hold my breath. We hug, awkwardly, because he’s in full makeup and I’ve got my headset on. And also because we are leaning against a cardboard cow.
“Better?” I say a little shakily when we let go.
He grins. “Much.”
“Good.” I tap my headset. “Because Mrs. Nicky’s telling everyone to get in position.”
I see him do another panicky swallow, but he gets up and slips behind the closed curtain to his spot, marked with an X. I wipe my palms on my jeans. My first big job as assistant director, and friend, I think, is done.
Mrs. Nicky takes the stage in front of the curtain. Tonight she has a long green silk scarf wrapped around her throat and glittery green earrings like leaves. She looks like a glamorous and slightly dangerous snake. Jacob brings the house lights down and narrows a spotlight on her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we all walk through life wanting. Wanting to be better at something, to be loved by someone, to be seen for who we really are. Fairy tales give us hope that wrongs will be righted, the prince will come, good will win, and that there is”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“a happily ever after.”
The audience starts to clap, but she holds up a hand for silence.
“But what does it mean to get what you want? What does the ‘after’ in ‘happily ever after’ look like?” She waits a beat. “Into the Woods is about magic and hope, yes. But more than that, it’s about living beyond the neat ending and walking bravely into the rest of your life. And now, without further ado”—another pause—“Into the Woods!”
The music cues up as she makes her way gracefully offstage. I tuck myself back into the shadows and watch as the curtains open on Well as the Baker stage left and Mary Katherine in her position by a spray-painted fireplace, leaning on a broom in her Cinder rags.
“ ‘I wish,’ ” Mary Katherine sings, leaning into her broom, “ ‘I wish to go to the festival…’ ”
And we are off and running.
* * *
Act 1 goes all right with only a few minor glitches. Evan forgets his microphone is still on when he walks offstage, and the audience hears him throw his sword down and mutter, “Cheap Walmart plastic toy stabbed me in the leg,” before I can signal Jacob to cut him off. Lacey misses a cue and enters late for her duet with Geneva. But Well, he’s perfect. The stage fright made him just subdued enough to sound genuine instead of showy. I’m so proud I could burst.
When we break for intermission, everyone gathers backstage in a sweaty heap. I find Mary Katherine with her feet in Evan’s lap.
“We need you in the bathroom for your costume change,” I say. Act 2 opens with Cinderella married to the Prince, but she’s got to look a little worn around the edges—smudges on her cheek and her blue satin dress—the “wear and tear of married life,” as Mrs. Nicky put it.
“In a minute.”
This is the part I hate. The part where I have to push.
“No. Now. You have to be back onstage in five minutes.”
“Lou, give her a break. She’s not feeling great,” Evan says, making this the first time he has ever talked to me directly. I look closer at her. She looks a little pale under her makeup, maybe even a little green.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine! I’m going!” She heaves herself up. “So you don’t have to tattle to Mrs. Nicky, okay?”
Charming Cinderella.
But she’s not fine. That is pretty obvious about halfway through act 2, and it becomes crystal clear when she vomits backstage with her mike still on. I rush to the bathroom. Mrs. Nicky and a few stagehands are standing over her. She’s lying on her back on the tile floor, like a murder victim. And then she moans, and everyone takes a step back.
“Oh God, the sushi,” she says, and curls up in a ball.
Well runs in, holding his puffy baker’s hat in his hands.
“Maxwell, your services are not required. Get back outside.”
“My number’s over, Mrs. Nicky. I came to get the lowdown.”
“Out.” She points her finger and then turns to Mary Katherine, who is slowly crawling toward a bathroom stall. “You are not going onstage again.”
“But I have to! It’s my last song! I—” She throws a hand over her mouth and doesn’t finish. We all exit the bathroom at a sprint.
“Lou can do it, Mrs. Nicky,” Well says once the door swings shut on the sound of Mary Katherine’s heaving.
“Shut up, Well!”
“What? You can!” he says, and then turns to Mrs. Nicky, who is now looking at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m the right car for her. “She already knows the song.”
“Shut up, Well.” I look at the clock. Cinderella has to be back onstage in seven
minutes. Our class isn’t big enough for understudies. Mrs. Nicky passed out Emergen-C tablets and threatened everyone with Saturday school if they got so much as a sniffle. I can feel my heart racing. I’m getting dizzy. This is so much bigger than a three-second hug. This is a sensory nightmare.
Mrs. Nicky takes a deep breath through her nose and says in the softest voice I have ever heard her use, “Lou, this is entirely your call. I would love to see you under the lights tonight, but the show will go on. We will live to act another day with, or without, a last song from Cinderella.”
Well turns to me. He’s just a vague shape in front of my eyes. My vision’s gone blurry with fear. “It’s the duet with the Baker, Lou. With your mike on and earpiece in, you won’t be able to hear anything but you and me.” Well holds up his hand. “I promise.”
I swallow. This means so much to him. I look at Mrs. Nicky, who’s doing her best to seem like she doesn’t care one way or the other. I walk several steps backward and Well starts to follow. Mrs. Nicky grabs him by the shoulder. Good. Even Well is too much company right now. Especially Well.
I turn and run for the emergency exit.
Outside it’s cold. So cold my vision comes back with a snap. I’m staring at the dumpsters behind the dining hall when Tucker pushes off from the wall, sending my heart racing all over again. As a stagehand, he’s in all black and truly terrifying coming out of the dark like that.
“What are you doing here?” I squeak.
“It’s hot backstage, and cramped.” He points to his chest. “And a guy like me doesn’t do great in small spaces.” His hair is damp with sweat, and his cheeks are flushed with the heat. He looks almost as miserable as I feel.
“So what do you do when we’re in the middle of a scene and you can’t sneak out?” I ask. Talking to him is better than thinking about what’s inside right now.
He tucks his hair behind his ears and crosses his arms like he’s thinking. After a minute he says, “I pretend I’m with my mom and dad, and it’s hot because it’s summer. Any minute we’ll find a cool spot by the creek to drop a line. The heat’s not so bad when you’re fishing.”
“And that works?”
“It works long enough to get me to the end of the scene.”
We stand there in the cold for a few more seconds, our breaths making tiny locomotive clouds, and then Tucker opens the door for us to go back in.
“Thanks, Tucker.”
“For what?” he asks as I slide past him.
“Just… thanks.”
When I get back inside, Well is right there pacing the hallway.
“Fine,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It’s not fine. It’s so not fine.
“Yes!” He pumps a fist and goes running for Mrs. Nicky.
* * *
Okay. It could be worse, I tell myself backstage, and yank up my satin sleeve. I don’t have to worry about the crowd. I’ll be up onstage where no one can reach out and touch me. This is one of those controllable situations that Andrea is always talking about. I just have to walk on, sing one song with Well, and then walk right off again. And if worse comes to worst, I can do what Tucker does and imagine myself alone on a lake about a million miles from any living thing.
I still feel shaky, like how you get with a fever. How many Cinderellas will throw up tonight? But suddenly the lights shift from blue to amber. Mrs. Nicky herself is cueing me forward, and there’s no more time to think about it. I count to three and walk onstage.
Well meets me in the center. We turn to face the audience and the spotlight sends the crowd into darkness. I say a quick prayer of thanks to Jacob for that.
I start first, and my own voice, so loud in my ears with the mike, washes over me like a peaceful wave. I take the lower part, and Well joins in a little higher. We’re good together. We sing a pretty decent harmony even though we’ve never rehearsed. The music thrums in my chest, and it’s familiar, like an old friend, from all the long rehearsals.
At one point I hear a cough from someone in the audience and have to close my eyes and picture Lake Tahoe, cold and clear and calm. It works, like Tucker said. It’s enough to keep my voice steady and my feet in place. When we make our way to the very end, I feel Well next to me, readying himself for it.
On the last refrain, Well and I glance at each other, and our voices fade out together. I don’t let myself look at anyone but him as the lights dim. At last, we turn and walk our separate ways offstage. When it’s over, I sink to my knees in the darkness next to the cardboard cow.
“Come on! Come on! They’re calling for you!” Well gestures at me like a crazed mime from across the stage after the curtain closes.
No way. Uh-uh, I mouth back, and shake my head.
Geneva runs toward me in her witch’s robe with threats: “I will grab you by the arms and drag you out if you do not walk on this stage right this minute.”
Tucker gives me a thumbs-up.
I feel around in my AD binder until I find the purple earplugs and stuff them in my ears. Here goes nothing, I think, and step out again, under the lights.
It’s weird and wonderful to stand before a muffled crowd. I see them clapping, their hands moving at double speed, but they have no effect on me. It’s like watching the TV with the volume on low. I see fingers in mouths, the suggestion of whistles and shouts. But it’s all a distant hum. Like floating underwater. I am safe here. I turn my head to look at Well. He does not hold my hand. But we bow together.
* * *
“That was fan-freaking-tastic!” Tucker pants. He ran from backstage to congratulate me and Well and Geneva. Then everybody’s there all at once—stagehands, extras, parents, Principal Myers, Andrea. Mrs. Nicky passes out daisies to the cast and crew. She pauses in front of me, kisses a daisy, and hands it to me with a whispered “thank you.” Despite all my instincts, I want to give her a hug. I hug the daisy instead. She smiles and winks and walks away.
More parents walk in and teachers, and, as awesome as it is, it’s a little much. I ease my way toward the bathroom, where it’s quiet and thankfully doesn’t smell like vomit anymore. I’ve just pulled back on my assistant-director gear—black jeans and sweater—when the door opens. It’s Ginger and Dan… and Mom.
“Lou, you were great! I didn’t know you were going to be onstage,” Ginger gushes. Dan shoots me a double thumbs-up. They’re grinning like I just won an Oscar.
I turn to Mom. It’s instinctual to wait for her reaction after a performance. This is what we do. This is how we work. She’s in a white T-shirt and plain gray blazer that I recognize as Ginger’s. Her hair’s up in a twist. She looks nice.
“I thought you left.”
“My flight’s not until eleven. I wanted to see this show my baby was directing.”
“I wasn’t supposed to go onstage.”
“But you did.”
“I did.”
“And you were a star.”
I don’t smile.
“It was a one-time thing. I just did it to help my friends.”
“Yes, but you nailed it, baby! Just think what you could—”
“Stop!” I yell, because it’s the only way to make her listen. “Just stop!”
I push through the door and out into the lobby and out again onto the snow-dusted lawn behind the dining hall. I sit down on a picnic table and wrap my arms around myself. My new jacket’s back in the bathroom. I breathe fast in little, uneven huffs. Leave it to Mom to ruin this for me.
I hear steps crunching over the frozen grass behind me. Someone puts a hand as gentle as a feather on my back. I know it’s Mom without looking, because even as upset as I am, my body still accepts her touch.
“Lou—”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Lou, I’m sorry.”
She sits down next to me and hands me my jacket.
“You’re always sorry. It never changes anything.”
I pull the jacket over
my shoulders and let it be the thing that knocks her hand away. She starts wiping snow off the picnic table like it’s her job to clean it.
“You’re right. My apologies aren’t worth much. But, baby, I just got so excited! And I am trying. I’m not good at having to share you. It’s been you and me against the world for so long.”
“But I don’t want that anymore.” I sniff and look for something to wipe my nose with. Mom hands me a tissue.
“I know,” she says finally, and she rubs her knuckles. They’re cracked and dry.
“We can’t do it anymore by ourselves, Mom. And I don’t want to ‘make it big.’ I just want to be normal, or my version of normal, anyway. I have friends now and I do go to school and yeah, I still sing sometimes, because I’ll always love music. But it’s when I want to, and it’s not for anyone but me.”
“I get it.”
“Do you?”
She looks at me. We have the same hazel eyes.
“Yes, I do. And I promise on our old beat-up truck, which is still alive and kicking, by the way, that I will not make you do another gig.”
“Swear on your favorite rhinestone jacket.”
“I’ll do you one better.” She puts her hand over her heart, and her red nails flash under the streetlight. “I swear on my heart.”
Something like hope rises with my next breath when she says, “Now tell me about your friends.”
I tell her about Well and Geneva and Tucker and Jacob. And I tell her about my A in English and Mrs. Nicky’s rumba and Dan’s crossword puzzles and Ginger’s terrible tomato juice.
When we walk back inside, I spot Well and wave, but before I can get to him, his dad steps in. He’s in a shiny shirt and jeans and smells like he’s been hit by a tidal wave of aftershave. “Maxwell didn’t tell me you were a singer,” he says, holding a card up between two fingers, so close to my face I have to take it or get stabbed in the eye. I study the card: WRIGHT MANAGEMENT is embossed on the front next to a giant gold music note. “Call me,” he barks. It sounds like an order. Behind him, Well rolls his eyes.