by Robin Talley
“Yep. You’re acting props head until further notice.”
“Oh, God.” All the color drains from his face.
“What the hell is happening in this theater?” Christina charges up the steps toward me in her factory worker garb, shoving her cocoa-powdered face straight into mine. Her eyes are bright, and her lower lip is trembling. “We’ve got wild animals in here now? How much else are you and your stupid girlfriend going to ruin?”
I think of what Odile said, about actors needing shoulders to cry on. But Christina’s makeup is already done, which means I need to fix this without tears.
“Hey. Christina.” I switch off my mic and lower my voice, stepping toward her so no one else can hear. “It’s going to be all right. You’re an amazing actor, and your singing is gorgeous. You got a standing ovation every night as Juliet, and I’ve heard you in rehearsals—you’ve hit every note every time in ‘At the End of the Day,’ and your ‘Drink with Me’ solo last week was breathtaking. This time next year, you’ll be starring in every show your college puts on, and you won’t believe you were ever as nervous about going onstage as you are right now.”
Christina doesn’t move. I don’t think she’s even breathing. After a long, heart-pounding pause, during which I do my best to keep track of the urgent reports filtering in through my headset about the status of the turntable without letting any of it show on my face, she whispers, “You really thought ‘Drink with Me’ was good?”
“I’d never say so if I didn’t. You trust me, right?”
“I . . .” She holds my gaze. Tears are starting to form in her eyes.
“You cannot cry.” I reach into my fanny pack for a tissue. “Your cocoa powder is exactly right as it is. If gets tear-streaked it’ll be distracting. You’re supposed to look like you’re pissed at Fantine, not like you just watched the Friends finale again.”
She starts laughing and dabs at her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Now go get in character. Do some of those vocal trill things Ms. Marcus is always making you practice.”
“Mel!” When I finally step back and sync my brain into what’s happening on my headset, it’s utter chaos. Jasmin’s the one frantically reporting now. “The house manager’s in the booth. She says we’re already ten minutes late and there’ll be a stampede out in the lobby if we don’t open the house!”
“Tell her two more minutes.” I pant into the mic.
“Mel.” It’s Gabby. “Three of the prisoners’ costumes shrank in the wash, and now Julio’s jacket won’t close and his factory worker shirt is showing underneath. What should we do? Rachel’s busy—George’s dog stepped on his cape and now it’s got a hole so she’s fixing it.”
“What’s George doing bringing his cape home for his dog to step on?” I groan. “Never mind. Tell Rachel we’re in triage mode. Convict jackets beat farmworker capes. Tell her—I don’t know, tell her the hole will add verisimilitude.”
But now the questions are flying faster than ever, from every corner.
“Mel! I can’t get that mic to work, I’ve tried everything—”
“Mel, the casters still won’t roll and Fatima’s panicking—”
“Mel, the actors are scared to leave the dressing room in case the bat gets loose, and I heard some of the run crew saying they were going outside in case it—”
This has to end. “Quiet,” I say into the mic.
Everyone on the headsets stops talking at once. And I do the only thing I can think of—I change the setting on my mic to broadcast.
MINUTES UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 6
“Hey, everybody?” My voice echoes in my ears. I’m still on the dressing room level under the stage, but my mic is pumping my words out to the entire team. The whole cast and crew can hear me, in the dressing rooms, in the wings, in the booth, in the prop rooms. Faint strains are probably echoing even into the vast, empty house. “I need your help.”
Imani steps out of the bathroom. She’s in her peasant gown for “At the End of the Day,” a soft layer of cocoa powder caking her cheeks. She’s trembling, but at least she isn’t puking anymore. “Mel? How long until top of show?”
“Ten minutes, give or take.” It’s actually now five minutes, twenty-nine seconds, and I really need to get back to the booth, and we really, really need to open the house if we want to have any hope at all of starting anywhere close to on time. But I don’t say any of that. “I need everyone’s attention. Cast and crew.”
Actors spill out of both dressing rooms, and a few crew members gather around, too, even though most of them are up on the stage level. A few feet down from me, Rachel is crouched in front of Julio, frantically stitching the long prison jacket he’s wearing. She glances up at me, two pins sticking out from the corner of her mouth.
In my headset, Gabby says, “I’m stage right. The run crew’s listening, Mel.”
The crowd around me is growing. Dom steps out of the boys’ dressing room into the back of the group. He’s in his prisoner garb for the opening scene, and under his cocoa powder his face is as green as it was at auditions. Nick’s leaning against the wall opposite him in his prisoner garb, looking exactly as terrified as you’d expect a guy who’s about to carry an entire show on a less-than-perfect baritone to look. Next to him, three of the freshman ensemble guys are shaking so hard I’m surprised they haven’t fallen over. I gaze out across the group, trying to organize bullet points in my head.
That’s when I spot Odile.
She’s at the very back with Alejandra and Leah, standing silently with her arms folded, looking straight at me. She’s in her factory dress and apron, her hair curled and cascading around her shoulders, her makeup muted. She looks absolutely perfect. It’s obvious she’s 100 percent ready to go onstage, regardless of what Dom told her about me, or what the other actors were fighting about in the dressing room just now, or what she thinks of the bat attack or the puking freshman or the faulty turntable or any other crisis threatening our show.
Odile’s here to do her job. She’d never let doubt or fear get in the way when she knows she’s capable of something.
Will’s words float back to me. The cast and crew need to know they can do this. They need to believe you have faith in them to make this come off right.
Forget bullet points. I’ve got to trust my instincts.
“Okay, everyone.” I try as hard as I can to project Stage Manager Calm into the mic. “You all know we’ve been having a tough time with this show.”
“Yeah, ’cause we’re cursed,” someone mutters. I don’t bother turning to see who.
“I don’t know if we have a curse or not.” My voice echoes from the speakers on the walls. The cast falls silent, the same way the crew does when I call for quiet. “What I do know is, it doesn’t matter. We have something that’s stronger than any curse, and that’s us. As long as we trust each other, all we have to do is work hard and let theater magic do the rest.”
“Okay, but I heard the crew guys saying the turntable’s all screwy.” Leah doesn’t look angry or resentful. Just afraid. “How can we go on without the turntable?”
“Or what if something falls on us, like in the IDR?” one of the ensemble guys asks.
“We’ll fix it,” I tell them, amazed at how chill my own voice sounds. I don’t have to summon my Stage Manager Calm anymore—it’s showing up all on its own. “It’s on all of us to work together to solve problems and follow the rules. That’s how we make sure nobody gets hurt, and it’s how we put on the best possible show we can. There are hundreds of people out in the lobby waiting to see what we can do, and now we’ve got to show them exactly how strong we are. Together.”
Together.
My eyes find Odile’s again.
“Together.” Nick nods. He turns to the ensemble guys next to him and raises his eyebrows. “Right?”
“Together,” the guy next to him says, a little awkwardly. Then he nods and says it again. “Together.”
Nick nods back at him.<
br />
“Together,” the two guys next to him say, in unison. Then more of the actors join in, and it starts to form a chant.
“Together.”
“Together.”
“Together!”
On my headset, Gabby joins in. I can hear the run crew behind her, and Jasmin in the booth, and the rest of my crew doing the same thing. “Together!”
Rachel snips a thread on Julio’s jacket and climbs to her feet. She holds my gaze and gives me a nod. “Together.”
“We’re the ones in charge of making this show a success,” I say, standing taller. The chanting fades out, but the cast and crew members around me look like they’re standing a little taller now themselves. “No one else is going to swoop in and save the day. No one but us will be responsible if something goes wrong. This is our show, and I know exactly how much it means to every single one of you. Because it means that much to me, too.”
They’re all nodding now. The cocoa-powdered faces of the actors and the black-clad crew members are all moving as one, for the first time ever.
“Now, I need everybody’s help. We’ve got to find a new yellow ticket, grease the casters so the panels for the inn will roll in, and get David a body mic that works. And we’ve got to test the turntable again.” I take in a long breath. “Actors, I need you to get into your characters and be ready to sing like you’ve never sung before. And all of us have to do it while the house is coming in. Do you think we can?”
“To the barricades!” Dom shouts. Everyone laughs, and then they start clapping. People are actually smiling now, the eager, we’re-nervous-but-we-can-do-this smiles that always mean a show’s going to be good.
“All right.” I’m breathing hard, but I nod. “To the barricades!”
I let myself steal one more glance at Odile before I take off for the booth. She’s still looking right at me. She’s clapping, too.
MINUTES UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 4
“Mel?”
I pause midway through running up the aisle and spin around on my heel. Dom followed me out into the house. He shouldn’t be here in his costume, but there’s no time for reprimands. Besides, come to think of it, I could use his help.
“Hey,” he says. “That was a good speech.”
“Thanks. It was unplanned.”
“All the better.”
“And . . . I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I’ve been a cruddy best friend, but I’m so, so proud of you. I was cheering for you so hard up in the booth in every dress rehearsal during ‘One Day More.’”
“I saw.” He smiles. “I always look up there. Force of habit. But anyway, I came to say I’m sorry too. You’re the only best friend I’ll ever want, cruddy or otherwise.”
“Mel? Why aren’t you in the booth?” Gabby comes running up behind him from the wing, her headset mic bouncing. When she realizes which of the opening-number prisoners I’m talking to she slows down, her expression shifting from stressed to slightly giggly. It’s still so weird to see them together. “Fatima finally got the casters unstuck. We can open the house.”
“Good. I’m going back up to the booth in seconds, literally. But first I need you two—and it actually has nothing to do with Les Mis.”
Both of their eyebrows shoot up at once. It’s actually pretty funny. I never noticed the way they both do that.
“Or, not much, anyway,” I amend.
I tell them what I want to do. At first they just stand in silence, their eyebrows creeping higher. Then Gabby starts laughing. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“Doesn’t this go against your entire life philosophy?” Dom tilts his head. “In fact I distinctly remember you once telling me that this kind of thing ruins the entire illusion of theater.”
“Yeah, well, it turns out there are more important things than illusions. Are you up for it?”
“Absolutely. I think it’s great.”
“Me too.” Gabby nods. “How much time do we have?”
“None, basically. We’ve got to do as much as we can during intermission.”
“On it.” Dom nods too. “I’ll talk to Nick and the others.”
“And I’ll talk to Ms. Marcus,” Gabby adds. “When I’m not doing the fifty other things I’m supposed to do during intermission.”
“Don’t worry, Mel. It’ll be perfect.” Dom grins.
“There’s no such thing as perfect.” I grin back. “That’s the one thing I know for sure.”
Now I’ve got to show Odile I know it, too.
STAGE MANAGEMENT POSTSHOW CHECKLIST
All tasks are to be executed by SM/ASM immediately following curtain call. NO EXCEPTIONS.
Task
Call final cues (curtain, lights, house lights)
Ensure house manager opened auditorium doors
Ensure actors removed all flowers and other trip hazards tossed by audience from stage
Shut down projector
Direct run crew to clear stage, placing set pieces in safe positions
Reset props tables and move prop bread to teachers’ lounge refrigerator
Confirm with sound whether any additional batteries are needed for next show
Ensure mic packs are safely stored
Ensure actors removed and properly stored all costumes, including accessories and wigs
Sweep & mop the stage
Check trash cans to make sure they aren’t so bad we’ll get in trouble with the janitors
Empty booth trash
Make sure everyone’s left the building (cast, crew & audience)
Turn on ghost light
Turn off all other lights
Lock doors
The barricade has fallen
—Distributed by hard copy and emailed to all cast, crew, and directors.
Also stored on BHS performing arts department shared drive.
Created by: Melody McIntyre, stage manager, class of 2021
Viewable to: All cast, crew, and directors
Editable by: Current SM ONLY
Scene 10—Beaconville High School Theater
MINUTES UNTIL OPENING NIGHT CURTAIN CALL: 0
The cast is still belting out the last note of their “One Day More” reprise when I spring out of my seat for the second time tonight. Jasmin holds up her hand, and for a panicked second I think she’s going to physically stop me from leaving, until I realize she’s only trying to high-five me.
“Awesome show,” she says. “Almost perfect.”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t think in terms of perfection right now. “Stand by, light sixty-four. . . . Lights, go.”
My hands are twitching, and my feet are, too. I need to be backstage. I need to be backstage now.
“This is Mel, going off headset,” I say into the mic. “Gabby’s calling the last few cues from the booth.”
“You’re doing what?” Jasmin’s mouth drops open, and now she does look like she might try to physically stop me.
“I just—need to do something. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” I pull the headset down around my neck, switch off my mic, and lunge for the booth door.
Gabby’s there waiting for me. We exchange lightning-quick nods before I take off running.
The house is way too chaotic for me to navigate. The show got a massive standing ovation, and most of the audience is still on its feet clapping and whistling, but as always a handful of people are also charging up the aisles toward the lobby. (When you sit in the all-seeing tech booth, you figure out fast which audience members have the smallest bladders.) So I duck through the side hall. I dodge all the parents carrying flowers, crossing my fingers that my own dads are still in their seats. Fortunately, there’s no sign of them, and the audience is still roaring when I push through the back door to stage right and step into the wing.
It’s strange being onstage during a performance, even if I am concealed behind the curtain, and even though the actual performing part is over. The cast is just a few feet away from me, and every
single actor is basking in the glory of this drawn-out ovation. To be honest, I’m pretty into it, too.
People liked our show. That’s rather cool. We had a late start, but the turntable worked, the actors mostly did what they were supposed to, the bridge flew in without killing anyone, and whole chunks of the audience were sobbing at the big death scenes while I called the light cues.
That’s not what I’m focusing on at the moment, though. My brain only has space for five words right now.
This plan had better work.
Most of the cast has no idea I’m back here. Actors never look at the wings during curtain call, not when there are adoring fans to look at instead. But a few of the freshmen on the run crew are gaping at me. Seeing a stage manager outside the booth during a show is like seeing a unicorn strolling through Boston Common.
The cast takes one more bow. Another, louder, cheer rises from the crowd, and the actors grin at each other. Ms. Marcus told the cast they should stay in character for the first part of the curtain call, but that after the reprise it was okay to let go a little.
It’s hard for me to see the principals from here—they’re all downstage, so there are dozens of other actors’ backs between them and me—but when two of the ensemble guys step forward to wave to the audience, I get my first glimpse of Odile. She got the biggest cheer during the bows, naturally, and now she’s standing between Nick and David, turning around to clap for the others. She’s still wearing her white dress from the finale, with her angel makeup and her hair down around her shoulders, giving her a soft glow. I step behind another cluster of ensemble members before she can spot me.