“I practically hurled myself into the theatre at six thirty-one,” Jodie says, loudly. “Pete looked the other way, the saint. I went straight into hair.” She may be a tornado but she’s also hands down one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. She’s loud, she’s sassy; she’s a self-described “hoot.” She’s Scuttle from The Little Mermaid, if Scuttle were a middle-aged blonde woman from Long Island.
Jodie and H.H. share a dressing room. Neither of them was happy about it at first—both claimed they had reached a level in their careers that warranted private dressing rooms—but they love each other now. After their first week in the theatre during Tech, once they’d gotten to know each other a bit more (thanks to a week of back-to-back twelve-hour days), Heather Huffman admitted she’d been a bit jealous of Jodie, which was why she’d fought the roommate situation.
“A regular person’s ego is a powerful thing, Tiny.” H.H. calls me Tiny because, well, I’m tiny.
“An actress’s ego is a powerful monster.” She felt it was important for me—“as a female”—to understand the difference between jealousy and envy. See? She knows everything.
“Envy,” she told me, midsip of her nonfat latte, “envy is when you want what someone else has. I’m envious of my sister’s emerald-cut engagement ring, for example.”
“I feel ya,” I said. “It’s so sparkly.” She and her sister go to lunch between shows every Saturday so I’ve met her—and the ring—dozens of times.
“Jealousy is when you’re worried someone is trying to take what you have.” She explained she was jealous of Jodie, of her ability to be the center of attention. H.H. had always been the center of attention, and she wasn’t ready to give it up.
“But then I realized there’s plenty of attention to go around. She makes ’em laugh, and I, well…” She winked. “I make ’em swoon. We’re better together, you know? A team.”
They’re planning a revival of the musical Mame for when they’re “much older.” No word yet on who will play Auntie Mame and who will play Vera. I’m guessing they’ll compete in some sort of friendly duel involving comedic timing, fur coats, and lung capacity.
Back in the right now, Jodie is doing a series of lunges, an “integral” part of her preshow routine. She insists they help her get into character while also keeping her body limber. (Her character falls down the stairs in Act Two so flexibility is key.)
“How did your audition go?” I ask Jodie, eager to hear all about it. Everyone’s always complaining about auditioning, but that’s only because they get to audition all the time. I wish. Hearing about them after the fact is all I’ve got for now. But the moment mice are allowed to audition, you’d better bet I’ll be ready.
“Well.” Jodie completes her final lunge with a flourish and collapses onto the suede chaise longue. (That’s French for a couch/chair combo.) “For starters, they were running behind.”
“Of course,” H.H. says, pinning down curl number nine. “He’s always behind.” She’s referring to a director whose name I will not mention, because, well, I know better.
“Nancy Casey was sitting next to me and would not shut up about her one-day guest spot on that new CBS lawyer show.”
“Typical.” H.H. huffs. “Nancy Casey is a ridiculous human being.” H.H. was married to a guy named Dave, and now Nancy Casey is married to a guy named Dave. (Same Dave, FYI.)
“Then, when I finally get into the room, do I get a ‘Hello, Jodie, so lovely to see you. I just love the show. You were snubbed at the Tonys!’ No, no. That Professor Snape wannabe stares blankly at me with his coal-colored eyes and says, ‘What are you going to sing?’ That’s it, just, ‘What are you going to sing?’ like I’m not a two-time Tony nominee, three-time Drama Desk winner.”
“Geez,” I say. I mean, what else is there to say to an exquisite rant like that?
“Then—look at me when I say this, ladies,” Jodie commands. H.H. and I do as we’re told, obviously. When a sassy blonde tornado tells you to do something, you do it. “During my entire song, a song for which I received a standing ovation at Carnegie Hall, they did not look up from the TABLE!”
Then Heather Huffman says a word I would get soooooo punished for if I repeated, and Jodie goes, “I know!” followed by another only slightly less punishable word. Then, to further emphasize the sheer madness of it all, she puts both arms straight in front of her in a wide V, like she’s going to hug a tree, fingers spread in a high five, à la Bob Fosse, and says, “And who goes into the room after me? That pinched gal from that BBC murder show. Another Brit. You heard it here first, ladies. The British aren’t coming. They’re already here.”
“Fifteen Minutes. This is your Fifteen-Minute call. Fifteen Minutes, please,” Pete’s voice pipes over the intercom.
“Fifteen? How long have I been talking?!” Jodie flings off her clothes, and that’s my cue to move on. Not like I’m embarrassed or anything. It’s just polite.
“Have a good show!” I say, rolling H.H.’s Garnet Glory lipstick to her, my last task in our Tiny & H.H. preshow routine. We say, “Have a good show,” or “Break a leg,” but never “Good luck.” That’s bad luck. Weird, I know, but it’s how it works in the theatre.
“Tiny, be a dear and tell Milly to tell that adorable Amanda that if she insists on stepping on my feet during bows I will be forced to heavily return the favor.” Done with her pin curls, H.H. pulls her nude-colored wig cap over her head, secures it with a few bobby pins, and mutters, “Little brat.” (P.S. A wig cap is basically a swim cap made out of pantyhose.)
“Will do!” I say, scampering down the arm of her dressing table and to the stairs, bound for the third floor. To Milly, who takes care of the kids and is, of course, awesome. To Maya, the understudy, who’s sweeter than pie, and has the voice of an angel and the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen that isn’t a wig. And Amanda. Ugh, Amanda. Okay, I’m going to be honest here. I do not like Amanda. I do not like her at all.
CHAPTER
THREE
OH MY GEEZ, LULU, YOU’RE HERE!” SHE MAY sound sweet but don’t be fooled. Amanda is about as real as a gold-plated watch. (Quick story: One of the male actors whom Heather Huffman was “dating” gave her a gold-plated watch for her birthday. She called it a “cheap trinket of mediocrity” and threw it down the stairs into the basement. It’s now our living room clock.)
“Ooooh what a pretty… ribbon, is it? It’s so nice that you make use of our scraps,” Amanda says. See what I mean? Sugarcoated meanness. “Isn’t it pretty, Maya?”
“Really pretty, Lulu,” Maya says.
Poor Maya. Long story short, Maya is Amanda’s understudy, which means she plays the part Amanda plays when Amanda cannot. Maya has only performed the role twice in the ten months the show has been running, and that’s only because Amanda was projectile vomiting into a bucket offstage right. And people think mice are gross. Honestly. Most of the time Maya just sits in the dressing room silently doing homework, fighting the urge—I can only assume—to poison Amanda with a bagel.
(Amanda has a “severe” gluten allergy. For all you celiac disease sufferers out there, please know I put “severe” in quotes for a reason. The reason being, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t actually have a gluten allergy, but rather, a mother who doesn’t want her daughter to eat “empty carbohydrates.”)
“Thanks, guys. You’re welcome to borrow it for your hair anytime,” I say.
“Thanks, Lulu,” Maya says, smiling sincerely.
“I’ll pass,” Amanda says. “It’s not hygienic to share hair accessories.”
Though she’s probably right, why not just say, “Thanks, Lulu!” rather than, “I’ll pass.” I know what you’re thinking, Honesty is the best policy. I see your “honesty is the best policy” and I raise you “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Amanda isn’t too familiar with that golden rule.
“Well, it’s here if anyone wants it,” I say. “Milly, may I speak with you privately for a moment
?”
Milly—who’s basically a real-life fairy, complete with sun-kissed hair, colorful clothing, and a cheery disposition—is sitting in the corner cross-legged, drinking a steaming chai tea out of her circa 1993 Full House thermos.
“Sure thing.” Milly hops up.
The scoop on Milly? She’s what we in the business call a “child wrangler” or “child guardian”—I’ve heard both terms used, so take your pick. Basically, Milly looks after the kids in the cast when they’re at the theatre. (In this show, Amanda and Maya are the only kids.) Their parents drop them off at the stage door before Half Hour and pick them up when the show is over, with Milly taking care of them for the time in between. It’s not like she’s a babysitter or anything; Amanda and Maya are allowed to walk around the theatre without Milly following their every move. But it’s Milly’s job to make sure they make their entrances and exits, stay safe, and behave. Let’s just say behavior isn’t a problem for one out of the two of them.
“Not so fast. Whatever you can say in front of Milly you can say in front of me,” Amanda declares.
Amanda is always saying things like this. Like she’s some sort of queen or elected official. Luckily, Milly’s a quick thinker. “Excuse me, but someone has a birthday coming up, so maybe someone should mind her own business and let us plan it, hmm?”
Upon hearing the magic word “birthday,” Amanda grins like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland (Maybe that’s why my stomach flips when I see her!) and goes back to applying her Strawberry Kiss blush. For the record, she wears way too much blush. She looks like a Cheshire Cat who rubbed its cheeks in a bucket of strawberry jam.
Milly carries me out to the hallway and places me on the windowsill. (If you’re ever in Shubert Alley, look at the window three floors directly up from the stage door and that’s where I am right now!)
I get carried and placed on high surfaces a lot around here; it’s just easier that way. Less me looking up and them looking down. Everyone goes to enough physical therapy as it is, thanks to our never-ending stairwells and raked (read: slightly inclined) stage. The actors don’t need neck problems because they’ve befriended a mouse.
“What’s up?” Milly asks, twirling her dainty engagement ring. Sometimes she lets me try it on. I wear it as a crown. Her husband-to-be is in The Phantom of the Opera two theatres down at the Majestic. If you haven’t seen it, go. A chandelier falls from the ceiling! I have cousins who live there. In the ceiling, not the chandelier. Obviously. A few months ago, after a family gathering, my mom and I watched the show from a crack in the wall of the mezzanine. Heaven.
“Heather Huffman asked me to ask you to ask Amanda to ‘stop stepping on her feet or she’ll be forced to heavily return the favor.’ Direct quote.”
“Goodness. I’ve told Amanda at least ten times,” Milly says. “Maybe I should just let Heather step on her and see if that gets her to stop. Amanda has got to learn that the whole world doesn’t revolve around her.”
“Yeah,” I say. What I want to say is, “She probably thinks it revolves around her because her face is plastered all over Shubert Alley and she was on all the morning shows plus The Late Show with Stephen Colbert before she turned twelve, and, man, I wish I were her.” But instead I just say, “She won’t always be the star.” And I hope, hope, hope this is true. Because people like her don’t deserve to be the star. Stars set the tone for the entire show, the mood for the entire building. They’re someone youngsters like me look up to. Luckily, our grown-up star, Tony Award winner Stella James, is the nicest, most professional lady you’ll ever meet, so she balances out Amanda’s ickiness. More on Stella later…
“You certainly are wise for your age, Lulu,” Milly says. Notice, she doesn’t say, “for a mouse.” She doesn’t see me as a mouse, as something different and, therefore, scary or unequal. She sees me as a friend. A trusted friend.
I sure am lucky to have been born into a building of special, open-minded people. I could have ended up in an apartment building or (gulp) a restaurant and this would have been a shorter, scarier, and far less amusing story.
“Can you do something for me, if you don’t mind?” Milly asks.
“Of course!” I say. I’d scurry all the way to Central Park if Milly asked. Not that I’m allowed to, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Spend a little time with Maya during the show tonight?” she says. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just pull off the metaphorical Band-Aid and say it. Maya is going to be leaving us in two weeks.”
I’m pretty sure I audibly gasp. “What? Why? What happened?” I say. If this is Amanda’s doing, so help me I will find an extra-gluten-full bagel (or something she’s actually allergic to), convince the Hooligans to carry it up to the third floor, and force feed it to her myself.
“Her parents can’t handle the drive from New Jersey anymore. They were okay with it at first because they thought she’d get to perform more often. But you know Amanda; she never misses a show.” Milly’s usual glow is fading. Like a firefly with its light out. I can tell she’s genuinely upset for Maya. I am, too. This is super duper unfair. Amanda should be the one to go. If we put this to a vote, everyone in the theatre would vote for Maya to stay. Even you would vote for Maya at this point, right? Of course, right. (That’s almost a direct quote from Yente in Fiddler on the Roof. She’s highly quotable, FYI.)
“That’s so sad. I feel so bad for her.” I peer into the dressing room. Maya is gently caressing one of the costumes, the blue sparkly one. It’s my favorite, and hers, too, I’m guessing, because she’s touching it like she loves it more than anything in the world.
Then I hear Amanda say, “Maya. Stop. You know you’re not supposed to touch the costumes unless you’re in them. That’s the rule.” Ugh. Do be quiet, Amanda. That is not the rule and you know it.
I wish I would say that. I wish Maya would say that. She should stand up for herself. Heather Huffman is always saying, “It’s necessary to teach others how you expect to be treated.” I think she’s mostly referring to boyfriends and talent agents, but I feel like it applies to mean girls as well.
But Maya says nothing. She just drops the dress. Like she’s being forced to drop a barely licked ice-cream cone in the trash or something. Dropping her dream is more like it. It’s heartbreaking to watch. And although technically I’ve never been in her shoes, I think I know how she feels. The only thing worse than losing a dream is not having a shot at it in the first place.
“What’s going on, girls?” Milly asks, as if she doesn’t already know. She’s really good at treating them equally—even though she obviously loves Maya and only likes Amanda, because it’s her job and she’s a nice person.
She plops me down into Maya’s sad lap. Yes, laps can be sad. Promise. Sad laps are the ones that are just begging you to sit in them.
“Nothing, Milly,” Amanda says, batting her inexpertly applied eyelashes. She insists on wearing grown-up-sized lashes even though they’re far too big for her kid-sized lash lines, so it looks like some sort of spider is crawling up her eyelid.
Amanda shoots a look to Maya as if to say, Go ahead, say something, I dare you, and it is moments like these that make me wish I could straighten out my tail and have it double as a magic wand. I’d turn Amanda into a pumpkin or a toad faster than you can say “bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”
“Five Minutes, this is your Five-Minute call. Five Minutes, please,” Pete’s voice booms from the monitor. Pete’s voice is like what coffee would sound like if it could talk. Comforting, warm, yet still assertive and full of life.
Speaking of Pete, I guess this is as good of a time as any to meet a few of the people who work at my theatre-house. There are a lot of them. A lot. It’s a safe bet to say that for each person onstage, there’s someone offstage whose job is just as important. Remember that the next time you go see a Broadway show and wonder why your ticket is so expensive. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never bought one because I get to watch for free, it
being my own house and all. I just hear audience members complaining all the time, and it drives me kind of nuts.
So: there are the actors. Duh. You’ve met a few of them; you’ll meet more. Then there’s Pete. He’s what’s called the production stage manager. He basically runs things, now that the director has moved on to a different job. Pete’s the one who makes sure everyone gets to the theatre on time and that the show starts when it’s supposed to and ends when it’s supposed to. He also gives acting notes to make sure the performances stay in tip-top shape. Then there are Ricardo and Susie. Ricardo is the assistant stage manager and Susie is the dance captain. Ricardo takes over for Pete when he’s not around and Susie makes sure everyone continues to do the dance steps and blocking correctly. All three of them run understudy rehearsal every week. That’s when, well… it’s when the understudies rehearse. I guess that’s pretty obvious.
I always attend understudy rehearsal. Sometimes I even help out, reading lines if an actor’s missing. It’s as close as I’ve ever gotten to actually being in a Broadway show.
Stop the train. Stop the music. Stop everything. (That’s a quote from an incredible musical called Gypsy, which is loaded with kids but is also about a grown-up topic, so please check in with a legal guardian before you see it or watch one of the movie versions.) I can’t believe I haven’t gotten back to this since here! Thanks for continuing to read, by the way. I guess I’m an actress and a writer now. It seems wise to have multiple skills and interests. Show business is an uncertain path full of highs and lows, hills and valleys, sunshine and clouds… but still…
I want to be on Broadway. Onstage, up there, in front of the audience. I want to feel what it’s like to be blinded by the lights; I want to make ’em laugh and make ’em cry. To sing. To dance. To bow. Oooooh do I wanna bow.
I used to say, “When I grow up, I want to be on Broadway.” But then ten months ago, this show moved in, and Amanda and Maya are pretty young, and I realized that if they’re old enough, I sure am. So, I cut out the “When I grow up” and started saying, “I want to be on Broadway.” Heather Huffman calls it a “positive affirmation.”
Lulu the Broadway Mouse Page 2