My daydream is swiftly interrupted by the sound of sniffles, and loud nose-blowing. I open my eyes to find H.H. and Jodie with tears in their eyes to match the ones in mine.
“Oh, sweet girl,” H.H. says. “We love you so.”
“I love you, ladies,” I say. And I do. I really do. Friendship knows no age, size, or species, I suppose.
“Well,” Jodie Howard says, with a good blow of her nose, “if a miracle can happen anywhere, it can happen in the theatre.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say.
“Lucky for you,” H.H. says, delicately tapping a folded tissue against her lower lash line, “my friend Jodie Howard is always right.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THEY BOTH HAVE TO be here,” an all-too-familiar voice whines.
Guess who? If you guessed Amanda, you are correct, dear reader.
“They have to be here because it’s their job,” Milly says. Milly is trying to stay as calm as she can, but I can sense she’s had it up to here with Amanda and her attitude. Out of everyone, Milly’s got to be the most frustrated with this whole Amanda-rules-the-world thing.
“Actually, it’s my job, but whatever,” Amanda grumbles.
I’m in the third-floor hallway with Maya and Jayne, but the dressing room door is open, so we’re still part of this scene. The Shubert’s dressing rooms are small, by the way, and this one is made even smaller by Amanda’s attitude at full capacity.
Maya’s got a this again look on her face, while Jayne is super solemn, like she’s slowly realizing that sometimes dreams aren’t what we hoped they’d be. Sometimes dreams come with terms and conditions. Sometimes dreams come with Amanda.
“Amanda. This is not up for discussion. Both girls will trail you during the show today, per Pete’s request, and that’s final.” Go, Milly! If I weren’t so afraid of physical retaliation from Amanda, I would cheer out loud. But Jayne’s arrival has made Amanda even more frenzied and unreasonable than usual, and there’s no telling what she might throw or break. I wouldn’t put it past her to throw or break a theatre-loving mouse.
“Fine,” Amanda says, applying far too much blush, per usual. She actually listens to what Pete says because he’s the only one who can call our director and report bad behavior. You should have seen her with the director. She was an angel. Then the moment the director left New York to direct a movie in Los Angeles, Amanda flipped a switch and landed in demon territory. “But they can’t say anything. I can’t have them disrupting my show.”
“I’m sure Jayne will be just as polite as Maya always is,” Milly says, turning to Jayne and Maya. “Right, ladies?”
Maya and Jayne nod, like obedient robots.
Why is it that bullies always get their way? Honestly. It makes me mad.
“Bet mentioned something about needing measurements for Jayne,” I say. Full disclosure: this is a total lie. With a lot of help from my mom, Bet is already done with Jayne’s costumes. I just want to save my friends and get them away from Amanda for a while. “I’ll take Jayne and Maya downstairs for a minute and be right back. Is that okay, Milly?”
“Of course,” Milly says. “Thanks, Lulu.”
“Measurements? Measurements for what?” Amanda demands.
“For costumes,” I say. What else would Bet need measurements for? Cabinetry? Curtains? Cookies? I mean, really.
“She’s getting her own costumes?” Amanda looks like she’s going to explode. You know Veruca Salt from the Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory movie? The one who wants the goose that lays the golden egg? That’s who Amanda’s channeling right now. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, envision a human tea kettle whistling and steaming. And make sure to watch the movie at some point because it’s great.) “Why on earth does she need her own costumes?”
“Because she’s smaller than we are, Amanda,” Maya says, shedding her robotic stare in exchange for an enough is enough glare. I’m so proud I could whistle. (But I won’t.)
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought Milly had just instructed you not to speak to me, Maya. Or are you so busy with your new friend plain Jayne that you didn’t hear her?” Amanda’s up on her feet now, inching toward Maya, Jayne, and me like she’s some sort of large feline and we’re… well… mice.
“Actually, what Milly said is that we’d be polite. I’m being perfectly polite. And Jayne hasn’t said a word since she’s gotten here,” Maya replies.
It’s true. The talkative Jayne from this afternoon’s understudy rehearsal became silent Jayne the moment Amanda entered the building. To be fair, Maya and I had warned Jayne of Amanda’s flair for the dramatic and fondness for aggression and downright meanness, so she was probably in self-preservation mode.
“Girls, please. Let’s be civil,” Milly warns.
Amanda huffs so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t blow all the costumes off their racks.
Obviously, I’m finding Amanda’s behavior absolutely ridiculous, but I can’t help but think about what she just said. Your new friend plain Jayne. Not the “plain Jayne” part—that was just plain mean. No, I’m thinking more about the “new friend” part.
My mother is always telling me to put myself in someone else’s shoes to better understand them. Could it be possible that Amanda is jealous—or is it envious? I’ll have to check with H.H. for clarification—about our new friendship with Jayne? Come to think of it, Amanda doesn’t have any real friends at the theatre. I mean, it makes sense. She’s not very nice; why would anyone want to be friends with her? But maybe she puts up this mean front because she’s really super insecure and is worried no one will like her? Lucy Louise, unlicensed therapist, at your service, I know. But think about it. You know kids like Amanda. Did it ever occur to you that maybe they act the way they do because underneath it all they’re just plain scared?
“You know what, Maya,” Amanda snaps, “I have had just about enough of you. Get out! You’re no longer allowed in my dressing room.”
Wow. Okay. Let’s just put my psychological analysis on the back burner for a minute while we deal with this.
“Amanda, this is their dressing room, too. Please, calm down,” Milly says.
“Oh, I’m perfectly calm. I just don’t appreciate being spoken to in such a rude manner,” Amanda says, hands on hips. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to warm up my voice. I have a show tonight.” And she slams the door, leaving all four of us in the hallway. Shut out and shut down.
“Yikes,” Jayne says, as if her ability to produce words is directly linked to Amanda’s presence.
“Let’s give her a few minutes alone to cool off and go take a field trip to the wardrobe room, okay?” Milly says. “And please don’t worry, Maya. I don’t care what Amanda says; as long as your name’s still on that dressing room door, you’ll spend as much time in there as you like.”
“That’s the thing,” Maya says, “I don’t even like it in there anymore. I’d rather spend my last few days in the theatre somewhere else.” Milly puts her arm around Maya’s shoulders, and they start down the stairs.
Jayne pops me into her pocket—she’s wearing a really cute purple romper with comfy front pockets—and says, “Should I be worried, Lulu?”
“No,” I say, choosing to tell a little white lie for the sake of my new friend. “She’s harmless.”
“I don’t know about that,” Jayne says. “But I do know one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“When I imagined my Broadway debut, I didn’t imagine an Amanda to go along with it.”
Of course, I want to remind her that at least she’s employed on Broadway, regardless of Amanda. At least she’s getting a shot. But I know this moment isn’t about me and my lack of opportunity, so I just say, “Yeah. I get that.”
From the second-floor landing, Milly calls, “Coming, girls?” and we start down the stairs after her, Jayne deep in thought, me deep in her pocket.
CHAPTER
/>
NINE
WELL, HELLO, LADIES,” BET SAYS. SHE’S ironing a dress shirt—what looks to be the final of a dozen or so, judging by the line of crisp shirts hanging next to her. The room smells warm and clean, like fabric softener and sunshine. “Isn’t this a lovely surprise? I don’t normally see you this close to Places.”
“We came down to get away from Amanda,” Maya says matter-of-factly. Less than two weeks left in the show and suddenly she’s found her voice in a very big way.
“I see. Well, you’re more than welcome to take refuge here. Mind the floor for pins, though,” Bet says. “We had a spill earlier.”
“That Chris is a dear, but he’s incredibly clumsy,” a very familiar voice says. Out from behind a cabinet pops my mother, carrying a pile of a dozen pins (like humans carry chopped wood). The pins are about half as tall as she is, but not too heavy. Nothing’s too heavy for my mother.
“He was in here earlier, telling a story, and he’s just so animated. He knocked over a brand-new box,” Mom says, dropping the pins in the container Bet left on the floor for her.
Mom turns to my friends. “You must be Jayne.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jayne says.
“Lucy Louise, your manners to match,” my mother says.
This is one of my mother’s signature sayings: “Your manners to match.” If your parents happen to read this book, don’t be surprised if they start saying it, too. While it pains me to admit, it’s catchy.
“Mom, this is Jayne. Jayne, this is my mom.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jayne says, with a tiny curtsy.
“Likewise,” my mom replies, clearly impressed by the poise of this tiny human. “Maya, Milly, I hope my daughter is behaving herself.”
“Mom!” I say, being wary not to wander into a whine. In case you couldn’t guess, my mother’s not big on whining.
“She’s a delight,” Milly says. “A welcome and integral member of our company.”
“She’s the only reason I survived ten months with Amanda,” Maya says.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about that,” Mom says, her expression shifting a bit. “I’m glad my daughter could be of assistance.”
“She’s a great friend,” Jayne says, with all the sincerity in the world.
My mother looks at me and smiles. “Well, isn’t that a kind thing to say, Jayne. It makes me proud to know I’ve raised a good friend.”
“Five Minutes, this is your Five-Minute call. Five Minutes, please.” Today’s show is being called by Ricardo. (Pete’s daughter has a concert at school that he couldn’t miss.) Ricardo’s voice sounds like Cool Ranch salad dressing.
“Before you girls head off, I’ve got something to show you,” Bet says, leading us over to the far corner of the wardrobe room and revealing a rolling rack of sparkling new tiny costumes.
“Are those…?” Jayne can barely get the words out.
“Your costumes? Yes, they are,” Bet says.
They’re beautiful. They’re breathtaking. I’m envious. Let’s continue.
I look to Maya. She’s trying to be kind and not ruin Jayne’s moment, but I can see she’s struggling. She’s… jealous, I guess? Technically, something’s being taken away from her, so, yes. I think it’s jealousy and not envy. I’ll check with H.H.
Maya never had her own costumes—aside from undergarments and shoes, of course—because she and Amanda were exactly the same size when rehearsals started. She barely got to perform and she had to share costumes with a gal whose first word was most likely “Mine!” It was a Broadway debut, sure, but I’m certain it wasn’t the one she dreamed of all her life. It was a half debut at best. I hope next time, whether it’s in two years or twenty, Maya returns to Broadway in a role of her own. She deserves it.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Maya says. She’s such a good sport. “The sparkly blue has always been my favorite. What do you think, Jayne?”
Jayne walks over to the rack, like she’s admiring a piece of art at a museum. But she doesn’t touch it. (From what I hear, touching anything at museums is a big no-no.)
“May I?” she asks.
“Of course,” Bet says. “They’re yours.”
Jayne runs her hand across the row, delicately skimming each costume. “In community theatre, we always had old costumes,” she says. “Stinky and old.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this about other theatres. They use old costumes that have already been worn on Broadway and on national tours. Inevitably stinky and worn out, I’m sure, but better than nothing.
“Here on Broadway, we start from scratch,” my mother says. “Isn’t that right, Lucy Louise?”
“Yep,” I say. “Only the best here on Broadway.”
I glance at my mom and she has the same look in her eyes as our director did when she read our show’s rave review in the New York Times—a mix of pride, love, and hope.
“You’re the best thing I ever made,” my mother once told me. Then she followed it with, “Don’t tell your brothers.”
And I know she knows what I’m thinking. Isn’t it amazing that parents always know what we’re thinking? It’s like the moment we were born their love for us gave them magical powers.
I’m thinking how much I want a sparkly blue dress in my size. A sparkly blue, and a puffy pink, and a vanilla velvet. Patent leather tap shoes and soft, satin slippers. I want it all.
I know, I know, “I want, I want.” It’s so unattractive. But I’m not a gal who asks for much. I don’t want new cushioning for my nest; I love sleeping on the foam padding that once protected H.H.’s holiday candle in its schmancy box. I don’t want to be taller; I don’t want more friends. I don’t even want to be human. I really like who and what I am.
I have one desire, one wish, one thing I truly, truly want—the dresses are just a part of that thing. I want to be on Broadway.
Is that so much to ask?
You know what? It is a lot to ask. There are thousands of people in New York City alone who dream of being on Broadway, and who work hard every day to try to make it happen. And even if they work as hard as they possibly can, they may not “make it.” I’m not great with math, but I’d guess that the odds of a human making it to Broadway are way worse than the odds of a human being pooped on by a New York City pigeon.
The thing that frustrates me is that I don’t even have a chance at trying out. What do they say in baseball? You can’t hit a home run if you never get off the bench? (Shout-out to my dad and his crew guy friends Dan and Artie who stand by their New York Mets, even though they don’t win very often.)
I’m not even on the bench. I’m under it.
CHAPTER
TEN
AND THEN YOU SHAKE YOUR SHOULDERS LIKE this,” Maya says, shimmying her shoulders like she’s wearing bells and wants them to ring in rhythm. She and I are teaching Jayne our overture dance.
“This is fun!” Jayne says, following along as if she’s done the dance all her life.
“Isn’t she just the cutest,” I hear Harper, one of the chorus girls, say to Agnes, another chorus girl. “She’s pint-sized.”
“Pint-sized and talented,” Agnes says. “You should have seen her in understudy rehearsal. Un. Real.”
Amanda groans loudly and stomps across the stage, passing us. “Milly. I need you.”
“Come dance with us first!” Milly calls.
“Now.”
Milly looks to us and shrugs, following Amanda offstage left. Luckily, I have spectacular hearing—it’s a mouse thing—so I don’t even have to leave my dance spot to hear their conversation.
“I don’t want her here,” Amanda says.
“Who?” Milly asks.
“Her. Jayne.”
“I understand that, Amanda,” Milly says, “but you really don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“They’re always leaving me out!” Amanda blurts.
“Is that what this is about?” Milly asks, softening. “You feel left o
ut?”
“What? No. I never said that,” Amanda says. Um… what? She literally just said that. “Everyone’s obsessed with her. It’s ridiculous. I’m the star.”
“Yes, you are. And it wouldn’t hurt you to start behaving like one.”
Amanda glares at Milly. If her eyes were laser beams, Milly would be fried.
“And you are a wannabe actress who has to take care of kids because she doesn’t have what it takes to be on Broadway.”
Milly looks at Amanda with such hurt, it’s possible her heart is actually aching. Then she scrunches her mouth up, sighs, and says, “That was an incredibly hurtful thing to say, Amanda. After bows, I expect an apology. For now, let’s focus on our show.”
“My show,” Amanda says. “Not yours, not Maya’s, not Jayne’s, and certainly not Lulu’s. Mine.”
Amanda takes her place behind the upstage door, preparing for her entrance, smiling at the other actors as though she hasn’t just spewed nastiness all over offstage left. (Not as much nastiness as the time she puked in a bucket offstage right, I’d like to remind her.)
The overture is about to finish up, and everyone “mouse hops” into the wings.
“Are you okay?” Maya asks. “What did Amanda say?”
“Nothing worth repeating,” Milly says. “Let’s just do our jobs, girls. That’s what’s important right now.”
But there’s no fooling us. Milly’s light is out again, dimmer than I’ve ever seen it. Amanda managed to hit her where it hurt most. She hit her in her dream. I forget, sometimes. Milly dreams of being on Broadway, too. She didn’t go to a fancy musical theatre conservatory because she wanted to take care of a bunch of kids. The job fell into her lap, she took it, and she’s great at it. “I’d rather work in the theatre, one way or another,” she told me once.
It’s no wonder we get along so well. We’re two peas in a wanna-be-on-Broadway pod.
“Are you sure, Milly?” Jayne asks.
“Yes. I’m sure,” Milly says, literally shaking it off, with a sigh and a smile. “Now. Take a look at where Amanda is. That’s your opening spot. Got it?”
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