They stopped in front of Chris’s wig room.
“I hope you like your straight red hair that you’ll be wearing in the show,” April said.
Monica touched her thick curly brown hair, which was a bit frizzy from the humidity post-rainstorm.
“Okay, fine, maybe not red. I guess it’s more of a dark auburn. I know most actors don’t like wearing wigs—they’re hot and itchy—but not me. The minute I put mine on, it’s like goodbye, April; hello, insert-whatever-character-I’m-playing. Which camp are you in, yes wig or no wig?”
“I’ve never worn a wig in a production before,” Monica admitted.
April’s eyes got wide.
“Oh you are going to love it! I just know you’re a wig girl.”
They turned in to a small room, where a man was trimming a short-haired wig with precision. Two large mirrors over two dressing tables were cracked in several places and held together with duct tape. The room had an odd smell, like burned plastic.
“Is that Hudson’s?” April asked Chris.
Chris had a comb clenched between his teeth as he focused on getting the bangs just right. He looked at April and winked, implying it was her wig.
“Mine!” she said. “I knew Artie would give Froggie short hair—I just knew it! Froggie should have short hair. I mean can you imagine someone like Froggie being worried about brushing out her long, gorgeous locks? She’d be too busy thinking about important things to think about.”
Next to April’s wig stand Monica spotted a beautiful, long, straight-haired auburn wig. She grinned, imagining herself in full character.
“Monica is the new Tony,” April explained to Chris, who still didn’t look up from his trimming. “She’s replacing Tabitha.”
Chris slowly turned with the comb still between his teeth and studied Monica. Gently he put down his scissors and removed the comb from his teeth.
“Oh no, that won’t do,” he said, calmly shaking his head. “No, that won’t do at all,” he repeated, touching the auburn wig with admiration.
The girls looked at each other.
“Yes,” April replied. “Monica is the understudy to the understudy of Tabitha. Or was. Now she’s the lead.”
“We’ll go without a wig for you. Your hair already is giving me a 1980s feel. I just need to tease it out a bit more in the front to create the ‘claw.’ That was the style of bangs in the ’80s. Grrrrowwwl!”
“Monica wouldn’t mind trying it on, I’m sure,” April said.
“Does Monica speak for herself?” Chris said, then put the comb back in his mouth and went back to precision cutting.
Monica stayed silent.
Hudson and Relly strolled in the room, filling up the tiny space completely. “Can we try on our wigs too?” Relly said.
“Whoa, check it out!” Hudson’s wig was a full, frizzy head of brown locks.
“Is that mine?” Relly pointed to a straight, dark wig with a little bit of a swoop to the side. He slapped his knee, laughing. “I like that it feels Pax, but updated,” he said.
“I thought you’d like it.” Chris nodded with a sense of pride.
Monica tried to figure out why she was immediately upset about not getting a wig like the other kids. It was no big deal—it was just a silly wig.
On their way to their dressing room, April picked up a roll of duct tape and turned to Monica. “And anyway,” April continued, “how does a glamorous Broadway theater go from having over a dozen Tony-winning productions to this?” They dodged a large piece of plaster crumbling off the wall.
“I was wondering that too,” Monica admitted.
“We all have been. Me, Hudson, and Relly. Tabitha too.”
Monica prickled at the sound of Tabitha’s name.
They walked past a room where set designers were busy creating the pyrotechnic pirate ship.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it? Like Christmas!” April held her chest.
Several doors down was Hugh Lavender’s dressing room. It had been emptied out. They both shivered.
“He’s not coming back. I heard him telling Artie yesterday,” April said.
Monica nodded firmly. She wasn’t sure why she nodded. She did it in a way that said she agreed with his decision to leave. She didn’t. His nose would have healed before opening night. He was being a baby about it was what she really thought.
“Bet this place gave him the creeps,” Monica said, backing up her nod anyway.
“Yep. I don’t blame him. Every single day since we started rehearsing, something bad, like unlucky bad, has happened.” April stretched her shawl so that it wrapped around Monica. “It’s got to be ten degrees colder in here than it is outside.”
“Like what bad things?” Monica shivered.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
Monica did want to know.
April went on to explain that stagehands didn’t seem to even notice. Artie was oblivious. He’d get really upset for a few minutes when something weird happened, then keep going. Chris went on shaping wigs. Jimmy opened the stage door and did his magic tricks.
“You know in all those TV shows where all this bad stuff is happening to the kids and you scream at the TV, ‘Where are the parents?’ It’s like that,” April said.
They had arrived at their dressing room. April pulled out a piece of paper.
“I carry around this list.” April gave the list to Monica.
Monica read the title: Broadway Traditions.
“Broadway actors are a superstitious bunch.” April said.
Some traditions looked familiar to Monica. Of the dozen items, most had check marks next to them.
April leaned in and read aloud. “ ‘Don’t wear blue onstage. No peacock feathers or mirrors onstage either. Never say good luck, always break a leg. And—’ ”
“I still don’t get that one,” Monica interrupted.
“The leg isn’t a body leg,” April explained. “The leg is the curtain that hides the backstage. When an actor crosses the backstage to the front of the stage, where the spotlight is, they’ve broken past the leg to where they can be seen. All actors want to break past the leg and be in the spotlight.”
“Right,” Monica said.
April continued reading the list: “ ‘It’s good luck to give the director flowers stolen from a graveyard.’ ” She stopped. “We’re not going to do that. We decided that wasn’t really cool.” April paused. “And also scary.”
Two important must-dos on the list were lighting the ghost light at night, and performing the Legacy Robe ceremony on opening night, then afterward blessing the theater.
Monica remembered seeing ghost lights set up at her community theaters back home, but she hadn’t thought of it as being a tradition.
“Theaters place a stand with a single lightbulb at the edge of the stage and light it every night after each performance. It must stay lit the entire night to ward off bad luck until performers return the next day,” April said.
“Do you believe in that?” Monica asked.
“Of course! Don’t you?”
Monica nodded.
“And then there’s the Legacy Robe ceremony. It’s one tradition all Broadway productions participate in with every new show. Everyone involved in the performance, actors and crew, stands in a circle the day of opening night, and one of the actors has the honor of wearing a robe with the name of the production stitched on it. I really really want to be the recipient of the robe for this show.” April gave herself a big hug.
The stage manager ran up to them in a panic.
“Artie wants all of you onstage right away!”
The girls gave each other a look of concern. What was going on now?
* * *
“Well that didn’t take the papers long.” Artie stormed onstage, waving his phone around. Broadway Times had a large photograph of Hugh Lavender and his broken nose at the top of the landing page. The headline read: TELEVISION STAR INJURED AT THE ETHEL MERMAN AS MORE ACTO
RS LEAVE ABRUPTLY. The article continued: “ ‘Is Hoffman’s production losing steam before it even opens?’ ” Artie muttered as he read the words out loud. “ ‘Is this little cursed theater too much for Hoffman?’ Too much for Hoffman? I’ll show them too much. Kids. Now!” He pointed to the floor. Relly and Hudson were already sitting right there. Monica and April scrambled to sit down next to them. Artie smoothed back his wild hair.
“Okay, you’re all here. Good.” He looked perplexed and pleased at the same time. “After a call from some of your parents yesterday”—Artie turned a hard stare on April, mumbled “and the union,” and then went on—“I’m making some changes around here.”
The four kids looked at each other nervously.
“Kids, meet Amanda St. Clair.” He pointed to the curtain. A rustling of what sounded like a flock of birds occurred backstage, then nothing. Then, all of a sudden, out from behind the curtain came a woman whirling in a green-and-white polka-dot dress, holding a hot dog in one hand. She flounced over to the center of the stage and gave a big wave to the kids with her free hand, an enormous grin on her face.
Amanda St. Clair was a child tutor employed by Child Star Educational Services. Most long-running productions hired tutors to keep the child actors up on their studies, but Artie had never thought to do it for this one until the call came from April’s mother complaining about the lack of supervision she’d heard about from April. Tabitha’s understudy’s tragedy was the final straw.
“After what happened, my mom called Artie,” April said. “I could hear her yelling, ‘Rehearsals only started a few weeks ago, and already you have one child running out of the theater screaming late at night, another child who almost breaks her neck a few days later, and then Hugh Lavender? Anything else happens and I’m pulling April from the production!’ And my mom said Artie got real quiet. She could tell he was stressed! Then she asked who was watching us. And I guess that’s why Amanda is here.”
Monica just nodded.
* * *
“I got so turned around back there,” Amanda said, collecting herself, her voice that of a songbird. “I walked into the broom closet thinking it was the entrance to the backstage,” she said with a sensational laugh.
Artie shook his head. “Amanda, may I introduce you to…” He paused to consider how best to address the group sitting on the floor in front of him. “The squad,” he concluded. “They’re all yours.”
With that he stormed off the same way he’d entered, grumbling something more about bad press.
“Hellooooo, squad!” Amanda’s voice was playful. She initially gave off the impression of being scatterbrained. “I know there’s a lot of work to be done for the show.” She followed that with a great exhale. “I’ll lay it out for you, if Artie hasn’t already. Has he already?”
He had not.
“Well, then.” She paced the stage. “School lessons will begin every morning at eight thirty. Rehearsal starts at ten a.m. sharp and usually ends around six p.m.… maybe eight p.m. I heard you’re a little behind schedule. One break for lunch, one break for snack.”
“One snack break?” Hudson said in a quiet aside to Relly.
“One break.” Scatterbrained she was not. “Since all of you are in most of the scenes, you will mostly be rehearsing on the stage. Sometimes you’ll split up as you work through the scenes piece by piece. Monica, April, you both have solos; Relly and Hudson, a duet. So the stage manager will probably rotate you through two rooms—one for blocking scenes, one for the music director working on your solos and duets—and the stage will be for dance, since Artie has you using so many props and flying things and climbing ladders… and that waterfall scene! Goodness me! Fortunately you’re young. My knees are crying just thinking of all that bending. Final week will be tech rehearsal, then the show has several days of previews for critics. Phew. Got that?”
Amanda was a pro. The kids looked at her in awe.
“Don’t worry, you’ll learn how to balance rehearsals and schoolwork, too. I’ll teach you techniques. But first, on to the tour. I’d like to show you around.”
“Tour?” April bristled. “We’ve been working in this theater for a few weeks already. The last thing we need is a tour.”
“Well then, let’s call it a dissection. I must teach you about the bones of this glorious creature! At the end of the tour—dissection—I’ll show you a very special place. How does that sound?”
April looked resigned. It was happening anyway.
“ ‘Special place’?” Relly asked, a little confused.
“Yes! Oh, it’s just lovely,” Amanda said.
The lights in the theater started to flicker. The kid actors looked around. Amanda kept talking as if she hadn’t noticed.
Amanda led them away from the stage toward the box office.
“Welcome to what is called ‘the front of the house.’ ”
April looked visibly annoyed. She already knew what the front of the house was.
“Do any of you know about the history of this theater?” Amanda asked.
“I know it’s creepy,” said Hudson matter-of-factly.
“Okay!” she said, keeping it positive. “This theater is magical. Magical!”
“Amanda, I don’t mean to be obnoxious, but could this be a quick tour? We are really behind schedule, and Monica hasn’t even had a chance to learn the routines or work on vocals,” April said.
“And the show starts in less than a month!” Relly said.
Amanda agreed to speed things up. For the next thirty minutes, she entertained the kids with stories of Broadway old and new. Even April had to admit Amanda knew a lot.
The main staircase leading to the balcony seating was at the rear of the theater. At the top of the stairs, patrons were greeted by a life-sized gold statue of Ethel Merman herself in a frozen performance pose.
“Greetings, Ethel!” Amanda said. “Did you know Ethel Merman could sing a high C for sixteen bars without straining her voice?”
“Wooow,” said the kids.
On the pedestal of the statue was a plaque with the dates of Ethel’s birth and death and, in matching gold lettering:
Be yourself; it’s the one thing you can do better than anyone else.
—Ethel Merman
They all read the quote silently. Amanda nodded, saying nothing. A small smile appeared on her face. She looked at the kids for several seconds that seemed kind of awkward. Finally, she unwrapped the hot dog and took a bite.
“I’ve always wanted to take in the beauty of this place close up,” Amanda said between chews, leaning against Ethel as if they were best friends having a chat. Her youthfulness masked her actual age; she’d been tutoring for almost twenty years.
“You know,” she said, deepening her stare toward Ethel as if she were speaking directly to the golden actor, “this is the first time I’ve really experienced the Ethel Merman.”
The foursome looked at one another. “Kind of seems like you took your first steps in this theater,” Hudson said.
“Oh, well thank you! I like to think I know a lot about these old Broadway theaters.” His comment made Amanda glow with happiness.
“How do you know so much?” April was genuinely curious.
“Well now, I’ve taken tours—of more than a few of these theaters, I assure you—and I’ve lived a long time. Ha! Time will give you knowledge in strange ways.” She looked at the kids, who stared back blankly. “Let’s see… I go to the Performing Arts Library a lot and get magnificently lost… and I tutor. Your squad, as you call yourselves, is the first I’ve tutored here. Come to think of it, not many child actors at the Ethel Merman. Not many at all.”
Amanda took another large bite of the hot dog. “I’m so sorry. I know this is rude. I haven’t eaten anything all day.” It was still early morning. She thought for a moment. “Time blurs when you’re on Broadway. Long rehearsals and lack of sunlight will do that to you. You’ll see.” She winked as if letting them in on a big se
cret. The kids couldn’t help but notice a large glob of ketchup caught in the corner of Amanda’s mouth. They already liked her very much.
After a whirlwind trip around the main auditorium, she brought them backstage to show them how certain rooms in a theater functioned. April was again visibly annoyed. “We know where the wig room is.…We know what backstage looks like.… Yes, the sound room.” She yawned. Relly had his notebook out. He’d only been in one production on Broadway, and only because his dance teacher had gotten a small part in a musical, and he got an even smaller part as her son. Hudson peppered her with other types of questions: “Does this place give you the creeps? How often do actors actually break a leg, in your opinion?” Monica felt too new to do anything but observe. What she observed was that Broadway attracted big personalities.
“This is a dressing room.…”
“I know where my dressing room is,” April said in a monotone voice.
Amanda continued to lead them around all three floors of the building, through the theater’s narrow hallways. Back on the first floor, she took a turn that at first didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Then she opened a door. April perked up. She’d never been in that section of the theater before. “What is this?” she asked. The door led to a corridor of small rooms. The mood shifted entirely. Now they were secret agents. Most of the rooms’ doors were closed. A few that were open had old props and wardrobes in them from past productions.
“This is the old part of the theater, when they used to have much larger productions.” She stood for a moment and thought. “I suppose they don’t have large productions here anymore. So no need to use the space.” She bit into her hot dog. Relly took down notes.
“Why not?” asked Hudson.
“Large productions are expensive and, well, the Ethel Merman doesn’t really draw those kinds of crowds anymore.”
“I guess the old part of the theater also doesn’t get heat,” April said, shivering under her shawl.
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