I arrive upstairs just as the understudies begin to assemble onstage. As I said, Wednesdays are long days, so it usually takes everyone a few minutes to pep up on understudy Thursdays.
I take my usual front row seat in the house—the house is what we call where the audience sits, by the way. I know it’s confusing because the whole theatre is actually my house, but the house is what we call the audience seating area, so… that’s what it’s called, so… “Sorry ’bout it,” as Chris would say.
I see Maya and Milly huddled onstage left. Then Pete walks out, followed by Susie and Ricardo, and they stand center stage. This is it. This must be the moment. The moment they introduce the new girl. Jayne. The girl I will do my best to be kind to, to be open-minded about, the girl I will try my hardest not to be envious of.
Where the heck is she, though? Being late on the first day isn’t exactly a smart move.
“Let’s settle, people, settle.” Pete says this all the time. In case you couldn’t tell, theatre people tend to be a chatty bunch. “As you all know, our dear Maya is leaving us in less than two weeks.”
A few of the cast members look to one another and make frowny faces. I’m telling you: everyone loves Maya.
“We will, of course, miss her terribly. But the show must go on, and her replacement must be trained and ready.”
“Like Amanda will ever take a show off,” I hear Chris say as he saunters across the stage carrying freshly laundered costumes. “She’s like an extra-strength energizer bunny.” A few people laugh, and Pete shoots them a reprimanding look.
“I’m happy to introduce Miss Jayne Griffin. Let’s everyone give her a round of applause.” We all applaud, and out from behind Milly and Maya steps a tiny girl. Tiny. Teeny tiny. Think of the smallest girl you know and make her smaller. She’s the human version of a mouse. She’s the human version of me.
“Come on over, Jayne. Meet your fellow understudies,” Pete says. He looks to Susie, who goes over and takes Jayne by the hand, walking her to center stage (aka the best place in the whole world).
The group applauds and cheers, and Jayne is smiling but also looks like she’s going to burst into tears/puke.
“Anything you’d like to say, Jayne?” Pete asks.
“I…” She’s shaking. “I…”
Oh no. I’ve seen this look before. Five times, exactly, during my life in the theatre. It’s a look you can’t forget because it’s impossible not to feel for the person wearing it.
Stage fright. I can see it’s not our castmates who are the cause. She’s nervous to meet them, I’m sure, but it’s standing center stage that’s getting to her. I don’t get nervous—it being my house and all—but I can imagine that looking out into the house, with all its lights on, seeing all the empty seats, imagining all the audience members, all eyes on you.…
Okay, to be honest, thinking about all that makes me feel the opposite of nervous. The idea of it is super exciting for me, but Jayne’s entitled to her own feelings, so back to her.
She’s still solid as a statue.
“I…,” she manages.
This gal needs my help. If she doesn’t snap out of it soon, I can imagine Pete reporting back to the director that she wound up “not cutting it,” and then they’d replace her, and the only thing worse than never getting the opportunity to audition for a Broadway show has got to be getting the job and having it taken away on your first day.
I start to tap dance in an effort to get her attention. Shuffle, ball change. Flap, flap. It’s part of the finale dance combo.
She spots me. Our eyes meet. Shuffle, ball change, stomp, stomp.
And she doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t jump. Doesn’t yell, “Help! A tap-dancing mouse!” She’s one of us.
I smile, and she smiles. And her shaking stops. I take a deep breath, and she follows with a deep breath. (Sometimes, in between shows on Wednesdays, I do yoga with the dancers up in the balcony, so I know how helpful a simple, deep breath can be.)
I give her my best you’ve got this, girl nod and wink. She stands tall, turns to the group, and says, “I’m just so grateful to be here.”
With this simple display of sincerity, everyone applauds some more.
“Sweet little thing,” Chris says.
Milly and Maya smile with relief.
Pete and Susie laugh in a kind, parental way.
And I know. I know in that moment: Jayne and I are going to be great friends. The kind of friends who can tell each other anything. The kind of friends who can be themselves when they’re together—cry, laugh, say it all without saying a word. The kind of friends who can help each other get through anything, even stage fright.
Then Pete hollers to get everyone’s attention. (He never whistles. You never whistle in the theatre. It’s a leftover superstition from back in the day when crew members used to whistle at one another as a cue to lower curtains and such. Now things are run by computers and cues over the sound system, but to honor tradition and be extra careful that no one gets hit on the head with an accidental curtain or flying set piece, we never whistle.)
The company settles into place to go over the opening number, and Jayne’s first understudy rehearsal begins.
CHAPTER
SIX
JAYNE AND I ARE IN THE HOUSE, SITTING FRONT row center, during our first ten-minute break of understudy rehearsal. Maya and Milly have run off to the bathroom, so it’s just me and Jayne. Me and my new friend, Jayne. Me and the gal I was afraid would be awful but is actually a delight; so, yes, my mother and Bet were right, per usual.
“So,” Jayne says, “you can talk.”
“You can talk, too, but you don’t see me making a big deal about it,” I say with a smile.
Somewhere in the basement my mother is saying, “Take the sass down a few notches, Lucy Louise.”
“It’s just… I didn’t know that mice talking was a thing,” Jayne says, almost apologetically.
“Most people don’t know,” I say.
“Is it some sort of theatre magic?” Jayne asks.
“No, we can talk everywhere,” I say. “But so far, only theatre people listen.”
“That’s because they’re the best people,” Jayne says, staring up at the stage where a few cast members are lounging around in various dance stretches, laughing and smiling and being generally fantastic.
“I can’t argue with you there,” I say.
Then Jayne looks at the ceiling, her little body twisting so she can glance up and around toward the mezzanine and balcony, the awe and wonderment of it all making her face glisten like it’s been sprinkled with fairy dust. When this show moved into the theatre, there were fourteen Broadway debuts in the cast. Watching them wander around, jaws practically on the ground, H.H. had said to me, “No matter how many dance lessons or drama classes a person takes, no matter how many auditions they go on or how many nights they lie awake thinking about it—nothing prepares them for the splendor that is their first day in a Broadway theatre, knowing it’s no longer their dream, it’s their reality.” The quotable quotes that come out of that woman. I mean, really. She should write a book.
“I’ve dreamed of this, you know?” Jayne says, her big eyes tracing an arc around our gold-trimmed proscenium.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. Little does she know how much I know. I briefly consider telling her that I, too, dream of the theatre, but this isn’t about me; this is Jayne’s moment. So, I don’t say anything about how hard it is to live here and not be able to perform up on that stage. But it just felt darn good saying it to you! Anyway, back to Jayne.
“I’ve been going to dance class in the city for the last year or so. We live in the suburbs. Westchester County? Have you heard of it?” Apparently meeting a talking, tap-dancing mouse can make a gal particularly chatty. “Anyway, after tap class my dad takes me to the burger place by Saks for a tuna sandwich, onion rings, and a black-and-white shake, and then we walk the streets of the theatre district. It’s my favorite day of th
e week.”
“That sounds incredible,” I say. I’ve heard of that burger place by Saks. Believe you me, we mice know where the good food is. And walking the streets of the theatre district with your dad? Um, sign me up. The farthest my dad and I have gotten is the corner of Forty-Fourth and Ninth and even that was thrilling. (By the way, great pizza on Forty-Fourth and Ninth. I bet it’s even better pre–garbage can.)
“And now,” Jayne says, “I’m here. I’m on Broadway and in my favorite theatre.”
“Your favorite, huh?” I say with a smile. I knew I liked this girl.
“How could it not be? It’s on its own corner, it has its own alley. A Chorus Line opened here! And those little windows up on the top floor? Are those apartments up there? I’d love to live there. Do people live there? How great would that be?”
“No, people don’t live there, no.” Note to self: visit Grandma.
After our ten-minute break and our first big convo as soon-to-be best buds, understudy rehearsal resumes and Jayne’s first big number is up.
“Let’s just have you sing it with Michael by the piano,” Pete says. “Just like you did it at your final callback. Easy breezy.” Pete’s a pro. He knows that if stage fright can pop up once, it’s likely to come back. He doesn’t want to pressure her.
“Okay,” Jayne says, making her way to the piano.
Michael, our musical director and conductor, plays the first few notes, and Jayne takes a breath and begins to sing.
I’m not exaggerating—I know I exaggerate a lot, but I’m not exaggerating this time. Hearing Jayne sing brings me back to the first time I heard Stella sing. It gives me the chills. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as straight as a von Trapp kid post-whistle—well, the hair all over me, actually; I’m covered in it. It’s a moment I’ll never forget for as long as I live.
I’ll admit it, Amanda has a great voice. She does. It’s a fact. It’s powerful and it’s reliable; even if she didn’t have a microphone, the people in the last row could hear her. Maya’s voice is a bit more beautiful than Amanda’s, albeit slightly less powerful. But she’s a much better actress than Amanda—in my humble opinion.
But Jayne? Well, her talent surpasses theirs by a mile. When she sings, she makes us feel it. She makes us understand what she’s singing about. It’s not just vocal skill and it’s not just acting skill; it’s the perfect combination of both, topped off with a little extra something. It’s…
You know those people who just have “it”? I’m not just talking about show business—although, it’s clearly my main interest, I’ll give you that.
You know the type: the kid who scores a dozen goals in a soccer game without breaking a sweat; the mom who throws together a five-cheese mac ’n’ cheese from scratch on a Wednesday without even glimpsing at a recipe; your friend who can solve super complicated math problems in her head in under six seconds? They do what they do and they make it look easy. They make you wish that you could do it, too. To quote Ms. Lady Gaga (who needs to get to Broadway ASAP, btdubs), “They were born this way.”
Well, my new friend Jayne? She’s one of those people. She’s got it.
When the song finishes, no one says anything for a solid thirty seconds. They just stand there. Some have their mouths open, some have tears in their eyes, everyone looks some version of shocked. That that much soul and heart could come out of a tiny girl like Jayne is… magic.
Maya is the first to speak. To quote my mother, “Maya’s a good egg.”
“Well, Jayne,” Maya says, taking hold of her hand, “it’s nice to know I’m leaving things in your very capable hands.”
With that, everyone starts to clap, and relief floods Jayne’s face.
“Thanks,” she says simply. “It sure is a fun song.”
“Even more fun with the dance,” Maya adds.
“Let’s get Jayne going with that, okay, Susie?” Pete directs.
“Absolutely,” Susie says, striding toward center stage. Susie, like H.H., has legs for days. “Everyone! Let’s take it from the top of the number. We’ll run it once with Maya and then start teaching it to Jayne.”
Sometimes, during understudy rehearsal, I’ll help Pete call out a line if someone forgets theirs. Or I’ll hop up onto the piano and turn pages while Michael plays. Sometimes I’ll rehearse all of the Amanda role in the wings while Maya rehearses, because unlike Amanda, Maya doesn’t mind.
But today, I just watch.
I watch my new friend “nail it,” as Chris would say. Watch her rehearse to live her dream.
I watch my theatre family fall into splits and do double pirouettes, hit high notes with ease. Watch them work hard at the best job in the whole wide world.
And in that moment, in the cool stillness of the empty house, I wish on one of the painted stars on our sparkling ceiling, harder than I’ve ever wished for anything in my whole entire life.
Please let that be me one day. Please let me find a way. Please let me be the first mouse to perform on Broadway.
My moment.
My magic.
My miracle.
Let me be the first. But far from the last.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
SO,” HEATHER HUFFMAN SAYS, PLACING ME ON the newly fluffed plush towel on her dressing room counter, “how’s the new girl? How was today’s understudy rehearsal? Tell me everything.” I’ve just arrived to help with her usual preshow routine. Eyelashes, eyeliner, reassuring her that her mirror actually is lying to her. “I hear she’s quite the little talent.”
“She’s fantastic,” I say. “And so nice.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” H.H. says. “See? You were worried for nothing.”
“It’s like you always say, ‘Worrying is natural and normal but serves no purpose,’” I quote.
“Precisely,” H.H. says proudly. “Happy to know some of my sage wisdom is being absorbed, Tiny. Might as well learn from my mistakes, hmmm?”
I nod and hand her a Q-tip.
“You know, I made my Broadway debut as an understudy,” Jodie Howard says. “And a replacement, God help me.” Jodie is perched on the stool next to Heather Huffman, aggressively tweezing her eyebrows. “No opening night, and I barely got to perform. I’ve never been an understudy again. That’s something you should only do once, if you can help it.”
“Why?” I ask. Needless to say, I’d be an understudy in a minute. I’d be a rock if it meant performing on Broadway.
“Do it more than once, and that’s how people see you. You’ll be an understudy forever,” Jodie says. “And it’s emotionally draining, not knowing when you’ll go on, if you’ll go on. And once you go on.… Well, it’s tough going back to the way things were before.”
“I understudied a very famous actress,” H.H. begins.
“You mean?” And Jodie pulls back her face to make herself look like Cruella de Vil, the cartoon version.
“Yes. Her. Only she didn’t look like that back then. I was better in the role than she was and everyone knew it, but it didn’t matter because she was famous,” H.H. says, lining her lips. “Awful. Never again.”
“I’d be an understudy in a minute,” I say. “I’d be a rock if it meant being on Broadway.” I said it to you, so I may as well say it to them, right?
H.H. and Jodie look at each other and then at me. It’s the kind of look my mother gives me when she tucks me in at night. When she asks me what I’ll dream about, and I always say, “Being on Broadway, Mom.” It’s a sadness, mixed with a desire to fix things, mixed with a whole lot of love.
“I know, Tiny,” H.H. says.
“We shouldn’t complain,” Jodie adds. “That was highly inconsiderate of us.”
“It’s okay,” I say, meaning it. “I like hearing your stories.”
“Still,” H.H. says. “Stories are one thing; complaints are another.”
“Yes, yes, enough kvetching, as my ex-mother-in-law would say,” Jodie barks.
“Kvetching?�
� I ask. Jodie’s always coming up with words I’ve never heard of.
“It’s Yiddish for complaining,” Jodie says.
“Like Fiddler?” I ask.
And H.H. looks at me with such love, my heart could burst. “Yes, Tiny. Like Fiddler. Our little musical theatre expert never misses a beat.”
“A theatre encyclopedia. You’d win big on Broadway Jeopardy!, and you’d share your money with us,” Jodie says with a wink.
“Do you think it could ever happen?” I ask, doing my best not to tear up.
“What, darling?” Jodie asks. “Jeopardy!?”
“No. Me. On Broadway,” I say. A mouse, on Broadway. A nonhuman, on Broadway.
“Well,” H.H. says, scooping me up and holding me in her palms. “I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime. I, of course, won’t tell you the exact, or approximate, length of that lifetime—”
“Neither will I, of course,” Jodie adds.
“But. I’ve seen a lot. And a lot I never imagined. Good and bad. Medicines to help terrible diseases, changes to laws, a president or two I never expected to see. Multiple revivals of The Glass Menagerie.” She rolls her eyes at that one.
“So, my dear Tiny, I certainly hope it happens. Because everyone—no matter the size or species—deserves to live their dream.”
“I concur vehemently.” Jodie nods in agreement.
“And in the meantime,” H.H. says, placing me in front of her mirror. “You make believe.”
She turns off the overhead dressing room lights and turns on the mirror’s lights instead.
“Feel that? That bright, blinding intensity? That feeling of being alone, but knowing there’s so much out in front of you?”
“Yes,” I say. I do. And it’s magical.
“That’s what stepping out onstage feels like,” H.H. says.
I close my eyes and feel the lights bleeding through my eyelids. So strong and so bright, yet so comforting.
“Pretty fantastic, right?” Jodie says knowingly. “It never gets old.”
“It feels like home,” I say.
I keep my eyes closed, imagining the sound of the orchestra, the audience, the applause.
Lulu the Broadway Mouse Page 5
