“Got it,” Jayne says.
“And after the first number, she’ll exit stage right, go downstairs to the hair room where Jeremiah will change her wig, then cross under the stage to get back up to the dressing room,” Maya says.
“Let’s go take a reverse-walk under there so you can see how long it takes,” Milly says, leading us toward the stage left stairwell.
And then I see something they don’t. I see Stella.
She’s spent the overture dance in the quick-change booth, not in her usual spot on the other side of the stage.
We lock eyes.
That “private” conversation between Amanda and Milly? Stella heard every word.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
GIRLS, WOULD YOU ALL JOIN ME IN MY DRESSING room for a moment?” Stella says.
Holy cannoli. It’s after the show, and I can’t believe what’s happening. We all survived tonight’s show, despite Amanda’s best efforts to pulverize us with evil-eye glares, and we’re all on our way downstairs to go home.
Amanda’s, Maya’s, and Jayne’s parents are outside waiting in Shubert Alley to take them home. It’s a union (and probably federal?) rule that any performer under the age of sixteen cannot be unchaperoned in the theatre. Hence, Milly. The girls’ parents hand them off to Milly before the show, and she hands them back afterward. Amanda’s mother had a tendency to “overstay her welcome” backstage when the show first opened, so Pete made an unofficial rule: no parents backstage unless previous permission is granted.
Rules, tools, schmools. What’s important in this very moment is: Stella is asking us to join her in her dressing room! To quote Annie, “Could someone pinch me, please?”
“Of course, Stella,” Amanda says, turning on her best fake smile. Her smile is so saccharine I’m surprised her teeth don’t fall out.
“Wonderful,” Stella says. We follow her in, and the room smells as delightfully fragrant as ever—heavy on the lilac today—and there’s her assistant Trish typing away on her phone, and Chris putting away the last of Stella’s costumes.
“Hey, y’all, it’s a par-tay,” Chris practically sings. “Who brought the champagne?”
“Oh, Christopher, you know we can’t drink alcohol,” Amanda says, sounding like some sort of crazy… well, to be honest, she sounds like her crazy mother.
“Christopher was just joking, boo,” Chris says to Amanda, grabbing a pair of shoes that clearly need the polishing expertise of my mom’s tiny feet. “Night, ladies.”
We all say our goodnights, Amanda’s being the loudest. (Ick.) I catch Chris rolling his eyes so hard it’s amazing they don’t roll right out of his head.
“I’ll go tell the fans you’ll be a few minutes,” Trish says, leaving the room. On a normal night, there are at least a hundred fans waiting in Shubert Alley for Stella, and she signs autographs for every single one. She feels it’s part of her job and she’s happy to do it. It’s her “duty” as a leading lady with her name above the title to respect the fans and show gratitude to them for being loyal to her. (Side note: having her name above the title on the marquee and on posters and such means that if Stella isn’t at a performance, theatregoers can return their tickets. It’s a lot of pressure. On her, and on her understudy.)
Not every star greets the fans after a show, you know. For starters, some are just too tired post-show, and I guess that’s understandable. Being well rested vocally and physically so they’re able to perform is top priority. Then there are others who never sign autographs, and frankly, that just isn’t cool in my book. I won’t name names, but I happen to know of at least a dozen Broadway stars who often sneak out their theatre’s back exits because they “don’t want to deal with the fans.” How do I know this, you ask? Well, let’s just say I’ve got family in Broadway basements, ceilings, and walls, with big mouths and even bigger ears.
“Sit down, girls, sit down,” Stella says, pointing to her super comfy couch. (Not that I’ve ever sat on it; I’m just guessing, by the look of it.)
“Thanks,” Milly says, and we all sit. And it’s comfy. Super comfy. Wow. It’s like floating on a cloud. Not literally, figuratively. You know what I mean. Wow.
It reminds me of the time the Hooligans had the genius idea of using Jet-Puffed Marshmallows as living room chairs. Delightful until they got sticky, and our friends the Ants showed up. That family gets around, I’ll tell ya. They’d come to the opening of an envelope full of cake crumbs.
This is an actual scene I observed between the Hooligans, the Ants, and, eventually, my mother:
THE SETTING: Our family living room
THE DAY: Saturday
THE TIME: Ten minutes into Act Two, approximately 9:35 pm
The Hooligans—WALT, MATTY, TIMMY, and BENJI—each recline on a Jet-Puffed Marshmallow. They sigh, the comfort almost too good to be true.
In march dozens of members of the Ant family. The Hooligans jump up, bits of marshmallow sticking to their hairy bodies.
WALT Dudes. You can’t be here!
TAD THE ANT In case you haven’t heard, Walt, this is a free country, and my family and I can visit any darn theatre we like.
MATTY Come on, guys, our mom’s gonna go nuts!
At the mention of the word “nuts” a few of the Ants look around, expectantly.
TIMMY We’re not supposed to have parties!
TRAVIS THE ANT We heard about the marshmallows.
NICK THE ANT We came for the marshmallows.
KEVIN THE ANT Jet-Puffed? The legends are true!
Enter our mom.
MOM Would someone like to explain to me exactly what is going on here?
WALT Benji did it.
They all turn to BENJI, who doesn’t even bother to fight, hanging his head in defeat.…
End scene
Back to now in Stella’s dressing room, Jayne is still not quite sure this is real life. Her eyes are even wider and bigger than usual, and they’re flitting around the room taking this all in: the elegant bouquets of flowers, the photos of Stella with her famous friends, Stella’s state-of-the-art humidifier from Switzerland. I mean, I’m finding the experience super bananas and I’ve known Stella for ten months already. Jayne’s been here for a day. She’s losing it, and rightfully so.
“What’s up, Stella?” Amanda asks, like they’re best friends or something. Phony baloney.
“Well,” Stella says, easing into her oatmeal-colored linen dressing room chair, her mirror’s lights dancing across her perfect, pimple-less face, “I know you’re leaving us soon, Maya, and I just wanted to say what a pleasure it’s been working with you.”
“Thank you,” Maya says, fighting back her now signature tears. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, too.”
“You bring such a nice energy to the company, and you’re very talented. I’m sure you’ll go far.”
“I hope so,” Maya says.
“And you, Jayne, I know you just joined us today, so I thought I’d take a moment to introduce myself.”
Jayne looks to me for verification that this is actually happening, that she’s not in a dream, or an alternate universe where Broadway stars casually speak to little girls on the regular. I smile and nod. This is real. I can’t believe it, either, but it’s real.
“Oh, I… I…,” Jayne manages.
“I hear you’re quite the talent,” Stella says.
“Oh, I… I…”
“She is,” I say. “She nailed understudy rehearsal today.”
“She did,” Milly says. “She’ll be ready in no time.”
“You know, I started off as an understudy,” Stella says, sipping her hot water with lemon and wildflower honey (from bees she raises at her country home upstate).
“Really?” Jayne says. Finally, more than a stutter. Go, Jayne!
“Yes, when I was fourteen. In a show with Elaine Stritch.”
(Elaine Stritch is a show business legend. Get permission from a legal guardian, then Google her, immediately.
)
“Wow,” I say, as if I didn’t already know. When the show moved in, Timmy managed to find a Stella James biography, so we clocked some brother-sister bonding time while also learning everything there is to know about Stella James.
“It’s a tough job, as Maya well knows,” Stella says, “but I’m sure you’re up for the challenge, Jayne.”
“Who did you understudy?” Milly asks.
“Darcy Monroe,” Stella replies.
“Never heard of her,” Amanda snips.
“No, you probably haven’t,” Stella says. “You see, this was many years ago, and Darcy hasn’t done another Broadway show since.”
“Why not?” Jayne asks.
“Well, I’m not sure of the exact reason, but I do know she burned a lot of bridges during our show,” Stella says, settling into her story. “Really, whoever knows what’s going on inside someone’s head, but on the outside, Darcy was combative. She’d pick a fight with anyone and everyone. And the way she treated me? Well. It was unacceptable. It was hard on me, and it was hard for everyone else to watch, you know? I’m just glad I didn’t let it break my spirit.”
Amanda looks like she ate a big spoonful of spoiled yogurt right before she had to walk onstage at a beauty pageant. She’s smiling, but her mouth is all smooshed up, her nose is wrinkled, and her eyes are bulging.
“Everything all right, dear?” Stella asks.
“I’m fine,” Amanda says, realizing, I suppose, that what she’s feeling on the inside has indeed revealed itself on the outside. She softens her face a bit and says, “I bet Darcy has worked. You just don’t know about it.”
Man, she’s bold. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was picking a fight. Don’t pick a fight with Tony Award winner Stella James, girl. You won’t win.
“I suppose that’s true, Amanda,” Stella says. “And I also suppose it’s true that the way Darcy treated all of us—especially me—wasn’t really about us. It was about her. For all I know, she was struggling with some issues of her own and she just took it out on the rest of us. Probably would have been wise for her to simply be honest, but honesty isn’t always easy.”
Amanda’s face starts to curl up again, but she quickly snaps it back to basic. Then she says, “Maybe you just saw her the way you wanted to see her because you were her understudy and you were jealous.”
Wow. Wow. Wow.
“Amanda…,” Milly warns. “Girls. Maybe it’s time we let Stella head home.”
“Probably best we all get home and get a good night’s sleep,” Stella says. “See you tomorrow.”
We all say a handful of exaggerated goodnights in an effort to blow past the awkwardness and go to leave.
“Oh,” Stella says, giggling a bit. “I just remembered something Elaine said to Darcy, all those years ago—when she could no longer stay silent and let Darcy get away with her appalling behavior.”
And I swear to you on all that is true and dear to me—my family, this theatre, the von Trapp kids, real and fictional—Stella looks directly at Amanda and says, “It gets tiring being a smart a—”
I obviously can’t finish the word. But[t] you get the gist.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
OVER THE NEXT WEEK, THE ENERGY BACKSTAGE is… cloudy. Fishy. In need of an air purifier—an expensive one. Amanda was thrown into a tizzy by what Stella said to her, even though we all did our best to convince her that it was just a funny Elaine Stritch story and nothing more. We’re still trying to convince her—though we know exactly what Stella meant—and Amanda’s not buying it.
“If I wasn’t worried about being blacklisted, I’d report her to the union,” Amanda says, tapping on her new French lip beurre. (Beurre is French for “butter.” The fact that Amanda has a French anything makes me want to abandon my love of the language and take up Italian.) “But she’s so powerful. She’s with the number-three talent agency, you know.”
Yes! We know! You mention it every livelong day! We also know that Amanda’s dream (or is it her mother’s dream?) is to sign with Stella’s talent agency, so she can beat out Marlee Matlin and become the youngest winner of the Academy Award for Best Actress. Yeah, like that will ever happen. Go buy a lotto ticket while you’re at it, girly.
“Milly. You should tell Pete. What she said borders on harassment.”
“It was just a post-show conversation, Amanda,” Milly says. “A show business story. An Elaine Stritch story. You love Elaine Stritch. She’s a legend.”
“As if. She couldn’t really sing,” Amanda says. Um… go tell that to Stephen Sondheim and the Carlyle Hotel, you loon. “And she wasn’t even funny on 30 Rock.” Okay, now she’s downright lying through her Invisalign-wearing teeth.
“Anyway, it was over a week ago. I think it’s time to let it go,” Milly says. For the record, Milly has said this every day for the last ten days. But you know Amanda. She doesn’t let anything go. “Let’s just talk about something else,” Milly says.
“Fine,” Amanda says, shifting gears. “Maya. Are you sad this is your last day here?”
Maya’s eyes instantly water, and Jayne puts her tiny arm around Maya’s shoulder. I’m so mad the hook in my tail almost straightens out.
“Amanda,” Milly says. “Please be more considerate.”
“You said to talk about something else. Everyone is making a big deal about her leaving; I suppose I should, too.”
In truth, everyone is making a big deal about Maya’s departure. The gals in the ensemble dressing room got her a little box of Angel Cards just like the ones they have. It’s a wooden box of seventy or so little cards, with words like “wisdom,” “hope,” or “spontaneity” written on them, surrounded by curly, dreamy artwork. Before each show, the chorus girls each pick a card and the idea is that it’s meant to inspire their performances and the rest of their day. Maya has always loved them. Now she has her own set to bring with her to her next show. Or to college—whichever comes first. Stella sent her a super fancy orchid plant from the super fancy florist on Fifty-First Street. Our company manager even let Maya pick the quote of the week for this week’s pay stub. She picked, “I shall stay until the wind changes,” from Mary Poppins, which made everyone ugly cry.
Yes, our company has done their best to brighten up Maya’s remaining time in the theatre, but Amanda’s doing her darndest to muck it all up. Not on my watch.
“Maya. Want to go up to the fly floor to say goodbye to Dan and Artie?” I ask.
“Yes!” she says. “May we, Milly?”
“I suppose so. But be back by Five Minutes to Places. And be careful.”
“Great,” Maya says. “You want to join, Jayne?”
“Sure!” Jayne says. “But what’s the fly floor?”
“It’s where a lot of the backstage magic happens,” I say.
“Oh!” Jayne says. “Where is it?”
“Follow us,” I say, scurrying up Maya’s dress and into her hand. “It’s just upstairs.”
Okay. Full disclosure, I was totally scared the first time I went up to the fly floor. Walt and Matty love playing up there—it’s where they go if it’s snowing out and they can’t play in the alley—and my dad likes to go up and watch Mets games with Dan and Artie, the crew guys who man the fly floor. But it’s high up. High. Envision a super high balcony that goes all the way around the perimeter of the stage’s ceiling, and that’s the fly floor.
To get there, you’ve got to head two flights up from the girls’ dressing room, then up a ladder on the side of a wall. It’s only six rungs, but it goes straight up, so it’s a little intimidating.
Once you’ve done it a few times, it’s not so bad, but Jayne hasn’t done it a few times. Jayne hasn’t done it one time, and she’s staring at it like it’s the scariest thing on the planet. (Which I’m sure it’s not. I mean, have you heard about sharks? How can those even be real?!)
“Don’t worry,” Maya says. “It’s easy. Like the jungle gym at school.”
; “I broke my wrist on the jungle gym at school,” Jayne says.
“Okay, bad example,” Maya says, plopping me in her pocket so she can climb with both hands.
“Who’s being loud?” a New York accent booms. It’s Dan. He was just as scary as the ladder when I first met him. Now he’s my favorite. My favorite crew guy, that is. (P.S. I’m pretty sure he has a crush on H.H., and, frankly, she could do worse.)
“It’s just us, Dan,” I say, popping my head out of Maya’s pocket.
“I’m here to say goodbye,” Maya says.
“I hate goodbyes,” he says, peering down at us. “Who’s this?”
“This is Jayne. My replacement,” Maya says. “Don’t worry. She’s great.”
“Nice to meet you, Jayne. Come on up, check out the view.”
“I… I… I don’t think I can,” Jayne says, inching away from the ladder.
“It’s easy,” Maya says again, stepping on the first rung.
“I… I… don’t think so,” Jayne stutters. She’s up against the opposite wall now, frozen solid like she was the first time I met her. I know what I have to do.
“Let me down, Maya,” I say. She sets me down and I scurry over to Jayne faster than you can say “That new show starring Nathan Lane? It’s sold out.”
“What’s up?” I ask, even though I already know. Sometimes it’s good to let someone tell you something in their own time and words.
“I fell. On the jungle gym. What if I fall, and I…” Jayne stops, her face frozen like she’s envisioning the worst thing in the whole entire world.
“And you what?” I ask, even though I know. I know what the worst thing in the whole entire world is to my friend Jayne, because it would be the worst thing to me, too.
“What if I fall and I ruin my Broadway debut? What if I’m out before I even—”
“Get up to the plate?” I reply. Whoa. Another baseball reference? Where the heck did that come from? Somewhere in this building, my father has never been so proud.
“Yeah,” she says, brightening a little. “You like baseball?”
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