“I don’t. But my family does. So do Dan and Artie up there,” I point.
“I love baseball. Weird for a girl, I know,” she says.
“Nothing is weird for anyone,” Dan yells down. “Anyone who tells you otherwise, you tell them to take a long walk off a short pier.”
“Okay.” Jayne snorts out a tiny giggle. “Dan.”
“So. You want to give it a try?” Maya asks.
“I… I don’t know,” Jayne says.
I look up at her with the same confidence I did during her first bout of stage fright. “How about I go first?” I say.
She nods, and I scurry over to the ladder, weaving my way up each rung until I’m at the top, right at Dan’s feet, looking down at Jayne.
“If I can do it, you can do it,” I say.
Jayne takes a deep breath, walks over, and, slowly but surely, climbs her way to the top.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
WOW.”
For the record, wow doesn’t begin to cover it, but it’s all Jayne’s got for now. We’re up on the fly floor, surrounded by ropes and pulleys, looking down through the curtains and lights onto the stage, a stage that’s been here since 1913. A stage that’s seen hits and flops, thousands of Broadway debuts and hundreds of return engagements. A stage where, right now, our cast members are beginning to gather for their preshow warm-ups and, soon, our overture dance.
Through the curtain, we can hear the gentle murmur of the audience arriving and settling into their seats—hopefully turning off their cell phones and unwrapping any noisy candies. Down in the orchestra pit, the musicians are tuning their instruments; it’s an improvised cacophony of scales—bright bursts from the horns, fluttery warbles from the strings—and yet it somehow all comes together beautifully to make perfect, erratic sense.
It’s all below us, and we’re up where it feels like the top of the world. From up here, everyone looks just as small as I am. From up here, I don’t feel small at all.
Let me clarify. We’re not in any real danger. This is by no means a narrow space. There’s room enough for a couch, a TV, and a minifridge—all supplied by Dan and Artie, of course. From what I hear, it’s bigger than most New York City apartments. It’s not narrow; it’s just high. And we’re completely surrounded by sturdy, metal railings, so it’s perfectly safe.
“Amazing, right?” Maya says, taking it all in for the last time.
“It’s incredible,” Jayne says.
“Someday when you’re more settled, come up during the show and I’ll let you move a set piece or two,” Artie says. He’s parked in front of his TV watching the Giants game. (It’s winter, so it’s time for football, not baseball. Sports, blah, blah, blah, sports.)
“Really? Isn’t it all super heavy?” Jayne asks.
“Some of it’s heavy. Some of it’s just buttons,” Artie says.
“You know not to whistle, right, kid?” Dan asks, his scratchy, bold voice booming out over the stage.
“What do you mean?” Jayne asks.
“Before our time, the stage crew used to communicate by whistling. So, you whistle, you risk a curtain nailing you on your noggin.” (You already know this, but it’s the first Jayne’s hearing of it, so I figured it was worth a second mention.)
“It’s a superstition,” I say. “We also never say ‘good luck,’” I whisper.
“That I knew,” Jayne says.
“Or the M-word Shakespeare play. That’s a big no-no,” Dan says.
“The M-word?”
“Ask someone when you’re not in a theatre,” Dan says. (It’s Macbeth. I’m pretty sure writing it isn’t bad luck. But saying it inside the theatre will apparently cause disaster, according to the superstition, aka “the Scottish curse.”)
I look over and see Maya peering down over the stage, with such a look on her face.
“It sure is pretty,” she says.
“It sure is,” I say.
“Most kids never even set foot in a theatre like this,” Maya says. “Let alone every day for ten months. For money.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I guess I should feel lucky I even had two shows out there, right?” she says, looking at me.
Um, yes, I want to say. Très lucky. But I know if I were her, I’d feel the same way. Sure, now I just want the chance; I want to know it’s even a possibility. But imagine giving me two performances on Broadway and then no more after that. I’d be thankful, but I’d still want more. That’s love, I guess. You can never get enough of your true love. It’s like the Hooligans with a bucket of kettle corn. One kernel is never enough.
“I wish you could have had more performances,” I say. “Amanda wasn’t nice about it.”
“I can’t really blame her,” Maya says. “If it were my role, I wouldn’t want to miss a show, either.”
This is true, but missing a few more performances wouldn’t have hurt her. Or any of us, for that matter. A day off for Amanda is a day off for all.
“I hope I get to go on,” Jayne says dreamily, quickly catching herself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be inconsiderate.”
“Not at all,” Maya says. “I wish you my two performances, and many more.”
“Thanks,” Jayne says.
“And I hope you get your wish, too, Lulu,” Maya says.
“What’s your wish, Lulu?” Jayne asks. And I realize I’ve never mentioned it to her. This whole time I’ve been so focused on Jayne, I never really took the time to tell her anything about myself.
“Oh. Well. It’s to perform. On Broadway. Seems like an easy ask since I live in a Broadway theatre and have basically had free master classes since birth and all, but it’s not. It’s… complicated.”
“Oh,” Jayne says. People always seem to say “oh” when they’re not quite sure what else to say.
“No dream is too big, no dreamer too small,” Artie says.
Really, Artie? Just when you think he’s just this Santa look-alike who watches sports all day and moves scenery in the evenings, he comes out with something like that.
“How eloquent,” Dan says. “My pal Shakespeare over here.”
“What can I say? It just came to me,” Artie says. “I believe in miracles.” (Maybe he is Santa Claus?!)
“Anything can happen, Lulu,” Maya says. “And in the meantime, half the fun is dreaming about it.”
“That’s true!” Jayne says supportively. “If I can do it, you can do it, right?”
“Right,” I say, only half believing it. I’m getting to the point where the hope hurts too much.
“Five Minutes, this is your Five-Minute call. Five Minutes, please,” Pete’s voice pipes out of the speaker next to Artie.
“Well, I guess this is it,” Maya says. “My last Five-Minute call.”
“May there be many more Five-Minute calls in your future,” Artie says.
“You’re on a roll today, Shakespeare,” Dan says. “Don’t be a stranger, kid, ya hear?”
“I won’t,” Maya says. “We’d better go. We promised Milly.” She takes one last look at the stage down below, wipes a tear from her cheek, and heads to the ladder.
“By the way,” I say to Maya, “while Amanda’s onstage tonight there’s something we need to do.”
“What is it?” she asks.
“It’s a surprise,” I say.
“Come on, you guys! We’ll be late for the overture dance!” Jayne says, stepping back down the ladder like a pro.
“After Amanda’s first entrance, we all will meet up in the dressing room,” I say.
“Okay,” Maya says, shooting me a suspicious yet excited glance. She leans down, opens her palms, I hop into her hands, and we all hurry downstairs to the stage for Maya’s final overture dance.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
BY THE TIME AMANDA’S FIRST NUMBER BEGINS, Maya, Milly, Jayne, and I have reconvened in the dressing room.
“What is this all about?” Maya asks.
“Traditio
n,” I say. “Well, superstition.” I’m on top of the dressing room counter holding a penny. My arms are shaking because copper is très heavy, but so help me, I will keep holding this penny and create a memorable moment for all of us. Thank goodness this tradition doesn’t involve a nickel or a quarter. “Before a performer leaves the theatre for the last time, they must tape a penny under their dressing room counter.”
“What for?” Maya asks.
“To ensure you’ll be back in another show someday,” Milly says.
“For that, I’ll tape a hundred pennies,” Maya says, taking the penny from me and crawling under the counter. Phew, that’s a relief. I whip my arms around a few times to make sure they don’t cramp up. I really need to work on my upper body strength.
“Here,” Jayne says, crouching down to hand Maya a piece of tape. “Wait. Better make it two pieces, so it lasts.”
I knock a Sharpie off the counter—the silver kind the actors use to autograph Playbills—scurry down the leg of the counter, pick up the Sharpie, and slowly stride over to Maya. Awkward, yes, but not as heavy as the penny.
“Lulu, let me get that,” Milly says. “That Sharpie is taller than you are.”
“I’ve got it,” I say.
“You never cease to amaze me,” Milly says.
“What’s that Shakespeare line?” Maya asks. “‘Though she be but little…?’”
“She is fierce!” Jayne says. “My mom got me a pencil case with that line on it.”
“I think it’s safe to say that verse applies to everyone in this room,” Milly says.
“Okay, Maya,” I say. “Now that you’ve taped the penny under the counter, all you have to do is sign your name and date it.”
“The penny?” Jayne asks.
“The counter,” Milly says.
“Oh,” Jayne giggles. “That makes more sense.”
Maya Cogan. Was here. A lot, she writes. And she loved it, she adds, dating it and adding a heart around the whole thing.
“What’s going on?”
We were all so caught up in Maya’s moment that we didn’t realize Amanda’s number was over.
“Oh, hey, Amanda, we were just…,” Maya starts.
“Maya was taping a penny under the dressing room counter,” Milly says. Notice, she doesn’t say her dressing room counter or your dressing room counter. A general the will hopefully keep the peace.
“And signing her name,” Jayne adds matter-of-factly. Little, but fierce, indeed!
“Why?!” Amanda counters.
“It’s a theatre tradition,” I say firmly.
Amanda takes a moment, like she’s debating her next move, then says, “Well, if it’s tradition, I guess that’s all right.”
Maya looks at me as if to say, “Are we dreaming?” but before we can even say thank you to Amanda for being thoughtful, she says, “Move, Jayne. I need to change my clothes for the next scene.” Amanda aggressively removes her shoes, and we all make room, lest we be injured by a flying tap shoe.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
IT’S TUESDAY, THE DAY AFTER OUR DAY OFF, AND everything’s the same as last week except Maya’s gone. She’s gone from the sign-in sheet, her name plaque no longer hangs on the dressing room door or on the board in the lobby, even her show shoes and undergarments aren’t in their usual spots. The photos that hung on her dressing room mirror, her dance clothes for understudy rehearsals, the scarf she was knitting to keep busy during the show—all gone.
Bet let her keep all four pairs of her show shoes, which Maya was very excited about. “Hopefully my feet don’t grow so I can wear the sparkly ones to my friend Cassie’s bat mitzvah in the fall,” she’d said. The whole cast, including Maya and the other understudies, went to the Tony Awards last June, so I can’t imagine a bat mitzvah will compare, but who knows. Apparently they’re a really big deal.
Yes, our dear Maya is back to normal life in New Jersey, and Jayne has taken her place. I liked it better when they were both here, but if Maya has to be gone, I’m glad it’s Jayne who’s taking over. The whole company has been very welcoming to Jayne. H.H. and Jodie seem especially fond of her. And I’m not one bit jealous. There is plenty of H.H. and Jodie Howard attention to go around.
Jayne’s with me in H.H.’s and Jodie’s dressing room to witness my preshow routine with H.H. I doubt she’ll tag along all the time, but if she does, that’s okay by me.
“Here, honey,” H.H. says, handing Jayne a brand-new package of false eyelashes. “For luck.”
“Thank you,” Jayne says, holding them delicately, like they’re the most precious gift she’s ever received.
“You need help putting them on, you just ask Lulu. She’s an expert,” H.H. says.
“If I ever get to wear them, I will,” Jayne says.
“When you wear them,” H.H. scolds. “Positive affirmation, young lady.”
“Sorry,” Jayne says. “When.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you resemble a young Judy Garland?” Jodie Howard asks loudly, brushing on her eye shadow in a repetitive half-moon motion.
“No,” Jayne says, grinning from ear to ear. Introduce me to a theatre gal who doesn’t welcome a Judy Garland comparison and I’ll collapse in disbelief.
“Well, you do,” Jodie says, swirling her brush in her Merry Mauve shadow and continuing on to the other eye.
“Thanks,” Jayne says. “I love The Wizard of Oz.”
“Who doesn’t?” Jodie practically yells, throwing out her arms for emphasis, her makeup brush flying across the room. “It’s a masterpiece. First movie ever to be made in color. It was a very big deal. Not that I was there, of course. I’m not that old.”
“Tell me, Jayne, how’s the wicked witch of the dressing room downstairs treating you?” H.H. asks, giggling a bit at her quick-wittedness. Then she stops herself. “I’m sorry. That was in poor taste. I’m an adult. I should know better. Amanda. How is Amanda treating you?”
“Oh, fine,” Jayne says.
“Not true,” I say. “She’s just as unfriendly to Jayne as she was to Maya. Maybe even more so.”
“That’s probably because you’re small and fresh and new, and she’s… well… blossoming,” H.H. says.
“Blossoming?” Jayne asks.
“Puberty,” Jodie says, retrieving her brush. “It happens to everyone, but that doesn’t make it more bearable.”
“My brother has a lot of pimples,” Jayne says.
“Very common,” Jodie says. “I was covered in them from ages twelve to fourteen.”
“I’ve always had a flawless complexion,” H.H. says, dreamily examining her pores in the mirror.
“You, though, you’ve got plenty of time,” Jodie says. “How old are you? Nine?”
“Eleven,” Jayne says.
“You look nine,” Jodie says. “Anyone asks, you’re nine. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jayne replies.
“Height?”
“Four feet, four inches,” Jayne says. You can always count on a show biz kid to know their measurements.
“Four feet, four inches. Lordy. I think I was born at that height,” Jodie practically screams.
“What’s everyone talking about?” It’s Amanda. Whoa. Where’d she come from? She appeared as suddenly as… well, as the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Oh, hello, Amanda, dear,” H.H. says. Man, she really is trying to be nicer. She must have gone to meditation class this morning. She’s always a little gentler after she goes to meditation class. “Height. We were talking about height.” Meh. Never mind.
“What about it?” Amanda asks, slithering into the doorway.
“Just that it’s a thing,” I say, eager to switch topics. Remind Amanda that when she was hired she was four feet, eight inches and she’s now approaching four feet, eleven inches, and she’ll blow a gasket. Starting off the week with an Amanda-sized temper tantrum is no one’s idea of a good time.
“What brings you here?” Jodie Howard asks. “We
never get visits from you.”
“Oh, nothing,” Amanda says. “I got to the theatre early today, because I had a secret interview for a magazine I can’t name, so I got dressed early, and here I am.”
Huh. That’s odd. If Amanda is anything, she’s a creature of habit. In the door at fifteen minutes to Half Hour, makeup, vocal warm-up, then Jeremiah puts on her wig. She doesn’t change her routine for any reason. Something’s brewing. Something’s fishy. Something’s making my stomach flip.
“Aren’t we lucky,” H.H. says.
“What are those?” Amanda asks, pointing to the eyelashes in Jayne’s hand.
“Her pet spiders,” Jodie Howard says dryly.
“Haha, very funny, lemme see,” Amanda says, sticking her arm out to grab them from Jayne, who pulls away.
“No,” Jayne says. “They’re mine.”
“Look at you, you actually know how to speak,” Amanda says.
“There’s no reason to be mean, Amanda,” I say.
“No one asked you, Lulu,” Amanda says.
“Amanda, dear, while I know you tend to operate under the assumption that you can do or say anything you’d like, I’m here to tell you that in this dressing room, that rule does not apply,” H.H. says.
“I concur. Vehemently,” Jodie Howard nods. “As we used to say in the sixties, ‘let’s keep the peace.’”
“My apologies, Heather. My apologies, Jodie. I meant no harm.” Oh, puh-lease.
Amanda glances over at Jayne, who’s holding on to her boxed eyelashes like she’s protecting them from a predator. “Eyelashes, hmm. Interesting,” Amanda says.
“What’s so interesting about it?” Jayne asks.
“It just seems… oh, what’s the word? Unnecessary,” Amanda says. “You won’t ever need them, Jayne, because you’ll never go on for my role. I wish you had saved your money. Bought a good book, or something. Something to keep you occupied backstage. Though I see those aren’t the most expensive brand, so the book would need to be from the bargain bin—”
“That’s about enough of that,” H.H. says. “Milly!” she yells, turning to face Amanda square on. I’ve heard H.H. yell exactly three times and each time has been more epic than the last, so, brace yourselves.
Lulu the Broadway Mouse Page 8
