Lulu the Broadway Mouse

by Jenna Gavigan

  “You, my dear, are what we adults call a pot-stirrer. I know, because I used to be like you, in my youth. I thought I could say or do whatever I wanted because I was talented and pretty, but the truth is the only thing I had over everyone else was luck. Plain and simple. Sure, I was talented. I still am. And I’ll admit, you’re talented. But there are a lot of talented people in our city, not to mention our great big world. You didn’t get this job because you’re the best; you got it because you got lucky. Preparation met opportunity and some luck rained down on the two of them. Once your luck runs out, you will wish you had been nicer to people. Because all the people in this building? We have ears, eyes, and big mouths. And we’re not afraid to tell each and every member of our beloved Great White Way just how cruel you are. There’s a lot of talent out there. There’s absolutely no reason to hire someone who isn’t a team player.”

  Whoa. Someone get that on a T-shirt, ASAP.

  Before the rest of us can say anything, Milly arrives, flushed from running down from the third floor. She’s wiping her hands with a paper towel, which probably means she was in the bathroom. Poor gal can’t even get two minutes of peace in the loo. “Everyone okay?” Her eyes jump from kid to kid, scanning for injury.

  “Jodie and I have to finish getting ready,” H.H. says sharply.

  “Two guests was a party, but now three’s a crowd,” Jodie adds, with a not-so-subtle wink.

  “Oh, of course. Come on, girls,” Milly says, ushering us out. “Sorry to bother you, ladies.”

  On our way back up to the kids’ floor, Amanda waits until Milly is out of earshot and whispers, “Just so we’re clear, Jayne, I have no intention of letting my luck run out. You may as well give those eyelashes to Lulu. She has about as much of a chance of getting to use them as you do.”

  Instead of spouting off a nasty retort (because that’s not her style), Jayne simply sighs and walks off. But I just can’t let this go.

  “Please tell me why you’re so cruel to us,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” Amanda growls.

  “I refuse to believe you’re just a mean girl. There must be something else going on,” I say. “You can tell me.”

  Amanda looks at me, her face crooked and puzzled. Like she’s trying to solve a riddle or math problem. Then she settles on a solution and huffs, “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, especially you.”

  “All of this negativity isn’t healthy,” I say. “I believe what H.H. says about karma.”

  “And what’s that?” Amanda asks.

  “That it’s real,” I say.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” she says, stomping off to the dressing room.

  “If there’s any justice in this world,” I say under my breath, “you will.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  A WEEK LATER, KARMA STRIKES LIKE LIGHTNING.

  “I feel sweaty,” Amanda says.

  It’s an hour and a half before curtain, and Amanda is currently the only actor in the building. Because she’s here, Milly has to get here early, too. Amanda’s in the wardrobe room, having the hems on her costumes let out for the second time this month. She’s—what’s the expression?—growing like a weed.

  “It is a bit warm in here,” Bet says. “Heat kicked in when the temperature dropped last night.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Amanda says. There’s no sass in her reply. I repeat: there is no sass in her reply.

  “What do you mean?” Milly asks, calm but concerned. (P.S. If Amanda’s mom were here, she’d be flipping out. Calling a private physician and making sure an ambulance is on hand flipping out.)

  “I… I… I’m going to be sick.” Amanda covers her mouth, Bet covers Amanda’s costume, and Milly runs for a wastebasket. My mother pulls me away. I guess she’s worried I’ll get stomped on. Or worse.

  Then worse happens.

  Don’t make me say it.

  Okay fine. Puke. Puke happens. Puke happens.

  Milly and Bet manage to get Amanda to the closest bathroom; there’s no way she’s going up four flights of stairs to her own bathroom in this condition. My mother drags me along to make sure Amanda’s okay—I guess there’s no squelching maternal instinct—so I’m sitting in the basement bathroom, listening to my archnemesis get sicker than anyone ever deserves to. I mean, it’s bad. This isn’t the fault of gluten or a sniffling sibling, this is worse. Much worse.

  “Food poisoning,” Bet says.

  “I”—PUKE—“don’t”—PUKE—“get”—PUKE—“food poisoning,” Amanda pukes out.

  “I grew up in a tenement in Little Italy,” Bet says. “I know food poisoning when I see it.” And hear it. And worse. Smell… ugh, gross.

  “Lulu, go get Pete,” Milly instructs.

  “No!” Amanda gurgles.

  “Amanda. The curtain goes up in an hour and twenty minutes. We need to be prepared. Just in case.” Milly knows better than to tell Amanda she’s not getting anywhere near that stage, let alone the upper level of the theatre. It’ll be Pete’s job to tell Amanda that she’s got to leave through the basement exit, to make sure she doesn’t get anyone else sick, in case it isn’t food poisoning after all. He’s the only one she’ll listen to.

  I scurry down the hall to the stage manager’s office faster than you can say “Les Misérables is long but worth it” to find Pete, Susie, and Ricardo at their computers, typing away.

  “You guys,” I cough out. (I ran really fast, even for a mouse.) “Amanda—”

  “What’d she do this time?” Susie is sooooo over Amanda and her antics. Susie is one of, like, a dozen siblings and is a former Rockette. She doesn’t have patience for people who can’t be team players.

  “She’s sick,” I say. “Super sick.”

  “I thought her private physician promised that would never happen,” Ricardo scoffs.

  “Bet thinks it’s food poisoning,” I say. “One second, Amanda was standing in wardrobe for alterations, the next, she was puking all over the place.”

  “Not on the costumes? Please, tell me she didn’t puke on the costumes,” Pete says.

  “No, Bet covered them,” I say.

  “Good. Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound insensitive, but her costumes cost more than my first apartment,” Pete says. “Okay. I’ll call Jayne’s mom to tell them to be here as soon as possible.”

  “Great,” I say. “Can I help in any way?”

  “Pray to the theatre gods that we’ve rehearsed her enough,” Pete says, and he’s out the door.

  Praying to the theatre gods. That I can do.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  YOU’RE KIDDING,” H.H. SAYS WITH THE SMILE of a loveable Disney villain. “Food poisoning?”

  “Yep,” I say. “Can you believe it?”

  “I can, actually. Yes, I can. To say she jinxed herself is the understatement of the year,” H.H. declares, lining her lips with Rockin’ Red.

  “I despise throwing up. Hate it more than anything in the world. Hate. It.” Jodie cringes. “Where and what did she eat? It wasn’t at the deli on Forty-Third, was it? Was it the egg salad? No, don’t. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I can’t live without that egg salad.”

  “Apparently,” I say, almost happily (theatre gods and all others, please forgive me), “it was her mom’s homemade salmon.”

  “No! Oh, that’s too rich. Mrs. My Child Only Eats Organic gives her daughter food poisoning. The irony is too delicious,” H.H. says with a laugh. “No pun intended.”

  “I know, it’s nuts,” I say, scaling backward down the leg of the counter and onto the floor. “No pun intended, either. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to Jayne.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be stupendous,” Jodie yells. “You tell her Jodie Howard said she’ll be stupendous!”

  “Will do,” I say. I’m pretty sure Jodie’s the only person on the planet (who isn’t in the circus) who can get away with saying the word “stupendous.”


  “And she’ll get to use the eyelashes I gave her! Glad you’ll be there to help her with them,” H.H. says.

  “Me too!” I say, hurrying out the door and up the stairs.

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING,” JAYNE SAYS. “I’M not ready. Lulu, I’m not ready.”

  “Of course you are,” I say, because I’m 92 percent certain she is, and 92 percent is an A, so that’s good enough for me. “You hold the lash, I’ll squirt on the glue.”

  “You can do that?” she asks.

  “I’ve been doing it for years,” I say, picking up the tube, which I’m guessing is the same size as I was at birth. I squeeze the tube and delicately apply the glue to the lash’s edge. “Lightly tap the lash on your hand to take off the excess glue.”

  “Right,” she says, doing as I instructed.

  “Now apply it to your lash line, outside in,” I say.

  “What do you mean? Can you help?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say. I climb up her arm and onto her shoulder, holding the lash like humans hold open a book, only backward and upside down. Then I line it up to her lash line, gently securing it. “There. Perfect.”

  “It feels funny. Like there’s a bug on my eye,” she says, blinking.

  “Would you rather not wear them?” Milly appears with a tub of Clorox wipes to begin the Amanda-is-sick decontamination process. “I don’t want them to distract you.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Jayne says. “If Amanda wears them, I should, too.”

  “Blush is next,” I say. “Peony Pink will look nice on you.” She makes a fish face, and swipes the blush onto the apples of her cheeks. “Lovely. You’re a natural.”

  “I’ve seen my sister do it,” Jayne says. “She’s in high school.”

  “Will your family be here tonight?” I ask.

  “I hope so. It’s so last minute, they may not all make it in in time. My grandma lives in Brooklyn, so she’ll be here. And my mom drove me in, so she’ll be here, too. She’s over at Sardi’s having a glass of wine and trying to relax.”

  “Fifteen Minutes. This is your Fifteen-Minute call. Fifteen Minutes, please,” Pete’s voice booms. “And just a reminder, company, Jayne will be on for Amanda tonight.”

  “Well, now it’s official!” I say. The truth is, it was official the moment Pete posted it on the call-board at Half Hour. He had summoned Amanda’s mom back to the theatre and explained that while technically he couldn’t keep Amanda—or any actor—from performing, it was accepted practice across the theatre community that a stage manager’s suggestion that a sick performer call out for the performance was as good as a command. Amanda’s leaving was for the benefit of the whole company. They couldn’t risk a stomach flu outbreak.

  Please note: the following exchange took place in the basement bathroom.

  “But it’s not stomach flu; it’s food poisoning,” Amanda’s mom had argued.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Pete had said.

  “We do know that, because Amanda doesn’t get the stomach flu. It’s food poisoning.”

  “When she was sick a few months ago, it was a stomach flu,” Pete had said.

  “That was not a stomach flu; it was a side effect of her severe gluten intolerance and some new vitamins she was taking.” (Amanda must get her knack for making things up from her mother.)

  “Regardless of the cause, the fact that she’s vomiting means she can spread germs,” Pete had said. “And she’s not getting any better.”

  “I’m”—PUKE—“fine”—PUKE—“really.” Amanda had been huddled next to the toilet, bundled up in a sweatshirt and fleece, shivering.

  “Our doctor is on his way with an anti-nausea pill he says will make her good as new,” Amanda’s mom had said, frantically checking her text messages. “I knew we should have had them on hand. He said they were too strong for him to prescribe. What a moron.”

  “Doctor knows best. She’ll be good as new for tomorrow,” Pete had reasoned. “One show won’t make a difference.”

  “Yes”—PUKE—“it”—PUKE—“will.”

  “It won’t,” Pete had said. “I promise. It’ll be your role whether you come back tomorrow or in a week.”

  “A week?!” Amanda’s mom had shrieked.

  “Tomorrow. We’ll go one performance at a time. I have to call Half Hour, Amanda.”

  PUKE. PUKE.

  “Okay,” Amanda had said quietly. PUUUUUKE.

  And with that, Pete had posted the change on the call-board, officially told Jayne and Milly (and me—I was there), and Amanda’s mom dragged Amanda through Shubert Alley into the Marriott Marquis hotel, where she, I assume, continued to puke.

  Back to the present (aka fifteen minutes until Jayne’s Broadway debut!): Milly and I are going over Jayne’s quick changes.

  “So, after the first scene, you exit stage right, and we’ll be there. We go downstairs, meet Jeremiah in the hair room, he puts the pigtails wig on you, we cross under the stage, then we head up to your dressing room for your costume change,” I say.

  “Remember,” Milly says, “don’t get flustered. Your dressers and hair people have done this over three hundred times, so just let them do all the work. It’ll feel like not enough time, but it’s really more than enough.”

  “Okay,” Jayne says.

  Despite the instruction, Jayne’s flustered. She’s staring into the dressing room mirror, running a ChapStick repetitively over her lips.

  “Can I help you in any way?” Milly asks.

  “No. I… I…”

  “How’s our girl?” Susie pops her head into the dressing room. “Feeling good?” I look to her and subtly shake my head. She makes her way into the room and squats down next to Jayne. “Can I tell you a story, Jayne?”

  “Sure,” Jayne says, robotically capping the ChapStick.

  “When I was only a little older than you are now, I competed in a worldwide baton-twirling competition.” We all give her a look. You know the look. The kind of look you give someone when they tell you they competed in a worldwide baton-twirling competition.

  “Random, I know, but the point is: I was good. Really good. Ranked in the top ten girls in the world.” Okay. That is très impressive. “But the night of the competition, I started doubting myself. My mom had me take deep breaths and reminded me that there was a reason I was there. Because I was great. Better than great. One of the best. And you, Jayne? You’re one of the best.”

  Jayne smiles, the zombie spell breaking. “Thanks, Susie.”

  “So, take a deep breath and remember that you know what you’re doing,” Susie says. “The most important thing is to have fun. You have fun and the audience will have fun. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Jayne says.

  “Good. See you down there,” Susie says. “Milly and Lulu will make sure you keep breathing, yes?”

  Before we can agree, there’s a knock at the door, followed by a familiar voice I’ve never heard up on the kids’ floor.

  “Knock, knock.” Holy cannoli, it’s Stella. She’s wearing her signature silk kimono and the classiest old Hollywood slippers you’ve ever seen.

  “I just wanted to stop by to say break a leg, Jayne,” Stella says.

  “Oh. I… I… thank you,” Jayne manages.

  “I’ll be right there with you, if you need me. We all will. Though I’m sure you’ll be even more prepared than we are,” Stella says.

  “Oh, I… no.” Jayne says, slowly shaking her head like she’s a kid at Disney World and Snow White has just told her that she and all of the other princesses have come to the unanimous decision that Jayne is actually the fairest of them all.

  “I’m never wrong,” Stella says. “See you out there.”

  “I’ll walk you downstairs,” Susie says.

  One random life lesson from a former world champion baton-twirling Rockette, one “break a leg” from a two-time Tony-winning Broadway legend, and they’re off.

  “Wow,” I say. “Just… wow.”
/>   “Tony winner Stella James just told you to break a leg, Jayne!” Milly says. “I hope you’re taking this all in.”

  “Yeah.” Jayne nods. “It’s incredible.”

  But I can tell her mind is elsewhere.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Is she here?” Jayne asks.

  “Who?” Milly asks.

  “Amanda,” Jayne says, taking deep breaths, as instructed.

  “No,” I say. “She’s over in her hotel room puking.”

  “This is your performance, Jayne. Your name is posted in the lobby and since they didn’t have enough time to put At this Performance inserts in the programs, Pete’s going to make an announcement to the audience at the top of the show.”

  “I’m not worried about her taking the performance back. I’m worried about her showing up to watch.”

  “You didn’t see how sick and sweaty and shivery she was,” I say, hopping into Jayne’s lap. “She was practically green. She’s probably asleep next to the toilet or something.” That’s what humans do when they puke a lot, right?

  “Don’t worry about her,” Milly says. “Just focus, breathe, and have fun.”

  “Will do,” Jayne says. But by the way her lap is shaking, I’m not so sure she means it.

  “Wardrobe delivery,” Bet says. She’s carrying Jayne’s sparkly blue Act Two dress and vanilla velvet top-of-show dress. My mother is in her pocket, needle and thread in hand, in case of any last-minute costume emergencies.

  “Come on in,” Milly says.

  “These are ready to go,” Bet says. “Your second change is here on the rack, and the rest of your outfits are preset in the quick-change booth onstage left.”

  “Jeremiah says he’ll put your mic up in your wig,” my mom says. “But why don’t you wear a mic band around your waist, too, just in case.”

  “Why wear the mic band around her waist if her mic is up in her wig?” I ask. I’ve been making a real effort lately to disagree less with my mother, but this just seems silly and I need to know her reasoning.