“Better safe than sorry,” my mom says. What is it with moms and “better safe than sorry”? Do they have a yearly quota they have to hit?
“I agree,” Bet says. “Let’s get you dressed, Jayne.”
“Okay,” Jayne says.
Bet takes Jayne’s vanilla velvet opening number costume off its hanger, unzips, and opens it out in front of Jayne so she can step right in.
“There,” Bet says, zipping up the dress with careful ease. “Fits like a glove.”
“Comfortable?” my mom asks.
“Yes,” Jayne says.
“That’s what we like to hear,” Bet says. “See you back here for your first change.”
“Break a leg, sweetheart,” my mom says. Then she looks at me and winks. I know she can tell I’m wishing it were me.
But I want her to know that I’m okay, so I say, “Jayne’s going to be fabulous, Mom. Just wait until you see her.”
“I have no doubt,” my mom says. Then she winks again. She must have something in her eye.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
JAYNE!” AGNES AND HARPER HURRY OVER. “WE’RE so excited for you!” Agnes is a member of our ensemble but she also understudies H.H., and Harper was an understudy in her first two Broadway shows, so they totally get it.
“Thanks,” Jayne says. “I’m really nervous.”
“Don’t be,” Harper says. “You’ll be fantastic.”
“You were incredible at your first understudy rehearsal,” Agnes adds. Which is true, she was. But her performance needs to be more than her sheer talent. She needs to remember her lines and her choreography… her props and blocking.… She needs to make sure she stands downstage of the curtain in scene four or else we’ll have an unconscious actress on our hands.
Most of the time, before an understudy performs in front of an audience, we have a “put-in,” which is essentially a practice run that’s as close as possible to the real thing. The understudy is in full costumes, sets and prop pieces are used, and the full cast participates (though they’re wearing rehearsal clothes and not costumes—visualize that, it’s an odd sight). We run through the show from top to bottom. It’s an audience-free way for an understudy to perform the show all the way through, instead of just scenes and dance numbers here and there like we do during regular understudy rehearsal.
But there was no time for a put-in for Jayne since she only recently joined the company, so the rehearsal she’s had so far, plus help from me and Milly, will have to do. We know the show, and we’ll get her through it.
Places have been called and we’re all standing onstage, waiting to start the overture dance. Then we hear Pete’s announcement to the audience:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take a moment to turn off all cell phones and unwrap any candies. At this performance, the role usually played by Amanda Rose Green will be played by Jayne Griffin. Thank you, and enjoy the show.” We all silently jump up and down, then cheer audibly the moment the orchestra strikes up.
“Holy cow, I can’t believe this, I can’t…,” Jayne says quietly.
“Believe it,” Milly says. “It’s your Broadway debut.”
Jayne’s Broadway debut.
Not mine.
I…
Huh. I thought I would feel differently, but believe it or not, I’m okay with it. I’m so excited for my friend, so thankful to be a part of this show, to play the role I play backstage.
It suddenly hits me that I might never make my Broadway debut. And that’s okay. What I’ve got and who I am is more than enough.
I’m a backstage cheerleader. A coach. A friend. I will always be a starring player in Jayne’s Broadway debut story, and perhaps that’s enough.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
We begin our overture dance, and it hasn’t been this fun since the two times Maya went on. If there’s one thing (most) show people know how to do, it’s how to be supportive and excited for a castmate. Sure, people get envious and jealous, as we know, but for the most part, these people want to make this moment as wonderful as possible for Jayne.
We do our high kicks, our shimmies, our mouse hop, and then it’s over and it’s time for the show to begin. Milly and I walk Jayne to her entrance spot upstage.
“Okay,” Milly says, “this is where we leave you. See you after the first scene. We’ll be in the wings offstage right.”
Jayne’s shaking like a leaf that knows a hurricane’s coming. “Can’t Lulu stay?”
Wait a minute.
“You’ll be okay,” Milly says. “I promise.”
That wasn’t exactly a no.
“I need Lulu. It’s been the two of us this whole time. She knows the blocking better than I do. Please, Milly.”
Forget what I said on the previous page about being okay with—
“She can’t go onstage with you, honey, I’m sorry. That would be breaking so many rules. I could lose my job.”
Ugh. Never mind.
Wait. Wait! Holy cannoli, holy pizza pie, holy—
“Your mic is up in your wig!” I loudly whisper.
“Yes,” Jayne says. “Is that bad? Should we move it to my waist? I kept the empty mic band on like your mom said I should.”
Oh my goodness, my meddling mother just made this the best day of my life.
“I can sit in your mic band! Where the mic would be!”
“Yes!” Jayne says. Her shaking instantly stops. “Between the two of us, we’ll get through the show with no trouble at all.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Milly says, worry in her eyes.
“I won’t move, Milly, I promise. Unless Jayne needs me. One tug for ‘you’re doing the right thing,’ two tugs for ‘you’re not,’ okay?”
“Got it,” Jayne says.
“I don’t know…,” Milly says, absentmindedly picking at her fingernails like grown-ups do when they’re nervous.
We’ve got literally forty-three seconds until Jayne makes her entrance, so it’s now or never.
“Please, Milly. If I need help, she’ll be right there. She’ll keep me from making a mistake,” Jayne says.
“Oh, all right. But don’t tell anyone.” Milly sighs. “And, Lulu. Under no circumstances are you to get out of the mic band, do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear!” I say with unmitigated glee. And as fast as you can say “The Tony goes to Audra McDonald,” I’m in place in Jayne’s mic band. My tail is sticking out a bit, but it’s just about the same size and color as the microphone antenna, so if anyone happens to see it, they’ll never know it’s me. Milly zips the zipper, and I’m all locked in.
“All set?” Milly asks.
“Yep,” Jayne says. I tug once. “Lulu’s all set, too.”
“Okay, that’s your cue. Go!”
And we’re through the set door and onstage.
Jayne says her first line and the audience immediately laughs. I’ve heard this laugh over three hundred times, but it’s louder and richer than ever before because I’m not in the wings. I’m not in the dressing room. I’m not in my nest listening over the backstage monitor.
I’m onstage. The audience is right there, out in the house, my house, where I’ve spent my whole life waiting and preparing for a moment like this.
I swear to you; the air feels different out here. It’s cozy and electric. Even through Jayne’s costume and the mic pack pouch, I can feel the lights. They’re bright and blinding just like they were when we made believe in front of H.H.’s mirror. I feel the lights shift into spotlight, and Jayne starts to sing.
JAYNE (AND I!!!) EXIT OFFSTAGE RIGHT TO FIND MILLY and 78 percent of the cast, who have been watching from the wings.
“You are a star!” Harper says.
“Honey, I couldn’t have done it better myself,” says Jodie.
“Thanks,” Jayne says. If her head’s spinning even half as fast as mine is, I’m surprised she can even form words.
“Where’s Lulu?” H.H. asks. “I t
hought she’d be with you for the whole show.”
“She decided to watch from the back of the house,” Milly says quickly. “Time to get this girl to her next change!”
We head down to the hair room, and Jeremiah removes Jayne’s banana curl wig, replacing it with wig number two: pigtails.
“Feeling okay with the mic up there?” Jeremiah says. I yank once on Jayne’s dress.
“Yep!” she says. “Super comfortable.”
“You sure? We’ve got time to move it to your waist band if you like.”
“No!” Milly and Jayne say in unison. Jeremiah narrows his eyes with an okay, crazies glare.
“I mean,” Jayne says, calmly, “why change things now?”
“Gotcha,” Jeremiah says. “Makes sense.” And I feel Jayne breathe a sigh of relief. She’s certainly a well-trained singer; she totally breathes low and into her belly, even when she’s not singing.
Then we hurry under the stage, passing the male ensemble dressing room and their cheers, and back upstairs to “our” dressing room, where Bet and my mom are waiting.
“You have an exquisite voice, Jayne,” Bet says. “Now. Shoes off, then dress.”
“Okay…,” Jayne says hesitantly. I give her costume a quick tug to say, “We’re good,” and then Jayne perks up and says, “Okay!”
“Okay, then,” Bet says, unzipping the dress. I curl my tail in as close as I can to my body, but with my tail’s permanent deformity, that’s easier said than done and—
“I thought Jeremiah put your mic up in your wig,” Bet says.
“He did,” Milly says.
“Then what is this sticking out…? Lulu?”
“Hi, Bet,” I say, peeking my head out of the mic pack pouch. “Hi, Mom.”
“Lucy Louise.” She’s only pretend-reprimanding. I know my mother. She’s making it seem like she doesn’t know a thing about any of this to save everyone’s… well… tails, but on the inside, she’s thrilled I put two and two together and hopped in.
“It was my idea,” Jayne says, valiantly taking the blame for what was actually a grand mouse plan. “I didn’t think I could do it without her.”
“Good thing you kept your mic belt on, then,” Mom says. “See how things work out?” God bless my mother.
“Indeed,” Bet says. From the way she and my mom are eyeing each other, five bucks says Bet was in on it, too. “So? How was it?” she asks.
“It was…” For once, I’m the one who can’t find my words.
So Jayne helps. “It was… everything,” she says.
“Well, it’s far from over,” Milly says. “We’re one short song away from your next entrance.”
“Quite right,” Bet says. “Ballet slippers on. Lulu, are you staying or going?”
“She’s staying,” Jayne says, before I can even answer. “She’s my good luck charm.”
Good luck. She said it. Without even thinking, she said what we’re never supposed to say.
“Oh, no,” Jayne says.
“It’s just a superstition,” my mother says.
“Over the years, I’ve heard it said hundreds of times. Nothing bad has ever come from it,” Bet assures her.
“Forget it happened.” Milly smiles.
“Okay,” Jayne says, breathing deep. “Forgotten.”
“Time to zip up,” Bet says. “Tuck that tail in, Lulu, so I don’t zip you, too.”
“Just one sec,” I say. “Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Thanks.”
“For what, my love?” Mom says with a wink.
“For… everything,” I say.
I duck down into the mic pack pouch, Bet zips the zipper, and we head back downstairs, passing Rosa at the stage door.
“Looking good, kiddo,” Rosa says. “I’ve seen a lot of Broadway debuts, but this one’s special.”
I give Jayne’s costume a tug. “You’re telling me,” she says.
We head through the (almost) soundproof door that separates the stage door hallway and the stage, into the wings offstage left.
“All right,” Milly says. “You know your cue?”
“Yep,” Jayne says. Tug. “And so does Lulu.”
“Shhh. That’s between us, all right? It’s bad enough Bet and Lulu’s mom know,” Milly says.
“Got it,” whispers Jayne, as we hear H.H. (in character) say, “Where are you, darling? Our guest is almost here!”
“That’s my cue!” Jayne says, twirling out of the wings and onto the stage. Luckily, it’s only five chaînés, and oh geez, this must be what sea sickness feels like. Try to spot, Lulu, try to spot.
On the final turn, I catch a glimpse of what looks like—no, it can’t be. It can’t be.
But it is. I’m sure of it. Out at the back of the house, illuminated by the red exit sign, stands Amanda. Arms crossed. Hoodie on her head. Just. Watching.
Jayne puts her hand on me, and I know she’s seen her, too.
In character, H.H. says, “You certainly know how to make an entrance,” which is Jayne’s cue to speak and Jayne says…
Nothing.
Never say “good luck” in a theatre. Maybe it’s not a silly superstition after all.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
H.H. SAYS THE LINE AGAIN, WITH A DIFFERENT intonation so the audience (hopefully) won’t catch on. I tug twice on Jayne’s dress. Nothing. I whisper the line. Nothing. Either Jayne can’t hear me, or she’s lost the ability to speak. Tug. Tug. Nothing.
No, not nothing, shaking. That stage fright from her first day has returned with a vengeance.
H.H. begins to expertly improvise a solo scene in which she fluffs the couch pillows and dusts the furniture.
With my supersonic mouse hearing, I clock Pete in the wings, whispering into his headset to the rest of the crew, “One more minute and I take down the curtain and we say she got sick or something.”
No. Absolutely not. This will not be Jayne’s Broadway debut. This will not be my Broadway debut. A Broadway debut I had just about given up on moments before it happened.
I will not let Amanda’s fast-working anti-nausea pill ruin the night we’ve both dreamed of our whole lives. No. Nah. Not. Gonna. Happen.
So before you can say “Please bring Oliver! back to Broadway with Adele as Nancy,” I’m out of the mic belt and up on Jayne’s shoulder. H.H.’s eyes go wide, but she plays it cool, switching from furniture maintenance to adjusting her stockings, in an effort to mesmerize the audience with her “legs for days,” I guess.
I get right up in Jayne’s ear and say the line. Nothing. I say it again. Nothing.
So I go off script and say what really needs to be said.
“Do not let her take your dream from you, Jayne. You are on Broadway. You. You can do this.”
I feel a tear trickle down Jayne’s cheek. It hits me like a drip from a leaky, saltwater faucet.
She takes a deep, determined breath.
Then… she says the line.
H.H. immediately snaps back into the scripted scene, and, phew, that’s a relief, everything’s going to be just fine and… oh, no… I’m on Jayne’s shoulder. I don’t think I can get back into the mic pack pouch. What am I going to—
“What a charming little mouse you have there,” Stella says. She’s just made her entrance, but this isn’t her entrance line. This isn’t even in the script. I repeat. This isn’t in the script.
“A little sidekick of sorts, I suppose?” This line is in the script. But Stella’s character is referring to Jayne’s character’s teddy bear, who she dances with in the number that’s about to begin. But instead of pointing to the teddy bear, per the blocking, Stella points to me.
“Indeed, madam,” Jayne says, gently taking me from her shoulder and placing me in her palms, thankful tears in her eyes. “A sidekick and a friend.”
The audience gasps. I prepare myself for a mass evacuation and screams, but, so far, they’re staying put.
“Simply marvelous,�
�� Stella says.
That’s the cue for the music to begin, so even though Michael has a look on his face like he’s seen… well… a mouse performing on Broadway, he signals to the orchestra to start playing, and they do.
And I spend the rest of the number front and center, onstage at the Shubert Theatre, on Broadway, with three of my favorite human beings—humans who have always treated me as an equal, humans I’d do anything for, who would clearly do anything for me.
Once all three gals start to sing in unison, I join in, too. And while I’m sure no one can hear me—I’m not wearing a mic and, while yes, my voice is strong and powerful, it’s strong and powerful for a mouse—I’m singing on Broadway.
And the audience isn’t running. They aren’t screaming with fear. They’re laughing, and—based on the few faces I can see—they’re loving every minute of this. Sure, they run when they see me in the lower lobby, when they see my brothers in the alley. But since I’m up onstage, they have permission to like me. To be unafraid. Onstage, I’m not scary, I’m just part of the show. Onstage, I’m just like everyone else.
Before I know it, the number is over and the curtain falls for intermission.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN,” PETE SAYS. “Thirty-five years in show business, and I don’t even know where to begin.”
We’re up in the dressing room, after being swarmed by the entire cast and crew, who were all as in awe of what happened as I was.
“That’s live theatre for you!” Dan had basically screamed.
“I can’t believe it; I just can’t believe it!” Jodie definitely screamed.
“Well done, Lulu. A welcome surprise.” That was Stella. She hadn’t screamed—she’s a fairly measured person who doesn’t really show too much emotion—but it was her calm praise that meant the most. Had it not been for her quick thinking, I don’t know what we would have done. I certainly would not have made my full-out (and incredibly unexpected) Broadway debut.
Now, though, we’re facing Pete. He’s an understanding guy, but this isn’t a usual misstep, like getting to the theatre late or forgetting a prop; this is big. Mouse-on-Broadway big.
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