“It’s my fault, Pete,” Jayne says. “I wasn’t sure I was ready, and having Lulu with me gave me confidence.”
“You got through your first number without her. What changed?” he asks. Jayne, Milly, and I hang our heads. “She was with you from the top of the show?”
“In my mic belt. She only climbed up to my shoulder because I froze and forgot my line. I saw Amanda at the back of the house, and I—”
“Wait. Amanda was watching?” Pete closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“She must have snuck in the front between numbers. She wasn’t there from the top of the show. It shook me,” Jayne says.
“I had to help her, Pete,” I say. “I just had to.”
“I allowed Lulu to ride along in the mic belt,” Milly admits. “But I did not authorize a shoulder stand. You promised you’d stay in the mic band, Lulu.”
“I know, Milly. I’m so sorry.” As fantastic as it feels to have made my Broadway debut, it feels absolutely awful to have disappointed Milly. Nothing comes without a price, I suppose.
“Thank you for the apology,” she says. “Pete, I take full responsibility.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” It’s Susie. “I was just in the lower lobby, and you’ll never guess what’s happening.”
“Please tell me the audience isn’t rioting,” Pete says, only half joking.
“The opposite,” she says. “They can’t stop talking about ‘that cute little dancing mouse.’”
Oh my goodness.
“You’re kidding,” Pete says.
Susie shakes her head. “I haven’t seen an audience this excited since Elphaba flew.”
Oh my goodness.
“Does this mean we can finish the show together?” Jayne asks with a hopeful grin.
“If the audience is happy, I’m happy,” Pete says. “We’ll deal with the union and the producers later. Get ready for Act Two, girls.”
OH MY GOODNESS.
“You heard the man,” Milly says, beaming. “Let’s get ready for Act Two! Jayne, that means the sparkly blue dress. Make sure to take a bathroom trip, too.”
“I’m on it!” Jayne says, heading to the door. “Be right back.”
“How are you feeling?” Milly asks, placing me on the counter so we’re almost face-to-face.
“Are you still upset with me?” I ask.
“You heard Pete! The audience is happy; he’s happy. He’s happy; I’m happy. To be honest, I would have done the same thing if I were you.”
“Then I’m feeling… happy!” I say. “Happier than I’ve ever been. When I woke up this morning, it was a typical Tuesday. Little did I know it would turn out to be the best Tuesday of my life. The best any day of my life.”
“Company, listen up, please.” Pete’s voice booms over the backstage monitor. “For the sake of continuity, for the rest of this performance the role usually played by Teddy the Bear will be played by Lulu the Mouse. Have a fantastic Act Two, everybody.”
“Well, once he’s announced it to the company, you know what that means,” Milly says.
“It’s official!” Jayne says, bouncing into the room.
Official. I’m officially on Broadway.
HAVE YOU EVER HAD A MOMENT WHERE YOU FELT SO happy you could burst? Where you were sure you must be dreaming and you’re just hoping no one will wake you up? I’m in that moment right now. I’ve spent as long as I can remember dreaming of what my Broadway debut would look like and feel like, but somehow I never dreamed this. This. This perfect, extraordinary, unexpected dream. A dream that was beyond my imagination. And I’ve got quite the imagination.
“See you out there, Tiny,” H.H. says, popping her head into our dressing room. “You too, Jayne. You’re doing brilliantly, by the way. Quite the debut. Both of you.”
Jodie sneaks in behind her. “I couldn’t be more proud if I were both of your mothers. Though that would involve some serious scientific advancements.”
Mother. My family! “Someone needs to tell my family!” I belt.
“I’m sure they heard the announcement,” H.H. says. “But I’ll head down there now, just in case. Don’t worry, Tiny. They wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Five Minutes. This is your Five-Minute call. Five Minutes please,” Pete’s voice pipes.
“Dress time, Jayne,” Milly says. “Lulu? Think you should wear your chartreuse ribbon-scarf?”
“Sure!” I say. “Can someone run downstairs to my nest to get it?”
“You left it here after Sunday’s show,” Milly says, reaching up to a high shelf to retrieve it. “I put it up there for safekeeping.” She hands it to me, and I whip it around my neck, just like H.H. taught me.
“Excellent technique, Tiny,” H.H. says, nodding approvingly.
“This is all bashert is what this is,” Jodie Howard declares.
“Bashert?” Jayne asks.
Another Yiddish term. But I’ve heard Jodie say it before, so I know.
“It means, ‘meant to be,’” I say, “in Yiddish.”
“Bashert,” Jayne says. “I like it.”
“Tiny, my dear,” H.H. says, patting me on the head. “To say I’m happy for you is the understatement of the year.”
“You and me both,” I say. “Also, I love it when you rhyme unintentionally.”
“Tiny,” she says, tears immediately filling her eyes, “you are very special.”
“You can say that again,” Jodie says. “Lulu the Broadway Mouse. Also knows Yiddish. From here on out, anything’s possible.”
The ladies leave, and Jayne steps into her sparkly blue dress. It fits like a glove. She looks like a little princess.
“Wow,” Jayne says. “I just… wow.”
“You look beautiful,” I say.
“You do,” Milly says. “And you, Miss Lulu. How about a little mascara on your whiskers?”
“Sure!” I exclaim with glee. But before Milly can pull the mascara wand out of its tube, we’re interrupted.
“Milly,” Rosa says over the intercom, “Amanda is on her way up. I tried to stop her, but I can’t leave my post at the stage door.”
“I thought she wasn’t allowed backstage tonight!” Jayne says, panicked.
“You two stay here; I’ll handle this,” Milly says, heading out the door. “If she gets me sick, so help me…”
“Don’t worry,” I say to Jayne. “Milly will take care of it. And Pete is not going to be happy. Just get used to how your dress feels. Make sure you’re comfortable twirling and sitting.”
Man, I wish I had a sparkly blue dress. Maybe by next week? My mom has never made any costumes for me before because she thought it would be “out of line,” but now that I’m a bona fide performer, I bet she’d be willing to sew one up in no time. No. Stop, Lulu. Be thankful for what you have. Your chartreuse ribbon-scarf is fabulous. It’s Stella-approved! Focus on the present. Focus on the—
“I need to speak to them!” I hear Amanda say. And before you can say “Into the Woods,” Amanda flings open our door and we’re face-to-face with the girl who almost ruined Jayne’s Broadway debut, simultaneously facilitating mine. She looks smaller than she usually does—probably because she’s been puking for the last three hours—but she also looks less harsh. Her arms aren’t crossed; they’re at her sides, just hanging there like spaghetti. She’s got no makeup on, so she actually looks her age. She looks… gentler.
“I’m not staying. I don’t want to get anyone sick. I just needed to say”—Is that a tear?—“you both are doing a terrific job. Jayne, I’m thankful you were so ready with such little rehearsal. You’re really talented. And, Lulu. I know this is something you’ve always wanted, and I’m glad it’s finally happening.”
What is going on? Did Amanda just say something nice? Something… from the heart? Something generous and selfless and kind? If I somehow fell into an alternate universe, I’m happy to stay here forever.
“Thanks,” Jayne says. “That means a lot.”
; “Yeah, thank you,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
I’m prepared for Amanda to snap back like she usually does after something nice sneaks out of her, but instead she says, “A little better. But I’m exhausted. I’m going to go back to my hotel. I couldn’t sleep without knowing everything was going smoothly, you know?”
“I get it,” Jayne says.
“That’s why,” Amanda says softly.
“That’s why what?” I ask.
“That’s why… why I am the way I am,” she says. “Why I can be controlling and competitive and… mean. I know I can be mean. I’m sorry. It’s just… I care. I love it. I love it more than anything.”
Somehow, that never occurred to me. She loves it, too. As much as I do, as much as Jayne does, as much as Maya did. As much as we wished and worked for it to happen, she wished and worked to keep it from going away. All this time, we were more alike than different. And honestly, I’m upset with myself for not realizing it sooner.
“I’ll walk you back down to your mom,” Milly says.
“Sleep well,” I say. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Maybe we can all go to Westway for matzo ball soup? It’s the only thing I can even think about eating,” Amanda says.
“I’d like that,” Jayne says. “But Lulu…”
“Sorry, I always forget you’re not allowed off the block. We’ll get delivery,” Amanda says. “So no one’s left out.”
“That’s a nice idea, Amanda,” Milly says. “Let’s head back down to your mom, okay?”
“Okay. Goodnight, girls. Have a great Act Two,” Amanda says. “And enjoy your first Broadway Bows.” It’s the most genuine thing I’ve ever heard her say.
Until she says, “I don’t want to end up like Darcy Monroe.” That’s the most genuine thing I’ve ever heard her say. And it explains so much.
“You won’t,” Jayne says.
“Not a chance,” I add.
She smiles at us, her tired eyes filling with apology. And a tacit promise to try to change.
She and Milly head out and wind their way back downstairs.
“Did that really just happen?” Jayne asks.
“It did,” I say. “Wow.”
“Maybe we’ll all be friends now,” Jayne says, touching up her lipstick. “I’d like it better that way.”
“Me too,” I say. And I suddenly feel a huge pang of guilt. And gratitude. All this time, it’s been all of us against Amanda. And now, because of Amanda, we were both able to make our Broadway debuts. Life’s funny like that, I guess. The puzzle pieces of our lives don’t make sense until they’re all put together. Amanda was a puzzle piece I couldn’t find a place for. A piece I was bothered by. A piece I wished I could get rid of. And now she’ll forever be the piece my puzzle wouldn’t be complete without.
I’ll tell you one thing. Tomorrow, over matzo ball soup and saltines, I will apologize to Amanda for not trying harder to understand her. For making her a scary “other” just like most humans do to mice. Yes, she was mean, but we were all mean sometimes, in our own ways. Sure, Amanda was a bully to me and Maya and Jayne, but we were bullies, too; it was us against her. We talked about her behind her back. I made fun of how much blush she wears. There was a part of me that was even happy when she got sick!
Jodie is right. This is all bashert. All of this happened for a reason. Amanda was meant to learn that it’s okay to be vulnerable. That it’s okay to admit you’re scared or jealous or that sometimes, when you love something so desperately, it makes you act out, because it’s your instinct to protect the thing you love. And that it’s better to apologize for your actions rather than becoming defensive and combative.
And I was meant to learn that I must, must, must see the good in others. I must try to understand them, instead of putting them in a box marked, “Don’t bother: too difficult.” I must be brave enough to ask, “What’s wrong?” over and over until the person (or mouse) is ready to give an answer. More than anything, I must never make anyone the enemy. I must always choose faith over fear. Love instead of hate. I’m excited for the sun to rise and for it to be a new day. A fresh start for the ladies in the third-floor dressing room.
“Places, please, this is your Places call for Act Two; Places, please.”
Holy cannoli, I got so caught up in my plans to become a better mouse I almost forgot I have a show to do!
“We’d better go,” Jayne says.
I don’t hop into her mic belt. I stay out in the open, up on Jayne’s shoulder, because I can.
I’m ready to be the best Teddy Bear understudy Forty-Fourth Street’s ever seen.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
IT’S OVER IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE. I’VE HEARD actors say that my whole life, and I’d always thought they were exaggerating. But after six scenes, five musical numbers, four costume changes for Jayne—including out of the sparkly blue dress and back into it for the finale—we’re at Bows, and all I can say is I’m glad I had intermission to take a breath and absorb what was happening. Because Act Two is over in the blink of an eye.
Jayne has the second-to-last bow, so we’ve got about sixty seconds to wait.
“Let’s rehearse,” Jayne says. She puts me in her palm, holds her hand out, then curtsies.
“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t take a full-out bow,” I say. I’d define a full-out bow as what Stella does. She strides out, head held high, takes in the audience, then folds in half at her waist, almost touching her hands to the ground. “One of the many reasons she’s an icon,” Chris whispered to me after our first preview as we watched Bows from the wings. “No one bows like Stella James.”
“Amanda curtsies, so I’ll curtsy,” Jayne says. “It’s the choreography.”
“Okay, girls, it’s time,” Milly says.
“Here we go,” Jayne says. “It’s been an honor, Lulu.”
“Right back at ya, my friend,” I say, fighting the urge to cry.
Jayne runs onto the stage, me in her hands, and the audience leaps to its feet. Jayne’s mom and dad and grandma and siblings start the standing ovation. Jayne’s dad cheers, looking to Jayne’s mom, who wipes away tears, first from her husband’s cheek, then from hers.
Our cast is hooting and hollering; Jayne is crying. She curtsies once, then puts her hand out like we rehearsed, showing me off. The audience cheers. I take a curtsy of my own. We join the rest of the company and all extend our arms out, pointing to Stella, who strides out as confidently as ever and takes a few epic bows. Then she takes Jayne by the hand—she did this with Maya, too—and leads her center stage.
“Take another bow, Jayne,” Stella says. “You too, Lulu.”
We do as we’re told, and the audience cheers again, and then we all form a line to bow as a company. The choreography calls for linking hands, so Jayne looks to Stella, unsure of what to do with me. My beloved H.H. saves the day, plopping me in her pocket, which, luckily, is fairly see-through.
“Can’t have you getting hurt, Tiny,” she says.
So we take one last bow, and though I wish I could be out in the open with them, I’m actually happy to have a moment by myself in H.H.’s pocket. I can make out the hazy silhouette of the audience. I can hear their applause. I can feel the lights. But I’m also able to close my eyes and take a moment to realize what I’ve just done.
I made my Broadway debut.
Me.
Lucy Louise.
Lulu.
The Mouse.
THE CURTAIN COMES DOWN, AND I’M OUT OF H.H.’s pocket faster than you can say “Did you hear the news? There’s a mouse on Broadway!” The company swarms me and Jayne, a customary sight when an understudy goes on, but it feels extra special tonight.
“Start popping the champagne,” Jodie shouts. “History was made today!” Everybody cheers and shouts (but they don’t whistle, obviously), and then I see them.
My family. Walt, Matty, Timmy, Benji, my mom, and my dad. H.H. sees them, too, so she let
s me down and we scurry toward one another in leaps so wide I’d suspect Susie would deem them grands jetés. (That’s “big leaps” in French.)
“Lulu. You’re on Broadway,” my dad says quietly, almost like he can’t believe it. And that’s it. That does it. Now I’m crying. I’m crying harder than I think I ever have. Because I’ve never been this happy. Because I’ve never seen my parents so happy. Because I could never have done this without them. Them. All of them. My theatre family and my Mouse family.
My mom hugs me so tight, it’s almost impossible for my dad and brothers to join, but they manage to squeeze in. (And my brothers will do just about anything to get out of a hug, so this is big deal.)
“Oh, Lucy Louise,” my mom says. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
“Nice job, Lu,” Matty says. “You looked good up there.”
“I bet you’ll get a mention in all the papers,” Timmy says proudly.
“You really did it,” Benji says. (He’s crying, too, by the way.)
“I’ve got some notes,” Walt says, grinning. Man, he’s a smart aleck, and I love him for it.
Jayne hurries over, her sparkly blue dress glistening under the lights. “Lulu’s family!” she beams. “Wasn’t she wonderful?”
“She was,” my mom says. “And so were you, Jayne. Quite the debut.”
“I literally couldn’t have done it without Lulu,” she says. “Guess what? They got us a cake! From some place called Amy’s Bread!”
“That’s the best cake in these here parts,” Benji says, blushing like a… cowboy? First, Maya and now, Jayne. Why is my brother so awkward around girls?
“Good to know,” Jayne replies with a wink. “Can’t wait to try it. I’m starving. See you all downstairs in the lower lobby? I’m just going to get out of costume. Hopefully, it’s not the last time I say that!”
AN HOUR OR SO LATER, I TAKE A BREAK FROM THE lower lobby party (and the delicious Amy’s Bread yellow cake with pink frosting) to sneak up to the stage. Aside from my twenty seconds in Heather Huffman’s pocket, I haven’t had a moment alone, and I feel like I need it.
Lulu the Broadway Mouse Page 11
