To Wish or Not to Wish

by Mindy Klasky

  Did he think that I was trying to seduce him now? Did he think that I’d changed my mind about our Fourth of July fireworks? That I was determined to pick up what we’d left off?

  Well, was I?

  Oh. I had to say something.

  “I don’t know you,” I said. When he frowned, I hurried to add, “I mean, I like what I do know about you, but that’s all professional. That’s all work. I don’t know where you grew up. I don’t know if you have any brothers or sisters. If you had any pets when you were a kid. What your favorite color is. I don’t know you. And I want to. Um, know you.”

  It sounded a little stupid when I phrased it like that, but Timothy relaxed a little in his chair. His voice was deceptively mild as he asked, “And then, what? You’ll compare all that to Teel’s life? You’ll add up the totals, and then you’ll get back to me with a final decision?”

  “Teel!” My genie’s name shocked me.

  “Isn’t that what’s going on here?” Timothy’s voice was steady, but there was a jagged edge beneath his words. “I saw the two of you, that night you all came into the restaurant, with Amy and Justin and Shawn.”

  “That night—” I cut short my protest.

  “And he comes by the theater often enough. Takes you out on breaks. You talk to him, all the time.”

  “There’s nothing going on between Teel and me.” I wanted to look away. I wanted to chew my lip. I wanted to cross my fingers and make some idiotic schoolgirl wish—“Just this once”—to make things easy and comfortable and familiar.

  “Right. I guess the coffee down at the corner is just better than what I provide?”

  I blushed and scrambled for an explanation. “He’s a friend. It’s hard to keep in touch with friends when a show is going on.”

  Timothy sighed. “I might have believed you, a while back. I might have believed you when you stopped by the restaurant after I stayed up all night reviewing Amy’s plan. When we went up on the roof together. When you brought me back to your place.” He had to stop, to clear his throat. “But Erin, three weeks. You’ve avoided talking to me for three weeks. I’m not going to compete in some beauty contest with Teel. I’m not going to beg for your attention. That’s not a game I’m comfortable playing.”

  “There’s nothing going on with me and Teel!” I said. I couldn’t believe that my wonderful get-to-know-you conversation was snagged here. I looked Timothy in the eye and said, “This isn’t about Teel. None of this has ever been about Teel.”

  He held my gaze. I could hear him breathing. I sensed that he was measuring me, testing me, and I had no idea what else I was supposed to say. “Timothy, you have to believe me. Teel isn’t my boyfriend. He never has been. He’s my—”

  Genie. I wanted to say genie. I wanted to say it; the word was right there, the two syllables hovering on the tip of my tongue.

  But I couldn’t. Just like I hadn’t been able to tell Amy about the magic lamp, all those months ago, when I stood in Becca’s kitchen.

  Frustrated, my eyes filled with tears. Timothy noticed, just as he had that night in my apartment. Just as he had in the shadows, as we lay on my couch. This time, though, something inside him hardened. His face turned to stone. “Right,” he said. “Whatever.”

  He stood and walked to the door, opened it. The hallway outside was empty. “Thank you,” he said, making the two syllables sound impossibly formal. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  I didn’t know what else I could say. I didn’t know what else I could do. I took my cup of lukewarm coffee and walked out into the hall.

  Three days later, I made my way to the theater. At the drugstore next to the theater, I stopped and splurged on junk food—a bottle of full-test Coca-Cola and a sleeve of four Reese’s peanut butter cups. The snack food of champions, I told myself.

  I wasn’t going near the catering table. I couldn’t imagine talking to Timothy ever again. Not after that disaster in his apartment.

  I needed sustenance, though. We were about to undergo our final dress rehearsal. We were running Menagerie! from start to finish, making every possible effort not to stop. We were using all of the lights. All of the sound cues. All of the costumes. Our entire orchestra was going to be there, for as long as we needed them, even though their union demanded overtime pay after three hours. All the understudies were going to watch, silent, from the back of the theater. Ken wasn’t going to use us; this was the last chance for all of the stars to master their roles.

  Final dress rehearsal.

  Previews would start the following night, would run for two weeks, while we tested the show in front of live audiences. Critics would be out there, judging our creation. And then, the show would open officially, and Menagerie! would climb into the stratosphere, ride Martina’s television fame to join the ranks of the world’s most successful musicals. I could only dream that we would run as long as Cats, as Phantom of the Opera, as Les Misérables. If we ran for twenty years, Martina had to move on to something else, didn’t she? I had to have a chance to perform onstage, at least once. Didn’t I?

  Shawn was waiting for me in the back of the theater. He’d brought three bottles of VitaminWater, the pink kind, and a bag of red licorice twists large enough to feed the entire population of Canada.

  “Going for the hard stuff, I see,” he said, nodding toward my own snacks.

  “It’s going to be a long day,” I answered.

  Ken interrupted before I could say anything more, summoning everyone to the stage, cast and crew. When we were all assembled, all eagerly awaiting words of wisdom from our fearless leader, Ken called into the wings, “Timothy? Can you join us for a moment?

  I tried not to stare as Timothy stepped onto the stage. I hadn’t seen him since Sunday. He didn’t look toward me at all, but I couldn’t tell if that was coincidence or calculation.

  Ken bounced over to Timothy and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You are a god among men.”

  Timothy shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with being the focus of everyone’s attention. “I should have done it sooner. I don’t know why I didn’t think of reaching out to the west coast importers. They have more direct lines than anyone here in the east.”

  “No,” Shawn said beside me, finally realizing what they were talking about. “He couldn’t have…”

  Ken overheard and contradicted. “He did. Ladies and gentlemen, our own Timothy Brennan has laid in a month’s supply of Lucky Red Dragon! Let’s all give him a hand.”

  Everyone cheered. Martina, who was holding court at the front of the stage, raised an iridescent green bottle. A bright crimson dragon was splayed across the label, thin as a worm. Chinese lettering blazed across the bottle, picked out in gleaming gold.

  Ken reached out to shake Timothy’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.

  Timothy headed back into the wings, and Ken returned his attention to all of us. He reminded us that he had faith in us. He told us that he knew we could bring Menagerie! to life. He told us that he didn’t believe in those old theater maxims, that a terrible rehearsal meant a great opening night. He said that we were going to have an amazing rehearsal, and tomorrow would be a fantastic first night of previews.

  “Okay, folks,” he wrapped up his pep talk. “Let’s take it from the top, in half an hour. Full costumes, full makeup. Make it perfect!” Ken was bouncing on the balls of his feet as he finished. I wondered if he’d had springs installed on the soles of his shoes. He had more energy than any five other people I knew. It was a good thing. This show would have drained a lesser man.

  The cast exploded into a flurry of chatter. As Shawn and I began our retreat to the back of the house, we passed Martina. She had struck a pose by the footlights, showing off her emerald soda bottle to a group of admirers.

  Okay. I didn’t think that anyone on the show still admired Martina. Some of the dancers, though, clearly thought that she could get them a shot at Hollywood, at one of those dance competition shows. Either that, or they just enjoyed passing time
with someone who was so clearly inferior to their own professional skills.

  In any case, Martina had an eager community of listeners as she expounded on the drink in her hand. “It was an energy drink before there were energy drinks. It has ginseng and twelve secret herbs and spices.”

  Great. She could read the seven English language words on the bottle. Ten, if you counted the drink’s name.

  Martina’s braying laugh grated on my nerves, and then I heard her shout, “Well, we wouldn’t be cutting things so close if that caterer had done his job. Idiot! It’s not like I was asking for anything difficult.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  I knew that I should just shrug off her words. I knew that there was nothing I could say that would change her, that would turn her into a different person, into a kinder woman, a gentler soul. She had insulted Timothy before, though, and I still felt guilty for saying nothing that time. If I stayed silent now, I was agreeing with her.

  And I did not agree with Martina Block. I did not agree with Martina Block about anything.

  I pivoted on my heel and faced her directly, even though I was outside the privileged circle of her onstage fan club. “His name is Timothy Brennan.”

  “What?” she asked. As she had in the past, she stuck her neck forward as she addressed me. She narrowed her eyes until she looked like a myopic stork.

  “The caterer’s name is Timothy Brennan. And you did ask for something difficult. You asked for something almost impossible.”

  Martina glanced at the bottle in her hand, shrugging as if it were a common Mountain Dew. “And who are you, to tell me what’s difficult and what’s not?”

  Blood rushed in my ears, so loudly that I couldn’t hear the titter of the crowd’s reaction. I blinked, but I couldn’t see anyone around us, any of the cast and crew. I only saw red, a wall of fury, of hopeless, helpless rage. A tiny corner of my brain remembered that I should walk away. I should stay silent. I should let Martina wallow in her conceited ignorance.

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t back down again.

  “I am Erin Hollister,” I said, and each word was steady, even, razor-sharp. “I am your understudy. Just like I was when you didn’t know me last week. Or the week before. Or eight weeks ago, when we started working on this show.” I thrust out my hand and repeated, “Erin Hollister. Pleased to meet you.”

  Martina recoiled as if my palm were diseased. Her right arm flew back, and for just a moment, I thought that she was going to throw the bottle of Red Lucky Dragon at me. But then, I realized what was really happening. I saw the truth.

  Martina had lost her balance, on the very edge of the stage. Her prima donna recoil from my extended hand had sent her teetering on the lip of the platform. Lacking any instinctive control of her body, any notion of a dancer’s balance, she flailed for stability.

  I leaped toward her, trying to grasp her free hand. The rest of her circle moved, too, some closing in, others backing away, all of us flowing in painfully impossible slow motion.

  Martina opened her mouth to scream, but gravity claimed her before she could make a noise. Helpless, I watched her fall into the orchestra pit.

  CHAPTER 14

  WITHIN SECONDS, A HALF DOZEN PEOPLE HAD GRABBED their cell phones, had punched in 911. Ken dashed backstage and appeared in the orchestra pit almost instantly; he must have taken the stairs three steps at a time. We actors crowded the edge of the stage, peering down, trying to make sense of the chaos below us.

  Martina was fully conscious. She was screaming, howling with more volume than she had ever put into her songs onstage. Ken had his hands full trying to keep her from moving. Even from my vantage point, though, I could see that her leg was twisted in a terrible way. I could handle the sight of blood without any problem; I could mop up Justin’s ordinary cuts without a flinch. But the angle of Martina’s knee wasn’t natural. It wasn’t normal.

  I staggered upstage.

  There was no way that Martina Block was going to open Menagerie! I was going onstage.

  Eight weeks before, I would have been thrilled. Eight hours before, I would have been certain that the universe was functioning properly for once, that I was getting precisely what I deserved.

  Now, though, I was overwhelmed with guilt. Had I made Martina fall? Had I planned for her to stand on the edge of the stage, for her to tumble into the pit? I knew what a drama queen she could be; I’d been rolling my eyes about her for months. I had to have anticipated some grand reaction to my question. I had to have realized that she was in danger. That she was going to tumble over the edge.

  “I didn’t—” I said to no one in particular.

  “Of course,” Shawn said, materializing at my side. The words were right, but his eyes were narrow.

  “She just—”

  “She just fell down, all by herself.” Shawn nearly spat the words. I couldn’t tell if he truly thought I’d done this on purpose, or if he was just furious with himself for not taking his own extreme action.

  And he didn’t even know the full truth. He didn’t know that I could have called on Teel at any time. I could have made my genie move me into the lead role. I could have made my final wish, and everything would have happened cleanly, safely, without Martina getting hurt.

  But I hadn’t done that. I’d been too selfish to call on Teel; I’d wanted to save my magic for a rainy day. And now, Martina was the one to suffer.

  The doors to the lobby crashed open, and a team of paramedics stormed in. They rolled a gurney between them, maneuvering it down the theater aisle with a calming competence. The stage manager rushed to meet them, to show them how to get down to the pit.

  I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t stand there and observe as they evaluated Martina’s physical state, as they discussed the best way to shift her over to the gurney, as they ran through the patter of their professional reassurance. I walked away from Shawn—from angry, jealous Shawn—and I stared at the set around me. The walls of the Wingfield apartment felt as if they were closing in around me, trapping me in their dingy embrace.

  Finally, a lifetime later, the paramedics were rolling the gurney out the door. I forced myself to turn around. I watched them assure Ken that they’d take Martina to St. Vincent’s. He looked torn for a moment, then dispatched the assistant stage manager to accompany his star to the hospital.

  By the time Ken turned back to us actors, his face was composed. He was calm, confident, the fearless director who could lead us through any disaster—even the loss of our star during our final rehearsal. The only sign that he was utterly, completely panicked was that he stood stock-still. Not a single bounce on the balls of his feet. Not a solitary twist of his neck as he worked out nonexistent kinks. Not the tiniest twitch on his lips.

  And he was staring at me. Ken’s gaze was locked on me, as if I were the answer to his prayers, as if I could provide the perfect resolution to this crisis. And that’s when I realized that everyone in the entire room was looking at me, as well.

  Panic started to ride my heart. I tried to breathe, tried to reason past my terror.

  I could do this. I was a professional actress. I had trained for this role; I had sat through countless hours of rehearsal, of staging, of blocking and reblocking. This was the reason that I hadn’t been cast in the chorus; this was the reason that I’d staked my career on the distant, offhand chance that I would succeed, that I would actually appear onstage. The distance had closed. The offhand had come to pass.

  I was going to play Laura Wingfield in Menagerie!

  “Let’s go,” Ken said. “We’ll start the show from the top. Places in fifteen minutes, people.”

  The cast exploded into chatter, noisier than a cloud of cicadas. Ken crossed the stage to me. “The costume mistress will have to take in a few seams for the spoken-scene costumes. We’ll take care of that after the run-through. You can wear street clothes for now. The dance costumes should be fine. The dressers will have them ready for you in the wings.”

&nb
sp; He didn’t give me a chance to say anything, which was probably just as well. What words could possibly assure him that I was ready for the role? Could possibly assure myself?

  The rehearsal was a disaster.

  Okay. Not a complete disaster. My genie-inspired singing and dancing skills carried the musical numbers. But the straight play? The lines that Tennessee Williams had written? The words that had originally drawn me to this production, seduced me into the show, because I had played a flawless Laura in college, because I knew Laura’s heart and soul as well as I knew my own?

  I stumbled over every single word. I couldn’t remember the blocking. I stepped on other actors’ lines, repeatedly cutting them off or—worse—forgetting to come in when I was supposed to.

  Every time I made a mistake, the entire cast tightened, ratcheted to a new level of tension. Stress radiated off of Ken—he was back to his constant movement, to his restless twitching. He paced up and down the theater aisles, and even with the theatrical lights blinding me, I could see him tugging at his hair, making his wiry gray curls stand on end.

  With all the time we’d lost to Martina’s accident, we didn’t break for lunch. Instead, we kept right on rehearsing, moving immediately from the blockbuster, bring-down-the-house scene at the end of Act One directly into the song-and-dance extravaganza that kicked off Act Two. Everyone was tired, thirsty, hungry. Timothy’s catering tables looked as if they’d been swarmed by Mongol hordes. Not that I went anywhere near the tables. I couldn’t imagine dealing with Timothy, on top of everything else.

  By the time we finished, all of us actors looked like the survivors of some natural disaster. Makeup streaked our collars. Our costumes were twisted; a few were torn. My lungs ached, and I realized that I’d been close to hyperventilating for the entire afternoon.

  Ken gave us fifteen minutes to change into street clothes, and then he delivered his notes. He had detailed instructions for the conductor, dozens of references to late entrances, to lingering tremolos. He had specific comments on the singing, individual lines that he wanted to crisp up, to punch out, so that the audience could not miss their import. He reminded the dancers to focus on their arms, on keeping the visual lines of the show clean, crisp. He worked through every scene of the spoken play, giving countless recommendations to the actors playing Tom and Amanda, to Shawn’s enemy playing the Gentleman Caller.