Alex Ko

by Alex Ko

  The powders, she explained, had been sent by her mother and were a traditional Chinese herbal treatment for injuries. It was something you couldn’t buy in stores, not in this country, but her family had passed down the recipe.

  “Add all these powders together, mix it with vodka, and heat it on top of the stove in some foil,” Emily directed me. Slowly, I hobbled around the kitchen following her instructions. “It’ll form a thick paste,” she continued. “That’s how you know it’s ready. Smear it all over your knee before you go to bed, and cover it with foil. It’ll help you heal faster. Just try not to breathe while you do it. You can tell it works by how it smells.”

  If smell was an indicator of strength, this was definitely some powerful medicine.

  Every night since, Mom and I cooked up a batch of poo paste for my leg. It really did make my knee feel better. It was warm and tingly and seemed to help with the swelling. And by this point, I would have done anything—even eat the poo paste—if it seemed to help. Being injured combined the two things I hated most in the world: being inactive and being unsure. And worse, they went hand in hand. The less I had to do, the more time I had to worry. It was a vicious cycle that left me staring at the ceiling every morning, having to will myself to get out of bed.

  Always before, I would have tried to push through. That was my training. In gymnastics, the number one priority was performing. You focus, and you overcome. The same attitude did not prevail on Broadway.

  “Absolutely not,” Kate said one afternoon, when I told her I thought I could work around the pain. “You are not coming back until you are better. Do you understand?”

  “I can do it,” I told her. I’d done it before. “You’re pregnant, and you’re still working.”

  “Being pregnant and being injured are very different things,” Kate said. “Also, I’m not thirteen and starring in a Broadway show three, four, five times a week. If you push and reinjure yourself, you might never heal. This is the rest of your life we’re talking about.”

  She bent down until her head was close to mine.

  “Alex, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we are not risking your health to put you back in the show faster. You’ll only make it worse.”

  I wasn’t sure anything could be worse than this, but I did as Kate said. I didn’t seem to have any other choice.

  Thankfully, the creative team came up with an idea. With all the buzz surrounding the show thanks to the Tony Awards, they were receiving tons of press requests every month. Some were for interviews and appearances on television shows, but many of them asked for support for charity events. They wanted a Billy to give a speech, or kick off a race, or lead a dance workshop. Because our schedules were so packed when we were in the show, we rarely had the chance to give back. Since I was out indefinitely, however, they decided to use me as a spokes-Billy.

  It was the first good show-related thing to happen since my injury. In fact, I got really excited about the chance to do charity work.

  My first event was just two weeks after the awards at Lincoln Center. I was asked to be a celebrity guest at the Covenant House annual Candlelight Vigil for Homeless Youth. Every year, hundreds of social workers, youth advocates, homeless and formerly homeless youth, family, friends, and supporters gathered in Times Square to bring awareness of the suffering of homeless kids. Simultaneous vigils were held in shelters, churches, and homes all around the country. I was shocked to learn that more than seventy thousand children live in Covenant House shelters across the United States, and many more were on the streets or in other homeless facilities. I couldn’t imagine how hard their lives must be.

  The event had a lineup of speakers from Covenant House, as well as celebrities like former New York Met Dwight “Doc” Gooden and Guiding Light star Karla Mosley. I had been asked to read a letter that had been left in the chapel of the Covenant House New York shelter by an unknown homeless young person.

  “Just read slowly and clearly,” said Juliana Hannett, the woman who facilitated all the PR done by members of Billy Elliot. It was her job to make sure we didn’t say the wrong thing, or stumble through our lines. She was sort of like our director for press events. Because Broadway shows are always making new casting decisions, thinking about tours, and extending (or cutting short) their runs, she made sure that we didn’t accidentally give out incorrect information, or say anything that wasn’t ready to be public knowledge. She was also a great speaking coach and helped me overcome saying “um” whenever I was nervous.

  And I was nervous tonight. As hundreds of people lit thin white candles in translucent blue holders, I practiced what I was going to say and fussed over my hair. The reading would be broadcast on the Times Square Jumbotron above my head, making me nearly fifteen feet tall and sending my voice echoing across the most famous intersection in the world.

  There was a flurry of activity on the stage as the head of Covenant House introduced me. Juliana counted down from three on her fingers, then silently cued me to walk up to the podium. As the audience applauded, I cleared my throat and began speaking.

  “I feel so blessed, “ I said, looking out over the crowd. “I’m getting the opportunity to live out my dream on Broadway, and I believe with all my heart that every kid should have that chance.”

  As I said the words, I realized they were true. I was blessed. I was living out my dream. Maybe there were some bumps in the road, but was life really terrible just because I hadn’t been on Broadway long enough? There were kids who didn’t know when their next meals would be, or where they would sleep tonight. As the November wind cut across Times Square, I shivered, imagining life without my family, or where I would go tonight if we didn’t have our safe, warm apartment.

  I had a hard, uncertain path ahead of me, but it wasn’t the end of the world—unless I let it be. Nothing is guaranteed in life. But even if I never got back into Billy Elliot, even if I never danced again, it didn’t mean I couldn’t do great things.

  Getting to Broadway required a level of focus that could sometimes make it hard to see all the other possibilities in life. Reading about the struggles of this young person who had so much less than I did put my life into perspective. Maybe I was meant to be on another path, or maybe this struggle was exactly the thing I was supposed to confront and overcome in my life.

  But until I had a clear sign leading me elsewhere, I was going to do everything in my power to get back on that stage.

  Chapter 23

  Father Figure

  “I probably shouldn’t ask you to sing now, because you’re not warmed up and you don’t have anybody here to play with you, but if you wanted to do a little something . . .”

  Rosie O’Donnell looked at Trent and me while Misty, her long-haired Chihuahua, trembled in her lap. I could barely believe I was actually at her house, sitting on her couch, being interviewed for her radio show. And now she was asking me to sing with her.

  Trent and I looked at each other and shrugged. This wasn’t part of the interview plan, but Juliana was giving us a big smile from the control room, so I guessed it was our choice.

  “Sure,” Trent and I said simultaneously.

  And next thing I knew, we were singing “Electricity” on air with Rosie!

  At this point, I’d been out of the show for nearly three months. I’d been looked at by Dr. Hamilton and Dr. Mysnyk, taken MRIs and X-rays, gone to physical therapy weekly, and smeared poo paste on my leg nightly. And my knee was finally beginning to improve. Not much, and not fast, but it was a little stronger, and every day at PhysioArts I could bend it a little more.

  Still, the show had no idea when—or if—I would return. The silence was driving us crazy. All Mom wanted was an answer. Would I go back? Would I be paid for the weeks I was out? Would I go on disability? Not only could the show not answer us, they couldn’t even tell us when they would be able to answer us.

  Luckily, my body seemed in no hurry to grow. I was still the shortest of the Billys, and my voice hadn’t ch
anged. So long as my knee continued to improve, I was optimistic I would return . . . eventually.

  In the meantime, I kept doing press and charity events. In November, I kicked off the Kids Fun Run at the inaugural Damon Runyon 5K Race for Cancer Research with the New York Yankees. Working with a cancer charity made me feel good, even better, in some ways, than working with Covenant House. It felt like I was doing something on Dad’s behalf, and I knew he’d be proud.

  In December, Liam and I appeared on Good Morning America to donate to their coat drive for the homeless. That night, Liam performed as Billy for the first time. It was bittersweet. I was excited for him, but I couldn’t help but wish I were up there. I’d been Billy exactly four times, which was more than I’d ever expected, and so much less than I had come to hope.

  It would have been easy for the show to cut their losses, bring on new Billys, and see if I still fit the part after I healed. Instead, the public relations people put me forward as the face of the show. Friends would send photos of me on billboards and taxis they ran into around the country. It shocked me every time. It was the show’s way of keeping me involved and letting me know they were committed to bringing me back. It also made practical sense, as I had much more free time than all the other Billys.

  Today, Trent and I were on Rosie Radio, Rosie O’Donnell’s SiriusXM radio show. It was the most laid-back press event I’d done yet. Rosie lived just an hour outside the city, and she actually ran her radio show out of her house. Or well, one of her houses. Rosie owned a small cluster of normal-looking homes on a pretty cul-de-sac, out of which she raised her family and ran her businesses. We entered one through the kitchen and walked upstairs to a converted radio studio. A dividing wall with a large soundproof window separated the control room from the studio itself, where Rosie, Trent, Misty, and I sat on the couch and chatted. Rosie was such a natural host that I felt completely comfortable and often forgot we were live. The half-hour interview went by like nothing. We were saying our on-air good-byes when Rosie made one final announcement.

  “We have a Wii and all the games, and we’re delivering it tonight to the theater!” She smiled as Trent and I stared in shock.

  “Thank you!” we rushed to say.

  She was so nice, we didn’t have the heart to tell her we weren’t allowed to have a TV in our dressing room—too noisy. Since I already had a Wii, I let Trent have it, while I took the games. It was such a sweet, generous gesture on Rosie’s part, and it reinforced everything I had come to learn about celebrities in my time at Billy Elliot: they were all really nice. Maybe it was just the ones who participated in charity events, or went out of their way to talk to a kid who was (until recently) completely unknown, but nearly every famous person I met was incredibly kind to me.

  At the end of January, Billy Elliot celebrated its five hundredth performance on Broadway with a sold-out house. In fact, even I had to stand at the back in order to get in. Seeing the show again reminded me just how much I loved it. When Billy sets off for ballet school in London at the end, I couldn’t help but tear up. Part of me wanted to warn him that going to the city wasn’t always the incredible journey you hoped it would be. But maybe that’s the beauty of the show: it promises nothing except for the possibility of a happy ending—much like life.

  Afterward, the entire cast and crew headed over to Glass House Tavern, a restaurant not far from the theater. Company management had rented the entire upstairs for the after-party. It was an elegant space with big stone chimneys and dark heavy wood tables. Counting me, there were five Billys in attendance. Now that I wasn’t on the regular rehearsal schedule, I didn’t see much of them outside of tutoring. Liam and I would play video games occasionally, and I got lunch with Trent sometimes. But most of us Billys kept to ourselves. Sometimes it could get weird playing the same role. By some unspoken rule we never talked about who was performing at what show or press event or awards ceremony. It was the only way we could be friends, by letting management assign us when and where they wanted, and not competing among ourselves for shows.

  “Alex!” Stephen yelled as I entered Glass House. “Come check it out.”

  He waved me over to a table by the wall, where a giant sheet cake was decorated with an icing version of the Billy Elliot logo, complete with a leaping silhouette of Billy. Underneath, it said 500TH PERFORMANCE. I have a big sweet tooth, and it looked delicious. I hurried over to get a bite.

  “Dayton! Michael! Trent! Liam!” Stephen called all the other Billys over. “Come on, come on. Tonight’s your night. All of you.”

  Even though I hadn’t performed in months, Stephen treated me no differently from any of the other Billys. As we all gathered around the cake, flashes popped left and right. Being actors, we couldn’t help but pose. For a few minutes, we played at being celebrities and pretended our friends and family were eager paparazzi. Eventually, Stephen quieted the room.

  “I just want to say a few words to congratulate these fine actors on the fantastic job they have done, five hundred times in a row!” Stephen said, smiling at all five of us. “But first . . .”

  He motioned for us to gather closer. We jostled in, and I ended up standing directly to his right. Suddenly I felt his hand on the back of my head. Before I could say a word, he pushed my face into the cake!

  Icing and yellow cake flew everywhere. I could feel the frosting squirt up my nose. The entire room burst into shocked laughter, and even though I couldn’t really breathe, I joined in.

  I’ll give them something to laugh about, I thought as I stood up straight and smiled big, crumbs falling from my chin.

  “Sorry, Alex, I couldn’t resist,” said Stephen as he came over with a napkin to wipe my face clean. I waited until he was only a few inches away.

  “Me either,” I told him.

  Stephen looked confused for a second, but before he figured it out, I pushed him into the remains of the cake. Now there definitely wasn’t any to eat, but I have to say it was worth it. A cake war lasted just long enough for Liam to end up splattered with icing as well, before waiters rushed over to deal with the mess.

  Even though I tried to clean up at the restaurant, I found stray locks of hair cemented together with icing when I got ready for bed that night, and crumbs plastered to my shoulders the next morning.

  “Dad,” I said, before falling asleep. “Thank you for sending me someone to look out for me. Everything’s still up in the air, but between you, Mom, and Stephen, I’m feeling hopeful again. Something’s going to change, I know it.”

  Two weeks later, Kate called to tell me it was time to rejoin rehearsals.

  Chapter 24

  My Return

  “I don’t know,” Dr. Hamilton said as he stared at my X-rays. He scratched his head and tsk-ed his tongue. I sat on the edge of my seat, silently begging.

  I’d been back in rehearsals for a month now, slowly getting up to speed. We’d had to change some of my routines to accommodate my leg, but not as many as I had feared. I was absolutely forbidden to do any big acrobatics, so my entire “Electricity” number had to be rechoreographed. And even though I’d kept up my endurance by doing endless hours of cardio, my legs still needed strengthening. But it didn’t take long before I could do the full show without any hiccups.

  “Wear this,” the therapist at PhysioArts said before the first dance rehearsal of my return. She handed me a brace that had a horseshoe-shaped piece of padding threaded into it. “This should keep your knee from ever touching the ground, even if you’re kneeling.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “How long do I have to wear it for?”

  “From now on,” she said. “We’re not taking any chances. And there’s no more running in the mezzanine, or doing any warm-ups on a hard floor anywhere in the theater.”

  Everyone was walking on eggshells when it came to my leg, which I guess made sense, because it was a serious injury. But I was nearly recovered, and I’d dealt with so many accidents before, I almost didn’t understand the issue. I
’d hurt it, it was better, and now it was time for me to come back. I was sick of waiting.

  There was one last hurdle to jump through. I needed a doctor to sign me back in. If Dr. Hamilton agreed, March 14, 2010—five months to the day after my injury—would be my first day back as Billy Elliot.

  I wanted it badly, and not just because I was desperate to get back into the show. That performance was actually a fund-raiser for Hancher Auditorium at the University of Iowa. Nearly seventy-five Iowans had purchased tickets, and though they didn’t know me, they were coming in part to see the local boy who had made it big. I didn’t want to disappoint them. But it wasn’t up to me.

  Please, I pleaded silently as Dr. Hamilton stared at my X-rays.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll sign you in.”

  “Thank you!” I wanted to leap over his desk and hug him.

  “But you need to be careful. I don’t want you back in here in four weeks because you pushed too hard and tore it again. It could very easily return.”

  He looked me square in the eye.

  “You were lucky this time, got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” I nodded. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

  And I meant it.

  At least, I did when I said it. . . .

  My first show back went as smoothly as it could. The Iowans in the audience cheered at everything I did, and although I was hyperaware of the changes we’d made to accommodate my leg, no one else seemed to notice.

  Being back felt like a dream come true. No more sitting around, no more physical therapy, and no more wondering what was going to happen to me. Finally, all the obstacles were gone, and I could do what I had come here to do: perform on Broadway, dance my heart out, and make Dad (and Mom) proud.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about the parts we’d cut, and wishing I could do the full thing. Maybe it’s the perfectionist in me, but I hate doing less than I know I’m capable of. But I knew if there was even the slightest chance I’d reinjure myself, they’d pull me right out—even if we were only halfway through the show! About once every other month, a Billy had to be removed at intermission, usually because he’d had a minor injury or gotten sick. Thankfully, there was always a backup Billy on-site, waiting in the dressing room, but I still didn’t want it to happen to me. So I played it safe . . . mostly.