Roman and Jewel

by Dana L. Davis

  “Yes, thank you,” she says. “This is very exciting.”

  Mom and I both stand.

  “Welcome to the cast, Jerzie Jhames,” Sandi says warmly.

  “Thank you.” I wave to the table of solemn faces before following Mom through the door and back into the dimly lit hallway. We move toward the elevator in silence.

  “Are you disappointed in me?” I finally whisper.

  “Disappointed?” We make it to the elevator, and Mom turns to me, takes both my hands in hers, and squeezes tightly. “You shot for the stars and landed on the moon. I couldn’t be more proud.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.” She sighs.

  I do, too, wiping my tears as they finally fall.

  “If Love Be Rough with You”

  Present day

  Who would give this place a second glance? I never have. And I’ve passed it before, lots of times. Simple, glass double doors. A shiny, stainless steel border. The address frosted on the front in bold white: 111 New Forty-Second Street Studios. A row of what looks like Hollywood-style vanity lights perched above the doors casts a romantic glow against the stainless steel. It’s still nothing fancy. In fact, it appears to be just another storefront in Times Square. And heck, hundreds of people are scurrying by the way I always have before, completely ignorant of the fact that some of Broadway’s best could be rehearing just on the other side. Annaleigh Ashford, Fantasia, Jordan Fisher, Kristin Chenoweth, Hailey Kilgore! Who could imagine?

  We’re buzzed in. The doors slamming shut behind us quiet the brash and exhilarating roar of Times Square, which is similar to the rumble of an eternal raging storm. Like that giant red spot on Jupiter that’s actually a 360-year-old hurricane.

  I digress.

  As we step into the lobby, Nigel pushes off a desk manned by a single attendant and makes a beeline for us.

  “Nice hair.” Nigel points at the curly ponytail perched on top of my head. “You are a puff princess.”

  I twist a curl around a finger and blink dramatically. “I wake up like this.”

  He slides off his cap to present his matted mess of hair. “Not me. I had to work fifteen years to look this bad.”

  I laugh, and we pound it out.

  “Welcome to your first official rehearsal.” He slides his baseball cap back on. No matter the day, Nigel always wears the same thing: a black T-shirt, backward baseball cap, khaki cargo shorts, black-and-white Chucks, and a walkie stuffed into his back pocket. I’m starting to think this is the production-assistant wardrobe. Nigel’s not unattractive or anything. He’s actually a nice-lookin’ dude for being almost forty. He just seems to need a bath, a haircut, a shave, and clean clothes.

  That aside, he’s the coolest dude ever.

  He waves flirtatiously at Aunt Karla, who says, “Nigel, now don’t play. You wouldn’t know what to do with this.”

  I’m confident she’s right, because Aunt Karla’s last boyfriend, Maximus, was about 210 pounds and worked as a roofer in Brooklyn.

  But Nigel’s not intimidated. He grins mischievously at Aunt Karla and whispers, “Don’t underestimate me.” He hands me my laminated badge and credentials. “Rashmi is tending to a tiny issue. Okay if I take her from here, Aunt K?”

  “Fine by me,” Aunt Karla replies.

  Rashmi is the child guardian for Roman and Jewel. Broadway Babysitter Extraordinaire is what Nigel likes to call her. During my private rehearsals at the other studio, she was always close by. But since I’m the only cast member under eighteen, I wonder what sort of “tiny issue” Rashmi could possibly be tending to on my official first day with the cast.

  “I’ll see you this afternoon.” Aunt Karla hugs me tight. “And try to have fun. Okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  I take a quick moment to take in all of Forty-Second Street Studios as Nigel stares longingly after Aunt Karla while she exits the building. Though there really isn’t much to take in, since we’re only in the lobby. It has an industrial vibe—a sterile space with simple white walls, an elevator, and a modern set of stairs to the left.

  “Ever been here before?” Nigel’s walkie crackles, and unknown voices converse loudly through the speakers. He twists the knob to lower the volume, and I follow him to the lobby elevator.

  “Nope. Never.”

  “Pretty much every musical headed to Broadway will rehearse here at some point. Our production has three rooms, but we’re rehearsing big company numbers today, so most of the cast is in 7A. We can drop off your things in the classroom, say hi to your teacher and Rashmi, then I’ll take you there.”

  This is another thing about being under eighteen and working on Broadway. Not only do I have a babysitter, I have to go to school, at least until school is out for the summer. Which, thankfully, is in two more days.

  We step off the elevator and into a hallway that feels a lot like the Grand Central Terminal. There are so many people coming and going, my eyes burn from trying to take it all in. Girls shuffle down the hall in giant hoop skirts, followed by dancers in leotards, and those classic LaDuca heels that are sort of synonymous with theater productions click clack down the hallway as they rush past. I packed mine in my backpack in case standing around and doing nothing involves actual movement, though I’m pretty confident the heels won’t actually be needed.

  We make it to the end of the hallway and Nigel turns to me. “Your classroom. Fancy right?”

  Small. A few chairs. Four-by-four-foot tables pushed against the walls. Two computers. Aaaaand that’s it. “It’s the classroom of my dreams.”

  My guardian, Rashmi, is kneeling beside a young girl who looks about eight or nine. The girl is sitting under one of the tables with her head resting in her hands, crying uncontrollably. Ahh. This must be the tiny issue? Literally. I wonder what production the girl could be from.

  My teacher, Miss Benefield, stands beside Rashmi. Both are struggling to get her out from under the table. Rashmi gives us a polite wave that seems to say, Sorry, I’m busy helping right now.

  I wave back and hope my wave relays a heartfelt no worries at all! I stuff my things under one of the chairs and turn to follow Nigel down another hallway, weaving through more swarms of performers, musicians, and crew. There’s a guy dressed in full costume like he’s headed to a Revolutionary-era war, and I’m thinking he’s rehearsing for Hamilton. Is he? I freakin’ love that show. My dream of all dreams is to be cast as Angelica one day. When I get older, of course.

  We step inside another elevator that takes us up to the next floor. The doors slide open, and I continue to follow Nigel. This hallway isn’t as busy, just a few people with cargo shorts and walkies sticking out of their back pockets passing by. Maybe Nigel’s oufit is the production-assistant wardrobe.

  At the end of the hallway, we stop in front of heavy double doors with 7A painted across the center. Nigel pulls one open, and I follow him into a massive rehearsal space.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows gift us an aerial and panoramic view of a living and vibrant Times Square. The cast of Roman and Jewel—none of whom I’ve met before—is milling about. Since the show is a diverse reimagining with singing and rapping, the cast looks like a multicultural explosion. So many varieties of skin tone. So much melanin and lack thereof.

  Some cast members are warming up near the piano. A few who I imagine are dancers are stretching on the floor. I make this judgment based on their perfectly muscled physiques, which look as if Michelangelo spent a few days in his studio meticulously carving their svelte figures. When they bend, muscles I didn’t even know a body could have are delicately and beautifully accentuated on their thin frames. A few dressed in sexy spandex are in conversation with choreographers—at least, I think they’re choreographers, since they’re counting and demonstrating dance moves.

  There are about forty people in the room, but I’d gue
ss only a third account for the cast of the show. Still, it’s hard to tell who is who and who does what. I should mention, it’s loud in here. Conversations are roaring. Also. A portion of the floor is like...moving. Sort of like those human conveyor belts they have at airports. I think they’re called moving walkways. Anyway, some of the cast members are gazing at it, watching as a technician demonstrates how it works.

  To add to the roar of the room, there’s a drum kit stuffed into the corner with a drummer warming up. I can feel the thump of the bass drum blending with the beat of my heart. It makes me want to throw caution to the wind and dance. But I’m not allowed to make a scene. I know my place. I’m here to observe. Be invisible. That’s it. That’s all.

  There’s also an old upright wooden piano on the opposite end of the room with a pianist banging out a song I recognize from my private rehearsals. My vocal cords are buzzing.

  Too bad standbys don’t get to sing.

  I should probably find a place to sit, but I’m sort of frozen in place, taking in the energy of the room and also, admittedly, looking for Cinny. I’m able to spot her pretty easily, because there’s a bodyguard standing a few feet away from her. At least, I assume he’s a bodyguard. He’s a big dude, dressed in all black, with his arms folded across his chest and he’s looking around the room almost daring somebody unauthorized to try to talk to her.

  Cinny’s in deep discussion with the director, Alan, like they’ve become the best of friends, which I imagine they have. It stings a little. Okay, a lot. I haven’t seen him since my heartbreaking final audition at Beaumont Theater, and my stomach sort of flips and flops around as I observe him in all his director glory but not directing me. Cinny nods as he speaks, and I can’t help but wonder what sort of Broadway wisdom she’s receiving.

  She looks different in real life. Normal, I guess. She has on yoga pants, the standard LaDuca dance heels, and a white T-shirt that looks cut in half and shows off her flat tummy. We’re basically wearing the same outfit, except I’m wearing black-and-white Vans instead of my dance shoes, my yoga pants aren’t as fancy as hers, and the fact that I’m wearing a shirt that shows off my belly is a clear sign I’m parent-free this summer. If Dad were here, he’d probably rise out of nowhere like Storm from X-Men and shout, Jerzie, put some clothes on! not even caring that he was embarrassing me in front of all these people.

  But back to Cinny. Her silky straight black hair hangs dramatically to the middle of her back, and her skin is like the color of cinnamon. Maybe Cinny is short for Cinnamon.

  A tall blond boy joins Cinny and Alan’s chat, and I smirk when Cinny’s bodyguard gives the dude an evil glare. Clearly he’s a part of the production and not a threat to Cinny. He’s wearing skintight dance pants, so his manhood is like... accentuated...for lack of a better way to put it. He’s also wearing an equally tight tank top that shows off his broad shoulders and muscles. His hair is slicked back, and he’s nodding dramatically, as if whatever Alan is saying is the gospel.

  Is this the guy playing Roman? I don’t wanna feel disgusted, but there’s something about him. A snark factor. A white-privilege air. The way he moves. The way he blinks. Like he’s used to people watching him and is always putting on a show. Don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely got the Look. Attractive. Tall. All muscled up. Like he should enter rooms on a white horse, bow and arrow aimed and ready. But he’s not my type. Also, he and Cinny have about as much chemistry standing next to one another as Trump and Michelle Obama.

  I reach for the straps on my backpack to pull it off and realize I’m not wearing it. In the awkwardness of the crying kiddo, I left it in the classroom.

  Crap. I need my script to take blocking notes. I look around for Nigel, but he’s disappeared into the mass of people milling about the room.

  I can be quick. I make a mad dash for the door and trace my steps back the way Nigel brought me, but the elevator is being held for some rather large scaffolding.

  Around a corner I find the stairwell, yank open the door, and run down to the next floor. Once I step into the hallway, I weave around people, carts stacked with props, and musicians lugging instruments, and finally make it back to Rashmi and Miss Benefield, who have managed to at least get the crying girl out from under the table. Progress!

  I grab my bag quickly and rush back to the stairwell, taking two stairs at a time. I certainly don’t want to be officially late on my first day with the cast. But at the top of the stairs the door is locked. Or jammed? What the...? I pound on it.

  “Hello?” I shout. “Anybody out there?” I pause to catch my breath, peeking through the crack to see if anybody is passing by, when suddenly the door is thrust open and smashes into my head. I yelp, jerk back, and wind up slamming down butt first onto the hard concrete of the empty stairwell.

  “Shit.” Someone kneels beside me. I’m covering my head with my palm, thinking that will somehow dull the sudden, excruciating pain. “Are you okay?”

  The voice is soothing, apologetic. It was an accident. Clearly. But I can only wince in reply.

  “I’m so sorry I hurt you,” the voice says genuinely. His voice is deep and calming. I’m not sure why, but it sends a shiver rushing up my spine. “Can you look at me?”

  I raise my head. Slowly. “I can’t see,” I whimper. “I think I might be temporarily blinded or somethin’.”

  “Well, your eyes are closed.” Now his voice is slightly amused.

  Oh. Duh. My lids lift. A pair of blue eyes comes into view. Electric blue. As blue as the ocean was in St. Lucia when we visited two years ago. As blue as a feeling.

  The boy holds out his hands. “Can I help you up?” I place mine in his, and he gently helps me to my feet. “Can’t believe I did that. Who knew a human’s head was pressed against the door.”

  “Didn’t you get the memo?” I say slowly. “Human heads will heretofore be lurking in stairwells behind doors.”

  “I got that memo,” he replies seriously. “But I didn’t think it went into effect until after Labor Day.”

  I tilt my head up ever so slightly so that his entire face can come into clear view. And...well. He’s pretty. I’m not one to swoon over pretty boys, because New York is full of them and you’d be swooning all damn day, but this one is like, cut from the pretty-boy catalog. Wild and unruly waves of jet-black hair hang over his forehead. Big, sapphire-blue eyes; full lips; wide mouth; smooth, flawless, and radiant skin with a pale, Edward Cullen vibe to go with it.

  One of my hands rests on my forehead, covering the spot the door slammed into. I’m dizzy. Maybe even a little weak in the knees. Is it because of a possible concussion? Or because of this boy’s high level of attractiveness?

  “Do you feel nauseous?” He’s looking at me so weird. As if I’m an alien stepping off a spaceship platform or something. Or like maybe...he knows me. But I’m certain I’ve never seen this guy before. He’s got the sort of face you remember.

  “I feel a little dizzy,” I reply. But that might be because you smell so good. The scent of him. It’s moving through me like a healing ointment, sort of soothing the ache in my head.

  Now I lower my hand. There’s blood. Just a little though.

  His blue eyes widen at the sight of it. “Come with me. We’ll get you all cleaned up.”

  The door is propped open with a motorcycle helmet, which I’m guessing is Pretty Boy’s, since he scoops it up and stuffs it under his arm, then he extends a hand to me. It takes me half a second to realize he’s offering to like, hold my hand. Overwhelmed with the desire to touch him again, I place mine into his and let him lead me into the hallway, gently guide me around a corner, and escort me into a one-stall bathroom.

  At the sink, he places my hands under the nozzle, activating a heavy stream of water that washes away all traces of blood. There are no windows in here, but the fluorescent light flickering above us makes the water glimmer like liquid crystal.
He pumps out soap and proceeds to work up a healthy lather on both of our hands. I stare, transfixed, watching our hands meld together. We’re like living, moving, interracial art.

  Our eyes meet again. What the hell, man? This boy is fine. He definitely doesn’t look like a Broadway type boy. Whatever that looks like. This boy looks and vibes like a rebel, with his frayed leather bands wrapped about his wrists and black-painted fingernails. And while I can’t tell what it is, I can see a tiny bit of a tattoo, peeking out from under his long-sleeved shirt.

  I bet he plays the guitar or the drums. I’d ask questions to verify, but I’m still trying to will my lips back in motion.

  “I’m sorry.” He grabs the last paper towel from the dispenser and lets a bit of soap and water run over it, then points to my forehead. “You mind? So it doesn’t get infected.”

  I nod yes.

  He reaches out to wipe my forehead with the wet and soapy paper towel. And even though the spot he’s touching is now aching, it doesn’t really bother me. His eyes. His touch. His face. My filter must somehow get shut down, because without thinking it through, I whisper, “Damn, boy, you are cute.”

  He laughs, exposing strikingly white, perfect teeth. “Says the girl with the beautiful brown skin and big brown eyes. You’re pretty cute yourself.”

  Did he just call my skin beautiful? And cute? Really? Me?

  “You’re gonna have a nasty bruise. Want me to run and get you some ice?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’ll take my chances.”

  He sighs. “You’ll forgive me though, right?”

  Of course I forgive you, beautiful human boy!!

  But rather than say that, I simply nod.

  There’s no more paper towels so he lifts his shirt to dry my hands, exposing quite the set of abs. Guys who have bodies that hint they live at the gym never really impress me. But this boy’s thin and muscled physique looks effortless. He’s not spending time at the gym—being cut in all the right ways is in his DNA. My God. I don’t mean to stare but...daaaaang.