Six-thirty Thursday. We’re assembled in our costumes for dress rehearsal. The opening number is a medley of what Miss Davis calls rah-rah, let’s-put-on-a-show tunes—“There’s No Business Like Show Business,” “Applause,” “The Lullaby of Broadway,” etc. I’m dressed as a stagehand in overalls and a T-shirt, wearing a ton of Mom’s Emma Leigh samples. In fact, Mom doesn’t know it, but she donated makeup for most of the cast. I still haven’t told her about the performance this weekend and I don’t know if I will. I’m still that mad at her.
I stand near Gigi. Actually, behind Gigi. The good dancers are in front, while the “good singers” like me bring up the rear. At least I’m not on the side of the stage! I look around at the shadows behind me. My friends. I’ve only known them a few months, but we’ve bonded together working on this show. The lights fade, and I stare out at where the audience will be tomorrow. The music starts, and I feel a ripple down my spine as the follow spot hits Sylvanie, and she sings her first line:
“Welcome to the theater, to the magic, to the fun…”
It’s the same line Miss Davis quoted that first day. I didn’t know what it was from then, but now, I know it’s from a show called Applause. Applause. I love applause. That’s why I came here. I wanted—and still want—to be in the show.
The rest of the dress rehearsal goes pretty much as it should. I forget my steps twice, but I smile big like Ms. Wolfe told us, and go on like nothing happened. It’s too late for her to make me a side-singer. When it comes time for my duet with Sean, I get there early and wait in the wings in my satin dress (trying not to think about the fact that Arnold paid for it), the two drama students do the lead-in for our song. Halfway through, Sean joins me. I feel his hand on my arm.
“The script’s pretty lame,” I whisper.
“Yeah, but you class it up.”
The two girls finish their scene, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning as we go out to do Violetta’s death scene.
Sean is the perfect Alfredo, and I die beautifully.
The only numbers after ours are the classic Broadway scenes and the finale. Gigi’s in the classic Broadway section, doing “If My Friends Could See Me Now,” a song-and-dance number from Sweet Charity. At this point, I’ve seen her do it approximately seven hundred times, so I head backstage to change into leotard and tights, vest and top hat, for the finale. I walk to the mirror to check how I look. I suck in my stomach. Someone steps beside me.
It’s Rowena. “Hey.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I just came back to tell you, all the faculty are raving about your performance.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
“I was thinking about that summer program,” Rowena continues. “I’m so sorry you’re not going.”
“Me too.” I reach down to fiddle with the strap of my character shoe.
“I was thinking that maybe if I had a word with your mother, it could help her understand what a great opportunity this is. Maybe you could get a part-time job in New York.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” I unbuckle my shoe entirely, to keep from having to look at Rowena. From the monitor in the dressing room, I hear Gigi’s song start. Only two more numbers left until I’m onstage. Can I make this strap last two more songs? “My mom’s not even coming to the show.”
“Not coming? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. She doesn’t want to come. She hates my being in performing arts.” It’s not a total lie. Mom isn’t coming. She could have asked when the show is, but she’s too worried about her own stuff to bother. Tomorrow’s the night she goes out on her big date with Arnold—possibly making him my stepfather-to-be.
I need to change the subject. “Is this what it was like, being an opera singer? Did you always feel so excited when you went onstage?”
Rowena nods. I know she’s going to say something else about Mom. So I ask another question.
“Do you ever miss it?”
She shrugs and smiles. “Sure I do. You can’t do something every day of your life, dream about it every night, without missing it when it’s gone. But I had a great time singing, and now I’ve moved on to teaching, which I love just as much. Being a singer meant sacrifices as far as family, friends, a normal life go.” She looks me in the eye. “On the other hand, if I hadn’t taken my shot at it, I might have had a lot of regrets.”
I know what she means. I try to think of something to say. But at that moment, there’s a scream from the television monitor. The music stops.
Gigi!
I leave my shoe unbuckled and stand. My head feels full and black, like I might faint from rising too quickly. I grab Rowena for support, but she’s already headed to the monitor herself. I grab a chair and, once I feel steadier, I push across the room. People are crushed against the monitor. I hear the words, “fell” and “still there.” I know that if Gigi could, she’d get up and finish her dance number. If the music stopped, she must be hurt. Rowena’s ahead of me, pushing through the crowd toward the stage. I grab her hand and follow.
When I get there, Gigi’s on the floor. Ms. Wolfe is next to her, holding her hand. She sees Rowena and yells, “Call a doctor!”
“I can stay with her,” I say.
Ms. Wolfe nods and heads backstage. Miss Davis is already there, yelling, “Be calm, children!”
“I’m fine,” Gigi moans. “The show must go on, right?” She starts to stand, grimaces, then sinks back onto the floor, holding her knee.
“Does it hurt a lot?” I say.
“No, I’m just on the floor for no reason!” she snaps.
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” She squeezes my hand hard. “I’m getting up now.” She winces. “Okay, maybe just another minute.”
“Just stay still. They’re calling a doctor to see if they should move you.”
She lets fly a choice list of obscenities. “My mom’s going to freak. She always thinks something’s going to happen to me. ‘You’re all I have,’ she says.”
I can’t believe it. Just like my mom. “You want me to call and tell her you fell but you’re okay?”
She nods and squeezes my hand again. “Cait, what if I tore something? What if I can’t be in the show? What if I can’t dance anymore?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“But what if?”
Ms. Wolfe shows up then with Rex and a tall drama student. “We’ll get you to a doctor, hon.” Her voice is so soothing I can’t believe it’s her.
“Should I stay with you?” I ask Gigi.
“Caitlin, shouldn’t you be onstage for the finale?” Ms. Wolfe asks. “We’re starting as soon as we get her offstage. You need all the practice you can get.”
Yeah, that’s her alright. I mouth, Call me to Gigi, and head backstage.
A minute later, we all go onstage to do the finale.
Of course, with Ms. Wolfe gone, I do the whole thing perfectly.
Subj: Worried
Date: 12/11, 1:17 a.m., Eastern Standard Time
To: pippin725@micromail.net
From: Caitlinmcc@dslnet.com
Do you ever wonder what it would be like if you couldn’t perform anymore? C
Subj: Re: Worried
Date: 12/11, 3:42 a.m., Eastern Standard Time
To: Caitlinmcc@dslnet.com
From: pippin725@micromail.net
No. I don’t let myself think about that even as a theory.
xxoo Sean