22

It’s six hours to curtain.

The cast and crew scatter, and people I barely speak to (or who barely speak to me) are patting me on the back and telling me “thank you” and “you can do this” and I’m freaking out because it seems that no one really cares much about how good I am at what I’m about to be doing. They just care that I’m good enough to let them have their final hurrah.

“Mrs. Gild, can I step out for a second?” I ask her as she’s passing notes to the dozens of people who are clamoring for her attention.

“Sure, hon, but make it quick. I want to be sure we know what’s what on the parts with harmony.”

I stop by my seat to grab my bag before shoving through the side doors into the hallway. The air is so cool I’m instantly relieved by the change in temperature.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and dial my dad’s number. When I hear the click and the sound of his voicemail instead of a ring, my heart sinks down to the floor.

I almost hang up, but at the very last second, I decide to speak.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me. I—You said you wanted me to call you whether it’s up or down, and honestly, I don’t know which one this is. But the short version is that the girl lead couldn’t do the last show, and so, um, I’m going to fill in for her. I’m freaking out. And I just really wanted to hear you tell me I can do it. But, anyway. I’ll probably be too busy to answer if you call back. So just…it’s okay.”

I try not to sound mad or disappointed because, truthfully, I’m not. It’s just a fact of life right now that he’s not here.

He’s not a bad dad. He’s an amazing dad, and he loves me and I love him and I know that he’s doing every single thing he can do and I’m glad he’s following his dreams and that he finally wrote his tragic little memoir and that somebody, apparently, gives a crap.

But he’s not here.

He’s just not here.

“I’ll tell you all about it when I can. Be safe. Love you, Dad. Bye.”

I tap the screen and turn at the sound of the auditorium doors opening behind me. Grant walks out and straight to me while I’m digging through my purse for one of my quick-acting anti-anxiety pills.

“You hanging in there?” he asks.

“Not really sure, actually.”

Grant walks to the water fountain and presses the lever for me. I swallow my dose and then wipe off my mouth while staring at him blankly.

“I just want you to know that I know you can do this,” he says. “I know it, and I know this is going to be scary, but this is good. Don’t you think so? Doesn’t it feel like one of those things in life you’re supposed to do?”

He’s reaching, desperate for me to not be mad, but he’s right. Somewhere deep down, this doesn’t feel like a stretch. Like somewhere along the way, I should have known that a dramatic, turning point moment would have to happen in my life. And maybe this is it. I cling to the hope that this is it.

I look up into his more-green-than-brown eyes and tell him, “Yeah. It kinda does.”

It’s five hours to curtain.

My head is pounding. The blocking and notes and information have been pumped into my brain steadily for long enough that it should be oozing from my ears.

“Where’s Andrew?” Gild screams to no one in particular. “We need to run the scene before ‘Happily Ever After.’”

“Here I am,” he says, as he jumps up on the stage from the floor like some creepy theatre ninja.

Gild is distracted again, and I’m looking over my notecard and then Andrew is grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the middle of the stage. He moves me into position roughly, and it doesn’t seem mean. It just seems like he’s accustomed to moving and positioning and controlling everything he wants. Come to think of it, maybe he and Carmella are a pretty good fit.

“We start over here,” he says with an awkward flick of his hand.

I’m standing center stage, looking into Andrew’s annoyingly blue eyes.

My brain clicks into focus as he says his lines, and then he’s got both of my hands in his, and he’s speaking so sincerely that I’m utterly distracted. I never realized he delivered his lines with so much conviction. His hands feel super-strong. Like textbook-tearing strong. I glance at my notecard, crumpled in his grip, before I reply and then I almost reach up and punch him in the side of the head because his hand is gently touching the bottom of my chin.

Oh, crap.

I notice my legs quiver just a little bit—though to be fair, that could because they’re screaming obscenities at me for requiring them to stand and move for the past several hours, which is not our normal way. But whatever the reason, I realize that I’ve forgotten one, little, tiny, minuscule moment that happens in the show: Prince Dauntless kisses Princess Winnifred.

The tiniest kiss. It’s seriously supposed to be a peck. I’ve given my Grandma a bigger kiss than this. But still.

Andrew is going to kiss me.

Well, he’s just going to have to kiss my corpse because I am about to die.

He’s pulling closer, and then he suddenly breaks character and says, “And then I give you a little kiss before exiting stage left, cool?”

Uhhhh.

“Cool,” I say.

‘Cause the first time in my whole life that a guy kisses me gets planned out, complete with stage directions, every day. No big deal.

Andrew and I just stand there awkwardly while we wait for more instructions. Behind us on stage, set pieces are getting reset and I can hear Brice shouting something at one of his costume girls through the open double doors at the side of the house.

My eyes dart anxiously around the room, and then when I glance at Andrew, I see him just staring at me. I half-expect him to make some horrible comment about how he’s so upset he has to kiss me or that he’d rather have his teeth extracted, but he never does.

“So…” He scrounges for something to say. “Are you nervous?”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Are you kidding? I starred in a musical on six hours’ notice because the lead got arrested for drunkenness and indecency just last week. This will be a piece of cake.”

He laughs.

“And I know all about cake,” I say, hoping that, if I make the fat joke first, he won’t do the same.

“Oh. Right. Okay,” he says awkwardly.

“So…”

“Yeah.”

I look down at the index card, already bent beyond recognition from being rubbed and folded by my hot, sweaty hands.

Andrew reaches up and rumples his hair. There’s nothing at all special about the smell. “You’re doing good, by the way.” He bobs his head along with his own comment. “I think it’s pretty kickass that you’re brave enough to do this. I mean, I’m really good, but I’ve been practicing for weeks. If I had to do it on a few hours’ notice, I probably wouldn’t. You’re tough.”

“Tough. Yep,” I stammer. “Tough, toughie, tough.” Please, brain. Stop. I don’t know exactly why I’m being so weird. Maybe because he’s so good-looking or popular or because he’s dating my arch-nemesis. I bring my hand to my face and rub my eyes instead of hitting myself in the head.

“No, really, you’re a tough cookie.” He reaches up gently and awkwardly punches my shoulder. He’s almost being weirder than me.

“Well, it’s true,” I say. “I’ve never met a cookie I didn’t conquer.” I pat my belly and instantly regret it.

He chuckles, just a little, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he thinks I’m funny. “No, I mean it,” he says. “You surprised me. You’re gonna do great. Maybe not as great as me, but…” He flashes a smile that I never imagined I’d be on the receiving end of.

“Well, I hope so. I don’t wanna let everyone down.”

He reaches up and puts his hand on my shoulder, in the same place where he punched it before.

“You won’t,” he says.

I think I believe him.

It’s four hours to curtain.

Brice has me in his web as he’s snipping and sewing pieces of costumes together and apart and together again. He’s recruited several girls from the ensemble that are willing to help him get the job done, and I find myself in the dressing room with a rack full of clothes. He is making shooing noises and pushing the girls out, assigning them tasks as he shoves. He then reaches in his bag of tricks for some pins.

He’s talking so fast and I’m staring at my cue card, and I totally miss that he’s asked me a question.

“Hellooooooo, Imogen, punkin, are you ready?” He’s holding up the hot pink garment with black trim along the corset edges, and he’s waiting for me to duck my head inside so he can slip it over my body.

Fear rises in my chest, and I feel my skin dampen. What if after all this conjecture and after agreeing to do this awesome thing, I’m not even able to fit into her costumes? What if they have nothing in the whole costume closet that fits and therefore nothing I can take the stage in at all?

He pushes me behind some heavy clothing racks filled with costumes and turns his back. For a second, I’m not sure why he’s put me in my own little corner, but then I realize, it’s because he wants me to get dressed—and first…undressed. He reaches down and then slings a plastic bag over his shoulder.

In it, I find a pair of extra-large nude leggings, a pair of big, black, booty shorts, and a nude-colored camisole with a long, slimming torso that comes down almost over my hips.

I take a deep breath and rip off my jeans and hoodie and wrestle myself into what amounts to a big nude body suit.

“Okay,” I say. He turns to face me, but he doesn’t really look at me as he holds the dress up high.

In another out-of-body motion, I step under the heavy folds and the dress comes down around me. He spins me toward the back corner of the room, tugs on a zipper, and pins the fabric where he’ll need to make adjustments.

I feel him tugging again, and a cold knot forms in my stomach.

My chin falls to my chest and I feel my eyes start to well up. “Brice, it’s not gonna fit, is it?”

He steps in front of me and lifts my chin to look at him. “Honey, I’m going to try to not take that as an insult.”

With his hands on my waist, he turns me around and marches me toward the mirrors. My mouth falls open. I’m miraculously contained by the soft layers around me. The dress is on. It is zipped. It is tied and pinned. And I look like a freaking princess. I’m Princess Winnifred.

Granted, a two-hundred pound Winnifred, but a princess nonetheless.

It’s two hours to curtain.

I’ve been onstage and offstage. I’ve walked through every set piece and held every prop. Brice has decided that his team can handle makeup for the rest of the cast and that he’s going to help me. This is good because I wouldn’t have the first idea where to start.

Thick heavy makeup is smeared all over my face. Soft bristled brushes deposit wisps of powder on my skin, and dark kohl is used to ring my eyes. My hair is being straightened and curled. My lips are swabbed with color.

He pauses for a moment, and then in the mirror, as he steps to the side, I see them.

My arm. My scars.

I haven’t looked at them, thought about them, worried about them, but now, with only a couple of hours to go, my arm is all I can see.

“Brice!” I hear the panic in my voice, and I feel the dress start to squeeze against my lungs. The edges of my vision start to turn grey as I try to breathe.

“What?” Brice asks without really looking at me.

“Brice, I need you to find me some sleeves.”

My pulse beats faster and faster as Brice douses me with a fourth coat of hairspray.

“You look hot. Don’t worry about sleeves, really. You look great.”

I reach up and place my hand on my chest, and I can feel that my heart is pumping out of my skin. I look down and watch my ribs heave as I struggle for air.

Brice isn’t looking. He doesn’t see.

“Brice!” His name comes out in a desperate crack. “I can’t breathe.” The corset of the dress is wringing my lungs out, crushing me like a vice grip, and I really can’t breathe. I can’t breathe at all. “Brice, I need you to find me sleeves.”

My eyes fill with tears, and I tip my head back so that they won’t fall.

Full on panic sets in as Brice puts down the hairspray, and confusion and worry finally fill his face.

“Brice, I need you to give me sleeves. I need sleeves.”

“Honey, we don’t have sleeves. You need to calm down.”

“Brice.” I sound like a child. I can hear the tremble in my voice. I hold my arm up, showing him my scars only an inch from his face.

He looks at my arm and then lowers it to my side. And wraps his arms around me while I sit in the chair. He shushes me, and he doesn’t even worry that he’s flattening the hairstyle he so painstakingly teased.

“Look at me. Listen to me.” He puts his face as close to mine as my arm had been to his nose. “Breathe.” He smiles at me and soothes me with his voice. He waits for a second and then says, “Here.”

He reaches over to the vanity top and picks up a makeup sponge and a pallet with a rainbow of flesh-colored cake makeup. He begins to daub the flesh-colored crème onto my arms, and slowly, I watch as my scars disappear. With every layer of color, my breathing slows. With every press of the sponge, the scars grow fainter, and I feel my heartbeat return to normal. When he’s done, he spritzes it with setting spray and coats me in a fine layer of translucent powder.

He’s daubing the sweaty part under my nose and humming under his breath. As quickly as it came, the panic recedes. I stare at him. His precious, pixie face and his sweet tiny nose. I start to cry, but he wags his finger in front of me and says, “No, ma’am. I don’t have time to redo that makeup.”

He blows me a kiss and then vanishes into the hallway on a mission to turn another simple schoolgirl into someone else.

It’s thirty minutes to curtain.

The entire cast and crew (minus Charity, of course) is holding hands in the back, arms crossed, and Mrs. Gild is trying, and failing, to hold herself together.

“So I just want to thank you all again for going so far above and beyond the call of duty today. Every single one of you stepped up. Not just Miss Keegan over here.” She looks across the circle at me, her eyes all glisteny. Grant leans into my shoulder just slightly. Brice on my other side pulls up his leg behind us and kicks me in the butt. I smile.

She continues, “You’ve all made this possible, and you all should be proud. And no matter what happens, you’re going to get through it together. Even so, I think it’s only fair that Miss Keegan has the chance to speak before we pass the squeezes and go make our final preparations. Imogen?”

Again, I feel the weight of all their eyes. I feel the expectation and the fear.

“I don’t really know what to say.” I swallow. “I may screw this up. Royally.” I flash a cheesy grin, and they all giggle. “This isn’t something I would ever do…normally. But I just…maybe normal isn’t actually my best option, so I guess I’m gonna put on my big girl panties and just get out there. It was really amazing having all of you be so totally there for me this afternoon. So thank you.”

They all give me little smiles, and I squeeze both of the hands I’m holding.

I watch and wait as they each pass the gesture around the circle in opposite directions. I feel Brice squeeze my hand, but nothing yet from Grant’s side.

“Oh, great, did I ruin the circle?” I ask.

“Nope, I’ve got it,” Grant says. “I just wanted to make the last squeeze a big one.”

He squeezes my hand, and then we all unwrap our arms and I feel bodies start pressing against me until I’m stuck in the middle of the cheesiest, most ridiculous, overly dramatic group-hug since grade school.

And it feels awesome.

It’s five minutes to curtain.

Beyond all comprehension, we’re about ready to start.

After years of avoiding the mirror like a plague, I find myself staring into my reflection again with only a few moments before we begin.

There’s a single knock before Grant opens the door and enters dressed in his stage blacks with his headset over his messy hair.

“How are you feeling, Gen? You’re going to be great. Are you ready?”

It seems he might be almost as nervous as me.

“I’m…I guess I’m okay. I mean, there’s no stopping now, is there? And of course, I figure if I fall down dead from embarrassment, you’ll be the one to blame, so I can at least take solace in that.” Adrenaline is coursing through my veins, and my attempt to lighten the mood has left a quiver in my lips that I can’t seem to shake.

I stand and face him, all decked in my dirty, swampy Act I garb.

He looks me in the face like he’s got something important to say, but he can’t find the words.

I open my arms wide, and he breaks into a smile. His eyes look relieved and worried all at the same time. He wraps me in a hug that almost crushes me in half, and I look up into his face as he looks into mine.

“I’m so unbelievably proud of you,” he says.

“Thanks.” I pause. “I’m so scared.”

He moves his hands toward my face, but stops short.

“Makeup.”

He smiles and uses one gentle finger to tilt my chin up so that I’m looking in his eyes.

It feels like an electric current pulsing between us—or maybe a magnetic pull.

That gravity.

His gravity.

That makes me spin and keeps me right where I belong. He looks at me for longer than I expect, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not doing or saying the thing he came in to do or say.

“Just go out there and stare into those lights. Let the glow drown out all of the audience members, and put on a great show—for me. Pretend that it’s just me and maybe your dad. And your mom. All the people who love you and want you to have this moment to shine. Break a leg, Gen. I’ve got to go. We’re at places.”

He drops his hands and turns in one motion.

I nod my head, forcing the tears back behind my well-adorned eyes, before reciting the traditional echo, “Thank you, places.”