Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
“You got this,” my hairstylist and best friend Takira says, jarring me from my thoughts and bringing me back to the dressing room as I prepare to go on.
Her words echo the mantra I’ve been chanting internally ever since I found out I’d be stepping in for the lead actress tonight. I’ve actually known for a few weeks because her vacation was planned, but this is the first night I’m actually doing it. On Broadway. Stomach in knots. Possibly vomiting.
“I’m gonna ruin this costume with these big ol’ sweat circles.” I laugh and lift my arms. “My nerves. Oh, my God. I just want to get this over with.”
Takira sticks another pin in to secure the long wig I’m wearing for the part.
“I repeat.” She catches my eyes in the mirror, resting her chin in the crook of my neck and squeezing my shoulders. “You got this. Truth be told, I thought Elise would never go on vacation ’cause she knows her understudy can sing her out of the water and act her under the table. She didn’t want folks seeing how good her backup actually is.” She winks at me. “But tonight they will.”
Will they? I don’t care if anyone thinks I’m better than the principal. I like Elise. She’s truly talented. I just want to get through this and not embarrass the director or let down the cast. Or disappoint the people who paid to see Elise.
“I’ll be right back,” Takira says. “I’m gonna go grab you some of that tea they had in the green room.”
The walls of Elise’s dressing room seem to clamp around me like jaws. While she’s on vacation, I get to borrow hers, but the one I share with three other understudies is a glorified broom closet four flights up. This much larger room is tastefully decorated, with gorgeous rugs, plush furniture and abstract paintings gracing the walls. Plenty of space for my doubts and fears to make themselves comfortable.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. The understudies cluster in the hallway, their eyes lit with excitement.
“Good luck out there,” Janie gushes. “There’s nothing like it.”
She’s been on before. As swing, she understudies for several actors, so her chances of getting onstage are greater than mine.
“You guys,” I say. “I’m so nervous.”
“You’re gonna be amazing,” Beth reassures.
They crowd around me with their topknots and varying shades of leotard and sweatpants, squeezing me. I slump into their arms, finding solidarity and a few seconds of borrowed confidence in their tight grip.
“Half an hour, ladies and gents,” the stage manager’s disembodied voice reminds us through the intercom system.
My heartbeat seems to triple.
“Okay. Almost time. Let’s get out of here, girls,” Janie tells the other two understudies.
“It’s your night,” Beth says. “Show ’em what you got.”
“Thanks.” I offer the three of them a smile and wave when they file out of the dressing room. I’m left with my reflection in the mirror and the waiting quiet. I do a few deep breathing exercises, some vocal warm-ups. None of my routines seem to quell the anxiety blossoming in my chest.
Takira opens the door, startling me as she enters carrying a steaming mug.
“Here you go.” She reaches in her bag and pulls out a bottle of water. “Room temperature. Wasn’t sure which you’d prefer so I brought both.”
“Thanks.” I’m mentally rehearsing the monologue from the final act, barely paying attention.
“Let me check your hair one more time and then I’ll leave you alone.” Takira comes over and adjusts a few hairpins. “Your scalp looked good, by the way.”
That does get my attention. I turn to search her face. My hair has been . . . an issue. After showing up for a few gigs and finding no one on set who knew what to do with Black hair, I started making sure I was prepared to do it myself. I found Takira, who has taken care of it recently and helped keep it healthy. I could have handled it tonight, but having her meant one less thing to worry about.
And Takira’s my girl. With so much distance between my family and me—not just the miles separating North Carolina from New York, but the chasm yawning between our hearts—I’ve collected a few good friends through the years. I’ve needed them.
There was a time when I couldn’t imagine a night like this without Mama and Terry, and now it’s hard to see them in any part of my life. Hard for me to imagine fitting into theirs. Especially Terry’s. I have a niece, Quianna, I barely know and can hardly bring myself to look at because each time I do, I see them.
“Stop it,” I tell the girl in the mirror with the heavy stage makeup and the silky wig spilling down her back. “The past is shit. The future is uncertain. All you have is now.”