Made glorious, p.25
Made Glorious, page 25
Pam cast a sophomore once. Did I ever tell you? Junior year, spring musical. Fiddler on the Roof. She put Glenn Pesetto in as Perchik and told everyone at the first table reading that the rules for boys were different. “There’re so few of you,” she pronounced, “that with male-heavy shows like this, I run out of seniors and juniors real quick.”
I always thought it was a shame Glenn moved before junior year, because he couldn’t capitalize on his jump up the ladder. But now I know to build my own ladder.
It was never about Pam. It was never about Bosworth, either, and it wasn’t even about rich people, as many problems as they do cause.
If you want something, you have to reach out and take it.
The world is what you make of it.
The first scholarship essay Miss Keating ever assigned to me. Machiavelli. The end justifies the means.
The greatest lesson I ever learned from Bosworth.
And you agree with me, don’t you? You must; you’ve been right by my side throughout everything. I told you exactly what I would do. I told you I was going to chase after what I wanted, and you’ve watched me do it, step by step.
How can you not agree with me, after all you’ve witnessed here?
“You’re early.” Ethan strolls into the auditorium, and I do my best to slow my heart rate. He’s wearing only a white undershirt and the pair of gym shorts he’ll keep on beneath his Thackery armor. No shoes.
Bare feet are against the rules.
Seeing Ethan’s feet renders him vulnerable, like I’m seeing him fully naked.
All my emotions, everything that’s churned and whipped and settled in the past twenty-four hours . . . It froths within me, all at once, and I shudder, keeping from crumbling.
He is instantly concerned. “Wait, what is it? Did something happen?”
How can I answer that? Yes, everything happened. And it was because of me.
He holds on to my shoulders, forces me to look at him. “I know what’s going on.”
I am a vessel, and Ethan’s words have filled me to the brim.
I cannot wait to hear it, the accusations that will come out of his mouth. Surprised by my grit? Why should I be so conflicted now? Why should I fear being caught? Why should I do anything but rejoice, bask in the glory of all that I’ve done? Paranoia tries to hollow me out, but I refuse to succumb. My charade will not end here. The curtains will not close on me. I will not wake up to find myself invisible again.
I am nothing but triumphant. I cling to this feeling even as a tear breaks away and trickles down my cheek.
“You’re nervous,” Ethan guesses, and I shudder with relief. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a lick of it. “It makes sense. This is your first big show. But let me tell you why you shouldn’t pay any attention to those nerves.”
Yes, tell me. Tell me how to ignore the things that pain me.
“You’re so talented.” He wipes my tear away with his thumb. “I don’t know why Pam didn’t give you this role after we auditioned, but it doesn’t matter — you’ve proved that you belong here. I’m so proud to be sharing a stage with you. In fact, I can’t wait.”
I stare up at him, seeing myself in the reflection of his eyes.
Ethan, oh, god. We are right where we first met. The Halloween party, in our costumes, and now here we are, both stripped bare.
Our final show together, and it feels like the closing of something, even though I always hoped this moment would feel like an opening —
It would be so easy to tilt my mouth up. I can feel him, looking at me. Reconsidering. Things are fluid. There are ways to get around who you thought you were — and there are as many opportunities to be true as there are moments in your life. Any moment could be the one where things change.
I smile and tuck myself into his chest for a hug, breaking eye contact. Breaking the moment. “Thank you.”
I did not orchestrate things to steal a kiss from Ethan. I did not make my way toward Joetta to share the stage with him.
I am here for my own spotlight.
“It’s nearly five,” Ethan says. “Come on. Let’s go see how much eyeliner I can get away with before Shandie flips her lid.”
I laugh. The moment has passed.
The curtains onstage are still.
In two short hours, I’ll be standing on that stage before a full house.
Triumphant.
EVERY DRAMA DEPARTMENT, EVERY DIRECTOR, EVEN every performer, has their own warm-ups for before a show. The directors may proclaim that their particular warm-ups are steeped in some sort of ancient tradition, eliciting visions of Greek choirs chanting “red leather, yellow leather” behind the skene. But the truth is most directors are simply repeating the rituals they learned in their own high school drama days, creating an unending chain of tongue twisters and nasal trills.
There are vocal exercises, of course. Lots of lip buzzing and throaty hums, lots of deep breathing, scales, waking up the vocalizer. Lots of whooshing noises and sirens and other odd sounds that, on their own, would be bizarre to hear from any individual, but all together the sounds are rendered almost beautiful. The sounds of a cast, crowing as one.
After vocal warm-ups comes the grounding — the centering of oneself, the alignment of individual intentions into a single, solitary aim. A grail. Imagine you are filled with a blue light, cleansing your body as it moves up and down your insides. Imagine you are standing before a door, and once you walk through it, you enter a place where gravity does not exist and you are at peace. Some directors encourage students to pray, though they cannot suggest it in anything more than vague hints: “Stand in a circle and think of England.” “Heads down for a minute of silence.” Or, simply put, “Do the thing.”
Then a final raucous cheer, which always blurs the line between tradition and superstition. Put your hands in the middle and yell “Thundercats, go!” not because it contains any inherent magical spell or meaning to the students or to the show, but because the director has done that before every production since 1987, and they’re not about to risk it now.
Rory lies back in the dark.
This is Pam’s favorite thing to do during warm-ups on opening night, after revving the throat muscles and guiding the cast through gentle, golden mindscapes — that good old-fashioned trust exercise.
Lights out. Lie down on the drama room floor. And then you must all count to ten.
A reminder of the rules: Only one person can speak at a time or you must start over. You cannot go in any arranged order or pattern. Count to ten, one voice at a time, without any strategizing, without wordless gesturing, with no communication except some silent collaboration of the souls.
You must feel it. That’s your strategy.
Rory’s usual strategy? Just be quiet. Let the others count verbally — she dreaded the potential humiliation of boldly calling out a number, thinking it safe to do so, only to jinx another student who had decided this was their moment to speak. She would fasten her eyes tightly shut and send out a wave of invisible, supportive warmth to her fellow players. When they reached ten, they all claimed victory, even those who had not uttered a single integer.
But tonight, as she nestles on the pillow of her ratted, teased, leaf-adorned fox-maiden hair, she feels a prickling.
Pam’s meditations have not done anything to tamp down Rory’s nerves — though Rory diagnoses them as anticipatory, affirmative jitters and not locked-knee, vomit-on-the-front-row jitters.
Potential energy, coursing through her.
“Three,” she sings out during the first lull in the count.
She’s never been so bold. She’s never had reason to be — but right now, she could build a rocket by hand and shoot herself up into the sky, fueled only by this nerve.
The cast makes it to ten smoothly, without having to start over once, and everyone can feel it — the miracle that this is, the wonderment.
“That’s never happened in the history of trust exercises,” someone points out. “We’re so in sync.”
“Means it’s going to be an incredible night,” someone divines, and Rory can’t help but agree.
The key to a trust exercise, it turns out, is to trust no one else. Only yourself.
The lights come up, the cast rolls to their feet, and Pam begins her preshow pep talk.
Every year, every show, Rory has been in the ensemble and has known, in the deep, cruel pit of her stomach, that it doesn’t really matter if she hears this or not. It wouldn’t really matter if she were there or not, if she was asleep, if she replaced herself onstage with a scarecrow, two brooms tied together wearing her costume.
But tonight, it matters.
Tonight, Rory stands at the front of the cast cluster, looking up at her fearless director, as loyal and alert as a pup.
“Well, we’re finally here.” Pam smiles. She’s in her customary director ensemble — all black, a genderless, sexless outfit that is neither intimidating nor mysteriously scholastic à la Simone de Beauvoir; simply neutral, as if to wear any other color might give hints about which way she tilts, one way or another. She cannot flaunt any kind of bias tonight, not even pride in her own creation.
“What a production this has been,” she says. “Filled with surprises. Some difficult ones.” Everyone chuckles and nods, recalling the same unprecedented bumps in the road — and yet they’ve made it.
Rory has made it.
“I want to thank you all,” Pam says, “for your devotion, your passion, and your —”
The doors to the drama room open; ordinarily they wouldn’t be so loud, but in this concentrated quiet, they whoosh like airplane hatches.
Shandie pokes her head into the room. “I need to borrow Rory.”
Rory’s stomach flips. Pam looks down at her, as if searching for a good reason to keep her, but not even Pam can come up with one. Rory’s dressed, makeuped, her hair is shellacked into place. She’s warmed up, she’s meditated, she’s counted to ten in the darkness, and she’s heard enough of Pam’s pep talk to feel buoyed.
“Go ahead,” Pam dismisses, and Rory wishes she hadn’t.
“Five minutes to curtain” is Shandie’s addition, a kindness and a warning; Rory knows Shandie will hunt her down and search everywhere in the building to guarantee Joetta is behind the curtains when the lights go dark. The notion comforts Rory somewhat, knowing that she cannot simply slip away. She would be missed.
Shandie marches Rory through the hall with no explanation. The walkie-talkie at her hip spurts out a constant stream of updates: “Sold out of Junior Mints already!” “Need more programs at the east door.” “Just saw the press walk in. The Banner sent Gabby Hobbes this time. Rocko says she’s tough but fair.” “We want tough but fair. Let her try to find something wrong with this show, I dare her. We’re bulletproof.”
When Rory reaches the threshold, the silk rope bisecting the hallway, demarcating the spot where backstage begins, she sees what she’s been summoned for, and all of her frets, all those dark possibilities that went through her head, they suddenly vanish. She is instead beset by a great and overwhelming anger.
Her mother stands there, on the other side of the rope. Not in her scrubs, like she usually is, but made up, looking laboriously nice. Rory usually forgets that her mother can look like this, like her own separate person.
MOM: Well, hello to the leading lady!
MOM has a giant bouquet of roses, deep red with velveteen petals, a bouquet so beautiful, it takes RORY’s breath away. This bouquet probably cost seventy dollars. MOM tries to place it in RORY’s arms.
RORY: What are you —? I thought you had a board meeting tonight.
She doesn’t raise her arms to take the roses.
MOM: You forgot to put the schedule for the show on the fridge. I found out it was opening night from Janice, and she’s the one who told me the big news! This is great, Ror. Why didn’t you tell me?
RORY looks around, surreptitiously, like a mouse preparing to run for cover when the moon comes out.
MOM: Seriously, Rory. Why didn’t you tell me you got the lead?
“You don’t need to make a big deal out of it. It’s nothing. You don’t need to be here. It’ll probably be really boring.” I glance around — for who, I don’t know — but I must keep my eyes roving, keep from letting her look at me. I’m supposed to be hidden away from the audience now, and yet here is my mother, demanding that I converse here by the threshold, where anyone can see me. As if I’m just a nobody in the ensemble, just a body in the crowd.
God, this is exactly why I didn’t tell her. Because she wouldn’t get it. She’d never understand.
And she would have known right away. She would have known how weird it was that I got the role — she’d question it, and start to look closer, and the last thing I need is for her to go poking around in my business, searching for answers.
MOM: Here.
She finally passes the bouquet of roses into RORY’s arms.
I’m so proud of you, Ror. You’ve been working for this for a long time.
“I have nowhere to put these,” I say.
The roses are heavy in my arms, and they weren’t cleaned properly — a thorn stabs into me right below my elbow. The armor of Joetta is useless against gestures of goodwill that come with invisible strings.
MOM: (cheerfully)
Keep them backstage. That way you can look at them when you’re waiting for your next scene.
Yes, yes, that’s what I should have. I should have a whole row of bouquets in the dressing room, my own private garden. But not from my mother. From anyone except my mother. From everyone except my mother.
MOM: I believe your line here is “thank you.” These weren’t cheap.
“I didn’t ask you to bring them,” I snap. “I didn’t even ask you to come here. Are we going to be short on rent now, because you decided to bring these gaudy —”
A flash in the crowd behind my mother. A familiar face — or am I dreaming? Am I so keyed up by this surprise maternal visit that I can’t even tell whose faces belong to who?
I watch the crowd while my mother gives me some watered-down response — she can’t even scold me properly. Too afraid of what her daughter might do in response. Too afraid to lose me. Too invested in acting like a peer — maybe she’s lonely and has been waiting for me to grow older so she can have a built-in friend. But I’m not interested.
“I guess I can hold these until curtain call.” Mom reaches to take back the bouquet of roses, to cradle them all night like an infant.
But I slide them out of her reach. “No. That’s worse. Fine. I’ll find somewhere to put them.” I won’t allow my mother to slink out of her seat as the cast gives their bows, rushing onstage to find me and saddle me with these all over again in an even more public display of maternal devotion. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Break a leg!” my mother calls. “I’ll see you after the show!”
The harder you try, I think, the easier it is to push you away.
The flowers really are beautiful. They’re lush and fat and delicate and smell like a department store.
But I didn’t want my mother to come. I didn’t want her to be here.
All that meditation we did with Pam, now moot. There isn’t a relaxed cell in my body. I am all shivers and electricity, and as I pass a garbage can outside the choir room, I dump the roses in with a delicious thunk.
I slip into my place backstage, standing in the shadows, and breathe deeply. My knees are water. I’m searching for the power I felt only moments ago, that depth and that courage, but it’s misplaced.
I don’t have anything against my mother personally. She works hard. She is what she is — a lower-income single mother with Gilmore Girls aspirations and a spine made of jelly.
My eyes crinkle, hot with the threat of tears, thinking of the arrangement of roses now at the bottom of the garbage can. Why couldn’t she have just stayed home tonight? Why does she have to be so aware, so supportive? Why can’t she just let me be invisible to her?
Now it’ll be harder to perform onstage, knowing my mother is here. It’ll be harder to transform when someone who knows me so well is right there in the audience, tethering me to this reality.
Now all of my roles stack up in layers, the roles I’ve won and the roles I’ve assigned to myself, and it’ll be harder to break through.
But break through I must.
THE OVERTURE BEGINS, THE ORCHESTRA IN THE PIT playing its jaunty medley of Good Knight! Sweet Lady’s greatest hits. Those in the audience who recognize it, perhaps from their own childhoods or from old VHS copies that floated down from grandparents or garage sales, perk up. They know this, remember this. They remember what this show once meant.
And those who are hearing it for the first time sit up, impressed already by the extravagant strains of the strings, the bounding percussives, the raucous brass section, the promise of slapstick, adventure, and romance, all presented in less than three hours’ time.
As the overture swells and fades, a single pan flute trickles a playful melody as a spotlight warms onto a figure, stage right.
“Once upon a time, in a far-off place, there was a beautiful kingdom,” sings out Osbert, the gentleman-in-waiting and self-assigned narrator of this musical tale. He sits atop a wooden stool, striped stockings crossed. “And everyone in this kingdom had the most glorious hair.”
The curtains open, and there is the first set, a well-lit feast of bricked turrets, balconies, and a great tree-lined courtyard where the good folks of Downere are gathering to sing us into the opening number.
The stage has limited dimensions, but somehow the technical crew has transformed it, giving this kingdom texture and depth. A pastel blend of soft peaches and carnation pinks render the false castle into a Disney-movie idealism; the stark blue sky of the backdrop places the scene neatly into a sunny midday.
“It’s all sweet blooms and happy tunes,” sings the ensemble, “down here in Downere!” They are powerful in unison, voices charging into the audience, gripping every ticketed hand to tug them into the story. Come along, this way, their song seems to say. We know exactly where we’re going.
