She walks away. “It’s just a banana. It’s not like it’s cake.”
Sam and I stare after her a beat, and exchange a look as I mutter, “My favorite person.”
“Stop.”
“She got the part. Why does she have to still try to make you feel small?”
Samantha cocks an eyebrow. “Still?”
Flicking a glance to Marion, I remind her, “It’s always been that way ever since we were kids.”
“She’s really insecure.”
I snort, “Doesn’t come off that way!”
“There’s no other reason for her to have made all those little digs.” Samantha pulls her blonde hair down to fix her ponytail. It’s been a long morning. “If she’s that critical of me, she’s just as critical of herself.”
“She’s jealous.”
“For what reason? So dumb,” Samantha mutters, staring at the ground while she focuses on getting her hair right. She glances up, and her eyes brighten. I look over to Asher on his phone re-entering the rehearsal space. He winks at her.
She lowers her voice. “What do you think of him, Logan?”
Ms. Galloway claps, shouting, “Alright, places everyone.”
We hastily tuck our water bottles away and return to the center of the room.
Glad I didn’t get a chance to answer.
I might have said what I really thought:
I could make you happier.
Chapter Eight
SAMANTHA
The Day Before Opening Night.
P ractice has stages.
First stage—everything is new, and you’re struggling. But you’re so excited to be here you don’t care.
Second—you’re getting the hang of it, but the nit-picking begins where every out-of-sync leap is berated and repeated until you no longer remember who you are.
Third—you’ll never get it perfect. A wall is hitting you in the head, not the other way around. Life is awful. You want to give up. Get a desk job. No, not that. Never that. But you groan about longing for an easier life anyway.
Fourth—breakthroughs. Exhilaration. Exhales. Huge grins.
Fifth—You get lazy, thinking you’ve got it. Timing deteriorates and you’re back to stage two.
Sixth—it flows the way it was always meant to, and you rejoice. Brows are mopped while laughing, eyes shine because you really are as good as you hoped you’d be.
Seventh—dress rehearsal. If it goes well then opening night will be awful. Nobody knows why, but the kiss of death is a good dress rehearsal.
So far, that’s what we’re having.
Logan steals a look at me from the Alliance stage where our final run-through is taking place. For the last week we’ve been here, with tape on the floor to mark where we must land at key moments. He’s standing where his argument with ‘Donovan’ happens, and Asher is backing onto his mark like he’s supposed to. He doesn’t know that his brother is waiting, and has been spying.
They argue, and the lights become blue and gold for dawn. Us dancers who are playing ‘chaos’ behind the quarrel tear over each other. In the play we are lost, the brothers’ rift tearing us apart. As it grows louder, singers form a choir that matches us, heightens the tension, and creates suspense I feel in my pulse.
It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve done this. When it’s performed as it was meant to be, magic takes over—a symbiosis that blends us all as one being. We live for this feeling. But we were hoping for it on opening night. It’s arrived early.
Logan leaves in disgust, and Asher darts a worried look around the stage, wondering if the love of his life will show. Just when he thinks she won’t, Marion appears and leaps to let him know it.
Their duet I performed in the failed audition, is beautiful. Two talents bringing an elevation to the art. I can picture her in Cats, Les Miserables, The Phantom of the Opera. And unlike me, she can sing.
What am I doing here?
Am I destined to be background for the rest of my life? Always coming in second, is that how I want to live? What is the purpose?
All of these years of hard work?
Marion screams and, from my position, I whip my head to see why? She’s grotesquely sprawled on the floor, a bone from her leg jutting out of broken skin. A collective gasp joins mine, and she screams in agony at what an injury like this means. For her place in this show. Maybe for her own life.
We rush to see what can be done. My heart has stopped. Galloway jumps onto the stage like a cheetah caught up with its prey. She lands gracefully by her female lead, scanning the damage as an agonized waterfall flows from Marion’s tragic eyes.
“Stu, call an ambulance!”
From the darkness of the audience, he says, “On it.” Even now he shows little emotion. What is wrong with that man? Has he no feelings?
“My leg! What am I going to do! My leg!”
Logan crosses to me, standing at my left side. Asher is on my right as he bends and touches Marion’s face. “You’re going to be okay,” he lies.
All she can see in him is Broadway. Sobbing, she covers her eyes to block out his, gasping for breath against the pain.
I whisper to Logan, “How did this happen?” as the circle echoes the same question. We were all engaged in our roles at the time of the fall.
From a far away place, Asher murmurs, “She didn’t hit her mark.”
Galloway stands up. “Samantha, you’re playing Izzy.”
My eyes fly open.
Everyone gasps.
Marion cries louder.
Asher touches my right elbow as Logan grabs my left hand. We stare at the broken bone, broken spirit, that gave me my big break.
Chapter Nine
LOGAN
Opening night.
A tornado of activity is backstage as technicians battle cables, props, curtains, and lights, while dancers, singers, and cast fend off family members sneaking a peek of the action and wishing us good luck.
Two words you never say to a performer are good luck.
Never ever ever.
It means its opposite.
We always say break a leg.
Nobody will be saying that tonight.
“No, Mom, don’t say it!” I keep hearing as
