“Aww.” She seems to soften. “You’re like, the sweetest.”
I wait for her to extend the same compliment. After all, she was sitting in the hallway during my audition and had to have heard every note I sang. But instead she sighs dramatically.
“Well. Off to my next audition.” She flips her hair again. “I’m so tired.”
Another audition?
“What, uh, other show are you auditioning for?” I ask, hoping green-with-envy isn’t something you can emote.
“Not a show,” her mom cuts in, wrapping an arm around her daughter. “A feature film.”
“Yeah.” The girl smiles. “It shoots in Athens. I like, love Greece. Anyway.” Another flip of the hair. Jesus, she could use a hair tie. “You two have a blessed day.”
“Yes.” The mom nods. “Stay very blessed.”
“But don’t count your blessings before they hatch.” I laugh. They only stare quizzically at me. “It was a joke.” I shrug. “So smile while you still have teeth?”
They don’t smile. Instead, they exchange expressions that both seem to say, What a weirdo, quickly turn, move down the hallway, and disappear around the bend.
“I thought it was funny.” I turn to Mom. “I’m funny, right?”
“‘I like, love Greece’?” Mom rolls her eyes. “Who says that?”
“People who love Greece?”
“Jerzie?”
I look up.
Nigel, one of the production assistants who’s been helping to facilitate auditions, is standing in the doorway to the rehearsal room.
“They’d like to see you again.”
Of course this is the moment that I realize my bladder is about to explode. I stand so quickly that the metal chair wobbles beneath me. “Would it be okay if I ran to the bathroom?”
Nigel slides off his cap and runs a hand through his matted mess of dishwater-blond hair. “Uh. Yeah, I guess. Hurry up though.”
“I will!”
I’m almost at a dead run as I make my way over the linoleum flooring of Beaumont’s rehearsal studios. The bathrooms are at the opposite end of the hallway, so I’m a bit out of breath as I push open the heavy door that leads into the ladies’ restroom and move into one of the bathroom stalls.
It’s my seventh audition for Roman and Jewel. Is this what all Broadway stars have to go through?
I still have the Playbill for the very first Broadway show I ever saw. It’s stored safely in a Ziploc bag in the top drawer of the tall dresser in my bedroom, where I keep all my stage memorabilia. Phantom of the Opera was celebrating its twentieth anniversary at the Majestic Theatre, and Mom and Dad had scored third row center seats. They both graduated from the University of Rochester in New York and have always been big theater nerds. Which explains why, at six, I was listening to things like Lin-Manuel Miranda’s In the Heights instead of “the wheels on the bus go round and round.” That song makes me so dizzy.
Anyway, on the drive up to see the classic Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, as we got closer and closer to the city, giant billboards started lining the freeway.
Wicked.
The Lion King.
Hairspray.
The Little Mermaid.
Each billboard seemed to be welcoming us, like giants with rectangular-shaped hands pointing toward the promised land. Right this way to glory, they all seemed to say. My face was pretty much smooshed against the glass as I gazed up at the signs, imagining what it would be like to be connected to something so otherworldly. And then, when we came out of the Holland Tunnel and rolled into New York City, I seriously started crying. I didn’t even care that my brother, Judas, who’s two years older than me, was laughing and calling me queen of the drama dorks. Seeing those skyscrapers reaching over the horizon for the first time, driving down tree-lined streets with beautiful brownstones, the hordes of pedestrians rushing under covered walkways... Don’t ask me how I knew (I mean, I was only six), but I knew I belonged.
I was home.
* * *
After emptying my bladder of the near pitcher of water I ingested, I rush out of the stall to wash my hands and give my natural hair, which is pulled on top of my head in a high ponytail, a quick fluff. I twisted it last night, so it’s all coily and full the way I like it. I splash a bit of water on my face and watch the droplets slide down my cheeks and drip back down into the sink. Should I be wearing makeup? That other girl was wearing a full ton of it. My skin is dark brown, like Lupita Nyong’o’s, which Mom says is gorgeous and I want to agree cuz like, Lupita is ridiculously pretty. But sometimes I have my doubts about what I look like and how people perceive me.
Blotting my face dry with a paper towel, I can’t help but wonder what sort of privileges could be awaiting me backstage at a Broadway theater. I hear the stars of the shows have their own personal dressers. I’ve done theater my whole life; at school, local city theater, I even did a show at Aunt Karla’s church. She goes to one of those megachurches in Brooklyn, so it was kind of a big deal. Still, no matter the show, I’ve never had anybody help me get dressed and undressed. That’s rock star status.
I yank open the heavy bathroom door, toss the paper towel into the trash, and rush back down the hallway. Nigel is leaning against the wall, staring at his phone.
“Hey.” I’m all outta breath. “I’m ready. Sorry about that.”
Nigel nods. “Come on in.” He motions to my mom. “You, too, Mrs. Jhames.”
“Me?” Mom stands. “You sure?”
“I don’t give the orders, I just repeat them.” He pulls open the door.
Mom stuffs her cell into her purse, and we follow Nigel inside the rehearsal space.
At the far end of the room, three people sit behind a long, rectangular folding table. The casting director, Sandi Finn; the director, Alan Kaplan, and... When did he get here?
“Have a seat, Jerzie,” Sandi says.
Sitting beside Sandi is the writer and creator of Roman and Jewel. Robert Christian Ruiz! What the...? When—I mean, how did he get here? Did he sneak in while I was in the bathroom?
I pull at my ponytail and smooth out my T-shirt. Maybe I’m literally shaking, because Mom places a hand on my shoulder and whispers, “Relax, Jerzie.”
I nod in reply.
Robert Christian freakin’ Ruiz studies me as I approach the folding chairs like a timid bride headed to the altar.
“Hello,” I squeak as I slowly take a seat.
“Jerzie Jhames.” Robert Christian Ruiz speaks. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”