“You promise?”
“I promise.” She sighs.
I do, too, wiping my tears as they finally fall.
“If Love Be Rough with You”
Present day
Who would give this place a second glance? I never have. And I’ve passed it before, lots of times. Simple, glass double doors. A shiny, stainless steel border. The address frosted on the front in bold white: 111 New Forty-Second Street Studios. A row of what looks like Hollywood-style vanity lights perched above the doors casts a romantic glow against the stainless steel. It’s still nothing fancy. In fact, it appears to be just another storefront in Times Square. And heck, hundreds of people are scurrying by the way I always have before, completely ignorant of the fact that some of Broadway’s best could be rehearing just on the other side. Annaleigh Ashford, Fantasia, Jordan Fisher, Kristin Chenoweth, Hailey Kilgore! Who could imagine?
We’re buzzed in. The doors slamming shut behind us quiet the brash and exhilarating roar of Times Square, which is similar to the rumble of an eternal raging storm. Like that giant red spot on Jupiter that’s actually a 360-year-old hurricane.
I digress.
As we step into the lobby, Nigel pushes off a desk manned by a single attendant and makes a beeline for us.
“Nice hair.” Nigel points at the curly ponytail perched on top of my head. “You are a puff princess.”
I twist a curl around a finger and blink dramatically. “I wake up like this.”
He slides off his cap to present his matted mess of hair. “Not me. I had to work fifteen years to look this bad.”
I laugh, and we pound it out.
“Welcome to your first official rehearsal.” He slides his baseball cap back on. No matter the day, Nigel always wears the same thing: a black T-shirt, backward baseball cap, khaki cargo shorts, black-and-white Chucks, and a walkie stuffed into his back pocket. I’m starting to think this is the production-assistant wardrobe. Nigel’s not unattractive or anything. He’s actually a nice-lookin’ dude for being almost forty. He just seems to need a bath, a haircut, a shave, and clean clothes.
That aside, he’s the coolest dude ever.
He waves flirtatiously at Aunt Karla, who says, “Nigel, now don’t play. You wouldn’t know what to do with this.”
I’m confident she’s right, because Aunt Karla’s last boyfriend, Maximus, was about 210 pounds and worked as a roofer in Brooklyn.
But Nigel’s not intimidated. He grins mischievously at Aunt Karla and whispers, “Don’t underestimate me.” He hands me my laminated badge and credentials. “Rashmi is tending to a tiny issue. Okay if I take her from here, Aunt K?”
“Fine by me,” Aunt Karla replies.
Rashmi is the child guardian for Roman and Jewel. Broadway Babysitter Extraordinaire is what Nigel likes to call her. During my private rehearsals at the other studio, she was always close by. But since I’m the only cast member under eighteen, I wonder what sort of “tiny issue” Rashmi could possibly be tending to on my official first day with the cast.
“I’ll see you this afternoon.” Aunt Karla hugs me tight. “And try to have fun. Okay?”
“I’ll try.”
I take a quick moment to take in all of Forty-Second Street Studios as Nigel stares longingly after Aunt Karla while she exits the building. Though there really isn’t much to take in, since we’re only in the lobby. It has an industrial vibe—a sterile space with simple white walls, an elevator, and a modern set of stairs to the left.
“Ever been here before?” Nigel’s walkie crackles, and unknown voices converse loudly through the speakers. He twists the knob to lower the volume, and I follow him to the lobby elevator.
“Nope. Never.”
“Pretty much every musical headed to Broadway will rehearse here at some point. Our production has three rooms, but we’re rehearsing big company numbers today, so most of the cast is in 7A. We can drop off your things in the classroom, say hi to your teacher and Rashmi, then I’ll take you there.”
This is another thing about being under eighteen and working on Broadway. Not only do I have a babysitter, I have to go to school, at least until school is out for the summer. Which, thankfully, is in two more days.
We step off the elevator and into a hallway that feels a lot like the Grand Central Terminal. There are so many people coming and going, my eyes burn from trying to take it all in. Girls shuffle down the hall in giant hoop skirts, followed by dancers in leotards, and those classic LaDuca heels that are sort of synonymous with theater productions click clack down the hallway as they rush past. I packed mine in my backpack in case standing around and doing nothing involves actual movement, though I’m pretty confident the heels won’t actually be needed.
We make it to the end of the hallway and Nigel turns to me. “Your classroom. Fancy right?”
Small. A few chairs. Four-by-four-foot tables pushed against the walls. Two computers. Aaaaand that’s it. “It’s the classroom of my dreams.”
My guardian, Rashmi, is kneeling beside a young girl who looks about eight or nine. The girl is sitting under one of the tables with her head resting in her hands, crying uncontrollably. Ahh. This must be the tiny issue? Literally. I wonder what production the girl could be from.
My teacher, Miss Benefield, stands beside Rashmi. Both are struggling to get her out from under the table. Rashmi gives us a polite wave that seems to say, Sorry, I’m busy helping right now.
I wave back and hope my wave relays a heartfelt no worries at all! I stuff my things under one of the chairs and turn to follow Nigel down another hallway, weaving through more swarms of performers, musicians, and crew. There’s a guy dressed in full costume like he’s headed to a Revolutionary-era war, and I’m thinking he’s rehearsing for Hamilton. Is he? I freakin’ love that show. My dream of all dreams is to be cast as Angelica one day. When I get older, of course.
We step inside another elevator that takes us up to the next floor. The doors slide open, and I continue to follow Nigel. This hallway isn’t as busy, just a few people with cargo shorts and walkies sticking out of their back pockets passing by. Maybe Nigel’s oufit is the production-assistant wardrobe.
At the end of the hallway, we stop in front of heavy double doors with 7A painted across the center. Nigel pulls one open, and I follow him into a massive rehearsal space.
Floor-to-ceiling windows gift us an aerial and panoramic view of a living and vibrant Times Square. The cast of Roman and Jewel—none of whom I’ve met before—is milling about. Since the show is a diverse reimagining with singing and rapping, the cast looks like a multicultural explosion. So many varieties of skin tone. So much melanin and lack thereof.