Some cast members are warming up near the piano. A few who I imagine are dancers are stretching on the floor. I make this judgment based on their perfectly muscled physiques, which look as if Michelangelo spent a few days in his studio meticulously carving their svelte figures. When they bend, muscles I didn’t even know a body could have are delicately and beautifully accentuated on their thin frames. A few dressed in sexy spandex are in conversation with choreographers—at least, I think they’re choreographers, since they’re counting and demonstrating dance moves.
There are about forty people in the room, but I’d guess only a third account for the cast of the show. Still, it’s hard to tell who is who and who does what. I should mention, it’s loud in here. Conversations are roaring. Also. A portion of the floor is like...moving. Sort of like those human conveyor belts they have at airports. I think they’re called moving walkways. Anyway, some of the cast members are gazing at it, watching as a technician demonstrates how it works.
To add to the roar of the room, there’s a drum kit stuffed into the corner with a drummer warming up. I can feel the thump of the bass drum blending with the beat of my heart. It makes me want to throw caution to the wind and dance. But I’m not allowed to make a scene. I know my place. I’m here to observe. Be invisible. That’s it. That’s all.
There’s also an old upright wooden piano on the opposite end of the room with a pianist banging out a song I recognize from my private rehearsals. My vocal cords are buzzing.
Too bad standbys don’t get to sing.
I should probably find a place to sit, but I’m sort of frozen in place, taking in the energy of the room and also, admittedly, looking for Cinny. I’m able to spot her pretty easily, because there’s a bodyguard standing a few feet away from her. At least, I assume he’s a bodyguard. He’s a big dude, dressed in all black, with his arms folded across his chest and he’s looking around the room almost daring somebody unauthorized to try to talk to her.
Cinny’s in deep discussion with the director, Alan, like they’ve become the best of friends, which I imagine they have. It stings a little. Okay, a lot. I haven’t seen him since my heartbreaking final audition at Beaumont Theater, and my stomach sort of flips and flops around as I observe him in all his director glory but not directing me. Cinny nods as he speaks, and I can’t help but wonder what sort of Broadway wisdom she’s receiving.
She looks different in real life. Normal, I guess. She has on yoga pants, the standard LaDuca dance heels, and a white T-shirt that looks cut in half and shows off her flat tummy. We’re basically wearing the same outfit, except I’m wearing black-and-white Vans instead of my dance shoes, my yoga pants aren’t as fancy as hers, and the fact that I’m wearing a shirt that shows off my belly is a clear sign I’m parent-free this summer. If Dad were here, he’d probably rise out of nowhere like Storm from X-Men and shout, Jerzie, put some clothes on! not even caring that he was embarrassing me in front of all these people.
But back to Cinny. Her silky straight black hair hangs dramatically to the middle of her back, and her skin is like the color of cinnamon. Maybe Cinny is short for Cinnamon.
A tall blond boy joins Cinny and Alan’s chat, and I smirk when Cinny’s bodyguard gives the dude an evil glare. Clearly he’s a part of the production and not a threat to Cinny. He’s wearing skintight dance pants, so his manhood is like... accentuated...for lack of a better way to put it. He’s also wearing an equally tight tank top that shows off his broad shoulders and muscles. His hair is slicked back, and he’s nodding dramatically, as if whatever Alan is saying is the gospel.
Is this the guy playing Roman? I don’t wanna feel disgusted, but there’s something about him. A snark factor. A white-privilege air. The way he moves. The way he blinks. Like he’s used to people watching him and is always putting on a show. Don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely got the Look. Attractive. Tall. All muscled up. Like he should enter rooms on a white horse, bow and arrow aimed and ready. But he’s not my type. Also, he and Cinny have about as much chemistry standing next to one another as Trump and Michelle Obama.
I reach for the straps on my backpack to pull it off and realize I’m not wearing it. In the awkwardness of the crying kiddo, I left it in the classroom.
Crap. I need my script to take blocking notes. I look around for Nigel, but he’s disappeared into the mass of people milling about the room.
I can be quick. I make a mad dash for the door and trace my steps back the way Nigel brought me, but the elevator is being held for some rather large scaffolding.
Around a corner I find the stairwell, yank open the door, and run down to the next floor. Once I step into the hallway, I weave around people, carts stacked with props, and musicians lugging instruments, and finally make it back to Rashmi and Miss Benefield, who have managed to at least get the crying girl out from under the table. Progress!
I grab my bag quickly and rush back to the stairwell, taking two stairs at a time. I certainly don’t want to be officially late on my first day with the cast. But at the top of the stairs the door is locked. Or jammed? What the...? I pound on it.
“Hello?” I shout. “Anybody out there?” I pause to catch my breath, peeking through the crack to see if anybody is passing by, when suddenly the door is thrust open and smashes into my head. I yelp, jerk back, and wind up slamming down butt first onto the hard concrete of the empty stairwell.
“Shit.” Someone kneels beside me. I’m covering my head with my palm, thinking that will somehow dull the sudden, excruciating pain. “Are you okay?”
The voice is soothing, apologetic. It was an accident. Clearly. But I can only wince in reply.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” the voice says genuinely. His voice is deep and calming. I’m not sure why, but it sends a shiver rushing up my spine. “Can you look at me?”
I raise my head. Slowly. “I can’t see,” I whimper. “I think I might be temporarily blinded or somethin’.”
“Well, your eyes are closed.” Now his voice is slightly amused.
Oh. Duh. My lids lift. A pair of blue eyes comes into view. Electric blue. As blue as the ocean was in St. Lucia when we visited two years ago. As blue as a feeling.
The boy holds out his hands. “Can I help you up?” I place mine in his, and he gently helps me to my feet. “Can’t believe I did that. Who knew a human’s head was pressed against the door.”
“Didn’t you get the memo?” I say slowly. “Human heads will heretofore be lurking in stairwells behind doors.”
“I got that memo,” he replies seriously. “But I didn’t think it went into effect until after Labor Day.”
I tilt my head up ever so slightly so that his entire face can come into clear view. And...well. He’s pretty. I’m not one to swoon over pretty boys, because New York is full of them and you’d be swooning all damn day, but this one is like, cut from the pretty-boy catalog. Wild and unruly waves of jet-black hair hang over his forehead. Big, sapphire-blue eyes; full lips; wide mouth; smooth, flawless, and radiant skin with a pale, Edward Cullen vibe to go with it.