Saving Juliet (2 page)

"Where's this girl?" Nurse called out.

One step, then another.
Left foot, right foot.
I could see the edge of the audience. Seats groaned as people shifted. A few coughs broke the silence. They waited for beautiful, full-lipped Juliet.
Tragic, lovesick Juliet.
Phobic,
nauseated Juliet.

"What, Juliet!" Nurse cried.
My cue.

I stepped into the light. Nurse looked at me and raised her gray eyebrows. It was my turn to speak.

I opened my painted mouth but my line did not issue forth. Rather, a stream of vomit ran down my dress and puddled at my feet.

***

"What's in a name?"

A
fter a performance, the women's dressing room is usually a frenzy of activity, so crowded I have to use my bony elbows to get space at the counter. But on that night I stood alone at the mirror, surrounded by an invisible danger zone into which no one dared set foot. Women tiptoed past me as if the merest upset might cause me to explode like a vomitous volcano. Eyes burned into my back. No one said anything to me about getting sick on stage and I appreciated that. I tried to appear calm while wiping away Fernando's makeup with a towelette.
A deception, of course.
Tears waited impatiently behind my eyes for a moment of solitude to free them.

Heels clicked at the end of the hall. The room fell silent as the heels made their approach, gradually increasing in volume and speed like a bomber's engine on takeoff. Anger and disappointment rang in each beat of each heel.
A touch of shame as well.

"Everyone out," my mother announced upon entering.

They
fled,
young and old, novice and seasoned professional. They grabbed coats and shoes and cleared that room before the bomb dropped.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. Truly I was. I had scarred the family's reputation, but I was also sorry because public humiliation was high on my list of things not to experience
--
especially if it involved disagreeable body sounds and/or spewing.

My mother patted my arm. "Thank God for Doris. What would we have done without Doris?"

Doris, the actor playing Nurse, knows a thing or two about ad-libbing. Here's what she did. She stepped right in with a line Shakespeare had not written. "What now, little lamb?" she said, taking off her apron to wipe my mouth. "What now, my poor dove?" she cooed, clutching my arm to keep me from running off stage. "All the commotion hath disturb'd my lady's stomach?" Doris dropped her apron to the floor and wiped up the puddle with a swirl of her foot. The audience members who had come just to see Troy Summer up close and live had no idea that the vomit wasn't part of the show.

Fernando supplied mouthwash and the wardrobe master took my costume to be cleaned, giving me a replacement. The play continued and I managed to hold it together, even when Troy took an extra long time with his death scene.
Hello? Just drink the poison already!

So there I stood, in my invisible danger zone. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed. I wanted to swallow Juliet's sleeping potion and sleep forever.

My mother took a towel from the counter and wiped off a stool before sitting. She tucked her turquoise skirt under her long legs. "We'll tell everyone it was food poisoning," she decided. "Clams are never good this time of year. We'll tell everyone that you ate bad clams."

I swept the towelette across my eyelids, dislodging mascara globs. Clams might work. I wasn't keen on discussing my real condition with the public. Tomorrow night this would all be over, the curtain would fall, and I would take a nice break in Los Angeles. I would drink fresh-squeezed orange juice and bask in sunlight while New Yorkers shoveled snow off their stoops.

"Reginald Dwill called this afternoon," my mother announced. I put down the towelette and leaned against the counter, steadying myself for what was sure to be bad news. "He's very intrigued by the success of our show. He wants to film it for DVD. Isn't that exciting? I don't have to tell you how prestigious it would be to have him direct you. We're meeting with Troy's agent tonight but you've got to prove to Reginald that you're in control." My mother froze her smile, waiting for my enthusiastic reply.

"But I'm going to Los Angeles, remember? You said I could stay with Aunt Mary. I'm all packed."

"That was before Reginald called. The future of this theater takes precedence, as does your career."

My career.

How long do you think the average career lasts? My great-grandmother was eighty-two when she died, having just finished a performance. She was buried in her favorite Lady MacBeth costume so she could continue her career in the next life. That's not normal, is it? I'm glad my great-grandmother loved her job but don't most people change careers at least once in their lifetime? Somehow I needed to convince my mother that fourteen straight years of acting, since age three, was a good solid run and that there was no shame in wanting to move on.

Most of the time I felt like an actor in my own life, walking a path that my family had designed, saying my lines, and following my blocking instructions. But the path I wanted to take, one of my own making, hadn't been paved yet. I was still waiting for the building permit.

I turned away from the dressing room mirror. "How am I supposed to shoot a DVD with all this anxiety? It's getting worse."

"You will have to control it."

"But I can't."

"You can!" She smoothed her skirt. "You'd better. I'm close to paying off some substantial debts and Reginald's DVD will bring in new investors. I can't do
everything
on my own." There it was, in case you didn't catch it
--
the Guilt.

Truthfully, I felt as sorry for my mother as I felt for myself. She had once been an actress, and it was no secret that she had married my father to further her career, becoming a Wallingford by marriage. But being famous doesn't automatically make you rich, and our household income came mostly from the Wallingford Theatre. When my father died, the business of running the theater fell into my mother's hands
--
an overwhelming job that forced her to stop doing what she loved. Her metamorphosis from starlet to businesswoman was rough. She certainly beat me in the stressed-out category. And while she worried about the theater's future, she worried about mine as well, focusing all her unfulfilled desires on
My Career.

"You need broader exposure. You need to reach an audience beyond New York. A DVD will open more doors." She folded her manicured hands in her lap as I wiped gloss from my lips. "Mimi, sweetheart, I'm going out with Reginald tonight but I want you to go straight home and get a good night's sleep. There will be special guests in the audience tomorrow and your performance must be your absolute best."

"Special guests?"

"Yes. I've invited the admissions committee from the Theatre Institute."

The Theatre Institute
--
my mother and father's alma mater, the creme de la creme of New York acting degrees.

"This is the final step in the application process," she said.

"Application?
I didn't fill out an application."

"I filled one out for you. And I called Dr. Harmony and he's going to come over after breakfast tomorrow and work with you so that you'll be very relaxed and focused for tomorrow night's performance." She reached out and took my hand. "You must do your absolute best, Mimi. Tomorrow could be the most important night of your life. Theatre Institute training is exactly what you need to reach your full potential. And I think some intensive study will help you to overcome
your
...
" She stopped. She couldn't say stage
fright,
as if I had picked up a sexually transmitted disease or something. As if. I was seventeen years old and had never been on a real date. Dateless = Virgin.

I had already given a great deal of thought to college. That was one of my reasons for planning the Los Angeles trip. An acceptance letter had arrived from UCLA and my aunt was going to take me on a tour of the campus. Admittedly I was hiding this plan from my mother but she had left me no choice. When the catalogs had arrived the previous fall, she had dumped them straight into the recycling bin. I had fished them out, secretly studying the photos of happy coeds. I'd been schooled by tutors my entire life, usually between rehearsals. I wanted to carry a backpack and eat in a cafeteria and sleep in a dorm without an ounce of pancake makeup or the glare of a spotlight. College would be my chance to get away.
My chance to drive a car.
Make some friends. Meet some guys.

"Your father and I loved our years at the Theatre Institute," my mother said. "I can even use my influence to make sure you get cast in the lead roles of the school productions. And you can live at home, just like I did."

Holy crap!

A swirling abyss opened at my feet. "What are you talking about?" I took a deep breath. "Mom, I've been thinking about some other colleges ..."

My mother's eyes pooled with tears. Genuine tears? Remember that she had once been an actress. "I only want the best for you, darling. When I'm gone, you've got to be able to support yourself, just like I did after your father died."

"But Mom, I'm still thinking about pre-med."

"That again?"
She raised her eyebrows. "You can't even look at an accident scene. You're too sensitive. Just forget this whole fantasy about being a doctor and accept your God-given talent. You're an artiste. You can't ignore the call of the theater any more than Shakespeare could ignore the call of the page." She stood and kissed my cheek. "The driver is waiting. Go straight home."

"But my flight to L.A.?"

"I've already canceled your ticket." She took her exit, startling the women who had been eavesdropping outside the dressing room door. "Ladies," she said through a clenched smile. They parted down the middle like one of Fernando's hairdos. As I fought back tears and removed the last of the makeup, Veronica Wallingford's heels clicked into the distance.

Three bombs dropped at once: a DVD, drama school, and no trip to Los Angeles. Sorry about extending the metaphor, but shell-shocked is the best way to describe how I felt at that moment.

As they walked past the door, the stage crew made plans to meet for drinks. I sat down to tie my boots when Troy Summer sauntered in. "Seen Clarissa?"

I shook my head. Clarissa was my understudy and Troy's girl-of-the-week.

"I told her to meet me here." He sat down on one of the stools. "Thank God this is almost over. I'm totally sick of Shakespeare.
Can't understand a single word."

He was sick of Shakespeare? I lived Shakespeare. I dreamed Shakespeare. I ate, drank, and
peed
the guy. Sure, Shakespeare was a genius, but ever
hear
of overkill? If I could go somewhere and never again hear a single, solitary Shakespearean word, I'd be a happy camper.

"I only did this because my agent thinks Romeo is the perfect role for a sex symbol," Troy said.

What an ego. Why was he talking to me anyway? I acted like my boots were the most important things in the world. I had tried my best to avoid Troy ever since our first
stage kiss
--
a kiss I relived on a daily basis, like a bad taste I couldn't help regurgitating.

Here's what happened. On day one of rehearsals, Troy sauntered into the performance hall with his sunglasses and browned-butter tan and I couldn't take my eyes off of him. Neither could anyone else in the cast. He knew his effect and seemed to feed off our admiration and desire, charming everyone with his music video moves. He paid attention to me, more than to the other girls. He let me sip his mineral water and take bites from his PowerBars. He even asked the director if we could have extra rehearsal time to work on our lines. I didn't mind. Not one bit.

I had a full-blown crush. I admit it. I'd find myself staring at his faded jeans, which were worn to a velvety softness and moved with his thighs like a second skin. Even during the coldest winter days he wore T-shirts with surfing logos that stretched across his broad chest. I liked the reddish blond hair that speckled his arms and the way his long, pale lashes could only be seen up close. I bought all three of his CDs and a copy of
Troy's Got Trouble,
the cable sitcom that had launched his career.

Then came the moment for our kissing scene and I hadn't slept at all the night before. I had practiced on my bathroom mirror, deciding that I should close my eyes because if I kept them open, I'd probably go cross-eyed. With the entire cast watching, Troy Summer leaned over the fake balcony railing and pressed his lips to mine. They didn't feel cold, like the bathroom mirror. I didn't move. I didn't know what to do. Was I supposed to open my mouth or just move my head from side to side like in an old movie? When he finally pulled back, I opened my eyes to find him smiling. No, he was smirking.

He knew. He knew it had been my very first kiss, ever.

"You need to work on that," he whispered in my ear. "I'd be happy to give you some lessons."

"That was perfect," the director called out.
"A perfect virginal kiss."

I just wanted to die, but death never comes at a convenient moment. Blood rushed to my face and I told the director I needed a bathroom break. When Troy caught up with me later, he asked if I wanted to go grab some dinner or
...
something else.

When the teen idol heartthrob of your generation offers to give you kissing lessons, you can take it one of two ways
--
you can either be thrilled by the opportunity or devastated by the humiliation of it all.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I said, gathering my pride and hurrying away. He took Dominique, the director's assistant, out to dinner that night. The following week, Lauren, the stage manager, nestled in the crook of his arm during breaks. Turning down the kissing lessons had been the right decision.