Unnaturally Green (36 page)

In Life Lessons 101—er, Improv 101—we were all giving it our best shot.

“All right, let’s get two more people up.”

I rose from my seat and took to the floor, my blouse drenched in sweat, my heart performing a drum solo in multiple time signatures. Next to me stood Whitney, my soon-to-be scene partner, a short-haired sparkplug who over-enunciated everything in a Southern drawl.

“Okay, can I get a location, please?” said Mike. “Where are Whitney and Felicia?”

“In the womb,” said Nicola, a bird-like woman with a pan-European accent.

In the womb? What?

“Take it away.”

Not knowing what the hell was going on, I curled next to Whitney and pressed my cupped hands against my chest. (You know, the way fetuses do.)

“Hi, sister,” said Whitney.

“Yes, hi, sister,” I replied.

So far, so good
.

“I, um, I don’t know. What gender are we?”

I am the worst improviser ever.

“Okay, hang on,” said Mike, raising a hand.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said—relieved to be called out as Le Suck.

“No, no, don’t apologize. I was just going to say that in improv, if you ask questions, it’s not going far enough. It’s kind of cheating, because you’re asking your partner to fill in the blanks for you. In improv, the question is the thing that leads you to a statement. Skip the question, and tell us the answer.”

I wish I knew the answer
, I thought.

We reset to our two-fetus clump, to start the scene again.

A few months before, when I’d taken my Salaried Office Job (with Benefits!), I’d self-imposed a break from theater. I didn’t know why, entirely. But I’d felt uncertain—and that was okay.

After some time, I felt ready again. For something.

“Hi, sister,” Whitney said again.

“Yes…hi sister,” I repeated back. “I, um, am a girl. And that is my gender.”

“Yes, you are a girl, and it sure is hot in here.”

Scattered chuckles from the class.

“Yes, it
is
hot in here,” I said, gesturing to my sticky pits, “and I think I hear a rumbling sound!”

“Yes, there’s a rumbling sound! And I think it’s because Mom ate something spicy.”

Or, duh, she’s in labor
, I thought.

“Yes, you think it’s because Mom ate something spicy, but it could be something else,” I said.

“You’re saying no!” hollered Mike. “Whitney says it’s because Mom ate something spicy, so that’s the truth. Say ‘yes!’” Mike’s face was bright red, his whiskers the color of burning wheat.

“Right! Sorry about that,” I said to my fetus-sister.

Don’t say no!

His words reverberated in my head.

By spinning the Future Wheel I’d tried to understand who I was by closing doors—as if identity were a mere process of elimination.

Really it was the opposite.

Don’t say no.

I was struck by the irony: doing professional theater had shown me that I could do anything—so while theater might be one path, it might not be the
only
path. Or at least, it didn’t
have
to be. If
Wicked
hadn’t instilled in me the certainty I’d wanted, it had nudged me to reconsider my so-called yellow brick road—other exits, other routes, other ways of being
me
.

“Mom ate something spicy,” I said, “and I think I smell
taquitos
.”

“Yes, you smell
taquitos
, and we should do something about it.”

“Yes, we should do something about it.” I paused to consider. “Let’s kick her!”

We thrust our legs high into the air, laughing our braying fetus laughs as we kicked our imaginary mother in the imaginary uterus.

As I did, I felt like I was knocking down a big, menacing door.

I would say Yes, And. 

Yes to being myself.

And
to being green.

(
GREEN.
10.
full of life and vigor:
green in heart.
)

A month after returning from San Francisco, I made the official move to Marshall’s Brooklyn apartment. With me I brought all my stuff, plus some furniture Grandma Yola had left behind. Together, we shuffled the pieces around, scooting her couch into the living room right next to her armchair, and placing her little avocado-colored cabinet in the center of our kitchen. When all was in place, we ordered pizza. Instead of eating it on the floor, we sat at our table. Instead of paper plates, we used flatware.

“This will be our third apartment together,” Marshall said.

“Let’s not move for a while,” I replied.

I didn’t think we would—even though there’d be work to do. Without a dishwasher or storage closets, we’d have to redraft our Living Together Treaty. Already, the protein bins had commandeered the far corner of the kitchen, and with his new personal trainer job in Manhattan, Marshall would be keeping ungodly hours.

But I had a good feeling. My grandma’s furniture felt cozy and warm, just like the rest of it.

Marshall reached his hand toward me.

“Oh, you’ve got some—”

“Food on my face?”

I took a napkin and swiped it all the way from my forehead to my chin.

“No, actually,” Marshall said. “Green, behind your ear.”

He took his napkin, dipped it in his water glass, and reached for me.

“Still?” I said, as he dabbed it off.

“Still.”

THE END

TO BE CONTINUED

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wrote in my blog that it takes a village to raise an Elphaba; the same applies to this book. To my readers: you guys
rock so hard!
A million hugs and kisses for your kind words and well-wishes. Thank you to my amazing editors (and main characters) Gentle Rambo Marshall and best friend Becky, without whose insight and close reading I would be lost. (Sidebar: Look out for best friend Becky, a.k.a. Rebecca Harrington’s brilliant novel in the fall of 2012.) Much gratitude to Annie Jacobson, my photographer and design consultant; to my superhuman copyeditor Elisabeth Ness; and to Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella, who encourage and inspire me daily with their writerly genius and determination.

Hats off to the team at
Wicked
who, for whatever reason, decided to take a chance on a wide-eyed, pit-stained gal like me. And a massive “thank you” to all my delightful characters. On the page, you were a joy to write; off the page, you remain wonderful friends. Special shout-out to David Lober, who provided me with a source doc of all our text messages. (Is he an amazing stage manager, or what?)

Finally, I must return to my sources, including dictionary.com for supplying my
green
definitions, and Patricia and Anthony Ricci for supplying me with, well, life. I thank them for their unconditional support as I continue down this yellow brick road less traveled, poking fun at their affinity for Italian food and quoting them hyperbolically.

And, of course, there’s Yola—the original baller G. I love you, Gram. Forever and ever.