Unnaturally Green (8 page)

“Right,” I said.

“This is Patrick,” she continued, as a strapping man in a tank top emerged from nowhere and stood before me. “He’ll be lifting you.”

“Hello.”

“Okay, for the first lift I need you to bend your knees, lift off with Patrick, come to a
passé
in the air, extend your hand like this, and then come down to bent knees on the dismount.”

She demonstrated.

“Do you think you can do this?”

“Definitely,” I lied.

“Okay, let’s give it a try.”

I nudged my way into Patrick’s arms where we fidgeted to establish a grip on my waist.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I got you. Let’s try lifting off. Aaaaand,
bend your knees
!”

I obeyed, and, without warning, I was springing up into the air, where I was instantly afraid for my life. If Patrick lifted Corinne like a snack pack of air-popped chips, I was swinging around like a sack of overgrown potatoes.

“Oh, dear
God!
” I cried.

Worried that Patrick would not be able to support my weight, I reached for his body with my legs and tried to wrap them around his torso for stability. Not only did this not help matters, but, while being lowered, my foot slid down his abdomen and plunged directly onto his crotch. I turned and saw his face was bright red and contorted.

“I am so sorry,” I said, meaning it.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he replied.

“Not bad,” said Corinne, clearly lying. “Let’s try it again.”

So we did. Similar deal this time: instant terror, followed by spastic body flailing, followed by ungraceful contact with any number of inappropriate regions on Patrick’s body, followed by my feeling like a complete buffoon.

“Okay, let’s do it again,” said Corinne.

After about nine passes, everyone agreed in unspoken terms that we’d had enough of wagering Patrick’s manhood, and so we moved on.

To another freakin’ lift.

“Here I want you to focus on the back-bending, on really collapsing backwards over his shoulder,” Corinne said as she is hoisted over a twirling Patrick, to hang there, limply, yet somehow elegantly, like a self-possessed ragdoll.

“Do you think you can do that?” she called out to me, hanging upside down.

Nope.

“Uh huh.”

As I flopped down over Patrick, my torso felt like it had been turned inside out. While I tried to recreate that same sense of release I saw in Corinne, my legs jutted out at a 90-degree angle, spinning like the blade-teeth of a whirling hacksaw, until I almost sliced through Corinne’s lithe frame.

In a fit of embarrassment, I let out a horrible giggle as I was lowered onto the floor.

“Wow, I did not know my legs would do that,” I said, giggling, horribly.

 “Again!” commanded Corinne, so we repeated the second lift, over and over.

It was impossible to say whether I was staying afloat or slowly sinking. Each time we practiced I searched Corinne and Patrick’s faces for some sign of hope, some sign that I was still in the game.

Occasionally, they’d smile, as if it were only a matter of time before the good news would wash over me.

If I can just keep it together a little longer…

Or was it all a big, fat lie? Prolonging matters, getting my hopes up for the inevitable disappointment?

(
GREEN
. 3.
Simple; unsophisticated; gullible; easily fooled:
a green newcomer.
)

That night I fell asleep to flashbacks of inverted, spinning rooms, the nightmarish memory of teetering over Patrick’s shoulder, moments before I would crash to the ground.

As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered, over and over,

What happens now?

4. DON’T WORRY, YOU’LL FIT

T
he next day my stomach back-flipped every time the phone rang.

9:49 a.m. Wake-up call from a New York area code. Could this be it?

From the casting office? From Ann’s home phone? From the Wizard of Oz himself?!

My prescription was ready at Walgreens.

10:25 a.m. Unknown number from a blocked caller!

Aaaand….it was my mother, over at my Grandma Yola’s house, asking if I’d heard anything.

“Um,
no
, Mom,” I groaned, “but thanks for the blocked-caller blue balls.”

“The
what?”

“Nevermind.”

“What did she say,” I heard Grandma Yola shouting in the background.

12:01 p.m. The phone rang while I was washing dishes in my sink. Caller ID said it was my agent.

Sweet Mother of God.

I dried my hands, and with trembling fingers opened my phone to choke out a greeting.

“Hello?”

“Good news!” Ann growled. “Good, good, good news,” she said again. “Really good news.”

“Ann! What’s the good news?”

“You’re
Wicked
’s first choice!”

I couldn’t believe it, so I screamed.

“But, see now, here’s the beef,” said Ann. “They need you to go to a costume fitting to see if you can, well, fit into the costumes.”

“Wait, what?”

“Before they cast you, they need to double check. I’d say there’s a great chance you’re gonna get it, darlin’.”

“Okay, that is pretty great news!”

“But we can’t count our hens.”

“Right,” I said, taking a gulp. “So, when is the costume fitting?”

“Today, in two hours. Does that work for you?”

Hmm. What was on my agenda for the day? (1) Fret, (2) Worry, (3) Mull, (4) Pace, (5) Relive every moment of callback to calculate hypothetical chances, (6) Pick up Walgreens prescription.

“I think I can make it.”

“Perfect.”

“But, Ann—what if I don’t fit into the costumes?”

I glanced over at my full-length mirror, sucking in my cheeks and stomach, like a constipated fish, immediately regretting my unrestrained Italian feast of a Thanksgiving, as well as every single dessert-fueled date I’d had with Marshall.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll fit.”

I’d jotted down directions to the
Wicked
costume shop on a scrap of paper I found in my bed, and as I wound along the sidewalk in the Garment District I scoured the buildings for street numbers. This part of town was unfamiliar, and kind of deteriorating; a gentle throwback to the older New York I’d only seen in 1970s documentaries about drug lords and social justice. Finally I stumbled across what appeared to be the doorway in question, and so I ambled inside.

While nothing about it was fishy, the building felt almost like a secret hideout. Who would have suspected that
Wicked
—the worldwide mega-phenomenon—would have a modest costume shop chilling in some random, non-descript building? Okay, maybe anyone with deductive reasoning skills, but still. It felt like I was uncovering a mystery.

What will I discover?

The possibilities were endless.
Wicked
, for me, still existed on a magical otherworldly plane. The closer I came to peering at its reality, the more I felt myself becoming timid.

What’s more, this day—these next few moments, even—could mark the end of my journey. It was possible that after getting fitted I’d come up short—or tall, or wide, or narrow, or any other less-than-ideal measurement.

I knocked on a large door, and a light-haired girl answered.

“Hello!” I bellowed. “I’m looking for Amanda?”

“Just one moment,” the girl said, beckoning for me to come inside.

As I did, I was transported to another world.

Stacked from floor to ceiling were rows upon rows of glimmering shapes, colors, and layered fabric. The
Wicked
costumes shone in palettes of teal, deep greens, gold flourishes, couched in an exuberant tangle of curling, structured appendages—quirky embellishments that extended from the costumes like outstretched hands, inviting me to join this catalog of beauty. Dotting the wardrobe racks every few inches were people’s names—presumably former cast members.

“Are you Felicia?”

A thin-faced woman walked toward me, holding out a sheet of paper.

“I am,” I said, extending my hand for a shake.

“Amanda. I just need you to fill this out and we can get going.”

The sheet in question was an inquisition of my basic measurements—height, weight, shoe size—which, of course, put me on the defensive.

“When you say ‘weight,’ do you mean weight with clothes on or off?”

“What?” said Amanda, as she reached for her measuring tape, pencil, and pins.

“Oh, nevermind,” I recanted, debating in my head which number sounded more castable: an even 130 or a willy-nilly 134. I settled on 127. But I didn’t stop there.

“So, um, my dress size is actually different for my shirt and pants, so it varies. Should I put both?”

“Sure.”

“Now, when you say, ‘shoe size’ do you mean to say—“

“Here,” Amanda said, cutting in, “for that I’m going to do a tracing of your foot.”

She slapped a sheet of paper on the floor and started tracing, which was my cue to strike the least casual of casual conversations.

“So, have you, uh, like, seen anybody else today for measurements?”

Amanda wasn’t fazed.

“People are in and out of the shop all the time. I wasn’t here this morning, so I’m not sure.”

“Oh, cool,” I replied, biting my lip, rolling out my ankles to impress Amanda with my arches.

"So, are all of the costumes kept here?"

“Each production has its own wardrobe department, but yes, when the costumes aren’t being used they’re housed here. Our goal today is to find some that might fit you.”

She led me to the right aisle and started hoisting down clusters of hangers, on which there had been draped every manner of heavy fabric, sewn together in intricate and impossible designs. These costumes were so large and elaborate that some looked more like wildly festive outdoor tents than any kind of wardrobe for humans. She held out my first costume, which reminded me of a brownish orange barrel held together by a structure of hoops, studs, and snaps.

Utterly perplexed, my first instinct was to initiate a headfirst attack—so I just basically lunged forward with my chin tucked to my chest, like a land diver. This was apparently very wrong.

“Oh, nope, careful there,” said Amanda. “It looks like it buttons
here
, but actually you just pull it apart with the snaps
there
, and step inside right
there
.”

She pried apart the barrel, then collapsed it around me, until I was swimming in hoops and fabric.

“Over time, you would learn how to get everything on and off, plus you’d have a dresser helping you during the actual show.”

“This is great news because I can barely dress myself,” I said.

We tried on several more costumes for my potential ensemble track, and each time I said a silent prayer that I’d be able to fit. By some miracle, nothing tore or burst, even when we layered one or more costumes on top of each other—a method that allowed for quick changes during the show.

So far, so good.

Next we made our way to a library of plastic bins containing dozens of colorful shoes. They were labeled in Sharpie with names of former
Wicked
cast members. It seemed the production kept a record of everyone who had ever passed through—a monument to the talent that had helped make it possible. I browsed names that read like chapter headings in a theater encyclopedia: Idina Menzel, Eden Espinosa, Shoshana Bean, Julia Murney, Ana Gasteyer. Confronted by this visual reminder of how small I was, I felt my throat
gulp
, in that cartoon sort of way.

“Hmm,” said Amanda, kneading her palms together. “Why don’t we give those a try—the Elphaba shoes.”

She scooped up one of the bins and started to dig. I peered over her shoulder to see folds of supple leather, zippers, and lace, doubling back on each other, like some swirling shoe orgy, until a handsome pair of brown laced boots emerged from the chaos. They’d been fashioned to look worn and distressed, and so carried with them inalienable character and story, like an old medicine man.

“Here we go,” Amanda said.

I took a deep breath and slinked my foot toward her, as if the boot had to first grant me permission to enter its domain.

But in seconds, I, Felicia Ricci, was in Elphaba’s shoes—a living metaphor. I wiggled my toes, carving out my own little space in this legacy of greatness.

“How do they feel?” Amanda asked.

“They feel perfect,” I said.