Fearless Page 2

  The man signed the paperwork and continued, “It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense! How, just tell me how!”

  The ambulance driver shrugged his shoulders, “Look, you wanna have tea together and talk about life and its many hazards, or you want me to get this kid to the hospital?”

  Monica and her abuelita looked at each other. The wild-haired man threw up his hands and told the driver to go. Then he noticed Monica standing there with her luggage and fresh face. Monica rubbed her ear.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. His demeanor abruptly changed.

  “Maybe?” Monica said with surprise, feeling self-conscious about her messy hair and unfashionable travel outfit. She gave a hint of a smile.

  “You look familiar.… What’s your name…?” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember how he knew her face.

  “Monica,” she said quietly.

  “Monica! Yes, Monica. Monica what…?” His snaps got tighter and faster as he grew impatient.

  “Monica Garcia?” She reached for her hair and started twisting. Her abuelita gave her a swift tap to stop.

  “You sing and write songs. Your audition video. Yes, yes, I remember you now. Very good.”

  Monica blushed.

  “You’re the understudy to the understudy for our show!

  “An understudy for the understudy?” Monica asked. She didn’t even know such a thing existed.

  “For the understudy of Tabitha Fox.” he said, trying to clarify things.

  The doors on the ambulance closed.

  “Tabitha Fox is out of the production, and”—he pointed to the ambulance—“that was Tabitha’s understudy. “Since you’re here, why don’t you come in and see what you’re getting yourself into? Get changed,” he said, slicking back his mussed hair with one hand. “You’re in.”

  He started to walk back into the theater, then paused for a moment.

  He tapped the script on her head gently and said, “Welcome to Broadway, kid.” He turned back inside the theater just as abruptly as he’d come out.

  The ambulance rolled away slowly without its lights on, and Monica and her abuelita were left staring at the entrance of the Ethel Merman Theater in disbelief.

  “That was Artie Hoffman,” her abuelita said.

  Monica said, “He’s a lot older than I thought he’d be.” Her abuelita responded, “And he’s a lot younger than I thought he’d be.” They turned to each other and smiled.

  Famed director Artie Hoffman, known for his plot twists and experimentation with art form, was considered the wild child of Broadway royalty. “People revere him and fear him” was how the casting director’s assistant had described him over the phone to Monica.

  It was a highly publicized story when Artie Hoffman announced he’d be directing a big production at the tired little Ethel Merman Theater. People loved a comeback story. The last few years hadn’t been kind to Artie, and Our Time was going to change all that. “Did they think I was just going to go away?” he was quoted as saying. “I have four Tony Awards and a street in Ohio named after me.”

  “What are you waiting for? Get inside,” Monica’s abuelita said with a gentle nudge. Monica stayed glued to the pavement.

  “I’m not ready,” Monica said, reaching for the elephant necklace that was usually around her neck. But it wasn’t there. She had left her good-luck charm back in California.

  “Come on, you can do this.” The feather bobbed on her abuelita’s hat, adding punctuation.

  Monica stammered, “I—I can’t go in there. We just got here. I’m human lasagna.” She waved her hands over her wardrobe.

  Earlier they had joked about having to dress in layers for the long journey from West Coast to East Coast. The plane would be cold; New York would be milder; the subway would be hot. Monica had a rain jacket on over her sweater over her overalls, and a thin, old T-shirt underneath that. Plus, her long curly hair had gone limp and straight from the weather. If her brother had been there, he’d have called her Pancake Head. He was ten, the age when you can still get away with saying cute stuff, but you know you’re walking a thin line.

  “Here, here. Give me your jacket and sweater.” Her abuelita helped Monica shed a few clothes and then quickly pulled a comb out of her purse and tidied up her hair. Her hair now looked worse. “You look like a lead to me. Go!”

  “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Do you really want your abuelita with you?”

  Yes and no.

  “You will be fine, Kita.”

  “Here, in case of emergency.” She handed Monica a twenty-dollar bill. “For a cab if you need it, or lunch.”

  “Why would I need a cab?”

  “You never know.…” With that, Monica’s abuelita grandly leaned out into the street, and with a loud whistle, the kind you do using your fingers, she got the attention of a taxi, grabbed the luggage, and was gone.

  As Monica was about to walk through the front door of the theater, her phone rang.

  “Mamí!” Monica said with relief.

  “Oh, Monica! I’m so sorry.” Her mom sounded tired.

  “Guess where I am, Mamí! Right outside the Ethel Merman!”

  Monica noted the long silence that followed. Her mother was not one for long silences.

  “Honey, you need your rest before tomorrow.” Her mother’s voice was raw and scratchy. Monica could tell she had been crying.

  “Is everything okay? Is Freddy okay?” Monica asked.

  Another long silence.

  Her brother, Freddy, was three years younger. Gangly, with two dimples and a large cowlick that made a section of his mop of black hair stand up straight at all times. He hated his cowlick as much as Monica loved it. Once, he’d even tried hairspray to mat it down. Another time, he convinced Monica to cut it off with a pair of kitchen scissors, so she did. Though of course it grew back, same as before.

  “Mamí, what’s wrong with Freddy?”

  There was a pause, then a sigh. It had been easier to avoid the truth when Monica was younger, but now that she was older, things were too apparent to keep from her any longer.

  “He had another episode.”

  Monica’s view of the Ethel Merman Theater went blurry. She’d begun to hate the word “episode.” Nothing good came from that word. Freddy had been having episodes since he was two years old. The first one had happened on Christmas Eve. He spiked a fever and the seizures began. Christmas gifts lay under the tree, still wrapped, for days. The episodes got more and more frequent and went from being a surprise to being part of their regular world.

  “Was this one bad, Mamí?”

  “Kita, you have bigger things to think about right now.” Her mother tried to sound comforting.

  “Tell me the truth. Was this one bad?” Monica demanded.

  A pause. Her mother sighed again.

  “Yes, this one was bad. Oh, our sweet principito.” Little prince. Monica’s abuelita had given him that nickname. The joke was that Freddy could do no wrong and was loved by anyone who met him.

  Dr. Wallace had said that if he kept having more serious seizures he would need to have surgery. Monica didn’t really understand it—all she knew was that they’d have to put Freddy to sleep for a few hours and implant some kind of device inside his head to stimulate the nerves or something. She also knew that for her parents, that kind of surgery would cost a lot of money and was completely out of the question. But maybe not so out of the question if she was a success on Broadway.

  “Sweetheart, Freddy is resting and fine. Let’s find a better time to talk about this. Not when you’re standing in front of the Ethel Merman Theater about to start your new life.”

  Monica hung up with a pit in her stomach.

  Just then her phone pinged. It was a text from Marissa.

  You in NYC, Mo?

  Monica thought before she responded. She didn’t want to give her best friend too much hope.

  Just got in, Monica texted back.

&nb
sp; I want to hear evvvveerryyything!!! That was followed by smiley emojis, followed by Break a leg, followed by I’m soooo jelly! Monica texted back a big red heart.

  Monica looked at the big, heavy doors of the Ethel Merman. She took a deep breath and walked into her new life.

  Three TWENTY THOUSAND BEADS OF LIGHT

  Inside, the theater was dark and still. Artie Hoffman was nowhere to be found. Monica followed the lights and faint sounds of voices coming from the main auditorium. She walked through a bank of doors, and the theater spread out before her. Her eyes went big. It had seemed so small from the outside, but it was huge! Red and gold velvet-flock wallpaper lined each wall. Statues made of marble looked down at the stage in frozen expressions, and a grand center chandelier, twenty thousand beads of low light, created a gentle glow. Monica had spent many hours performing in community theaters, but nothing came even close to this. As she went down the rows, though, she noticed that the seat cushions were worn, and the beautiful wallpaper couldn’t hide the large cracks in the walls, and the place smelled musty.

  Onstage stood the world-famous choreographer Maria Marquez. Monica blinked twice. Could it be? Even from the back of the auditorium she looked six feet tall. She had heard Maria was doing the choreography for the show, but she’d never thought she’d actually meet her.

  “Are you the new new Tabitha?” Maria asked loudly.

  Monica couldn’t believe she was actually talking to her. Was she talking to her?

  Maria, in an all-black outfit, walked with a long, elegant stride and perfect posture to the lip of the stage. She had the spotlight.

  The three other child actors onstage turned to look at her.

  Monica nodded shyly. Her stomach fluttered.

  “Well, that was quick,” Maria said. “Good. I like punctual.”

  “You know this theater eats kids for lunch,” said a boy with jet-black hair sitting on the floor at the front of the stage as if he had nothing left to give.

  “Great, scare the new new girl,” said a slender, dark-haired girl about Monica’s age.

  “Well, she wasn’t here for the whole ‘waterfall saga,’ ” the boy said, using air quotes. “We should probably catch her up. And give her full-body armor.” He coiled gum around his finger.

  “No, no. What did I say about gum!” Maria stomped.

  They all stared at Monica again. Stage left, Monica noticed what looked like a tank of water with perhaps a waterfall feature in mid-construction and yellow caution tape around it. Otherwise the stage was empty of props or backdrops.

  “Hi, I’m Relly.” A bright, smiling boy with electric-blue hair and pink ballet slippers sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a flashlight.

  Monica didn’t know what to say, so she waved awkwardly and nervously said, “I… I’m Monica.”

  “I’m Hudson,” the larger boy on the floor said with a casual wave.

  “And I’m April!” The girl waved with enthusiasm.

  “Well, let’s not waste any time. Come down, come down. Let’s take a good look,” said Maria.

  Monica walked down a side aisle. The carpeting felt wet and squishy under her feet. The place was musty, with almost the same smell as the pond near the farm where her parents worked. Every step she took, she felt more and more ridiculous in her overalls. They made a rough rubbing sound. It was all anybody heard as she walked. Then her Adidas tennis shoes started making a noise every step. Maybe it was just loud to her.

  “You’re loud, for a quiet girl,” Hudson commented.

  Nope, everyone could hear it.

  “I will not permit you to dance in those shoes,” Maria said.

  The twenty-dollar bill burned in her pocket. Maybe she could catch a cab back to JFK. For a split second she stopped and turned to leave. There was still time.

  Maria stopped her. “No, no. The stage is this way, my dear.”

  She turned back around and continued. The longest twenty paces of her life. She walked almost to the foot of the stage as everyone stared.

  “You’re tall,” said Maria rubbing her chin. “What do I do with tall?”

  It had taken Monica her entire childhood to come to terms with being “the tall girl.” Fortunately for her, nothing tall rhymed with Monica. Even a harmonica held vertically was pretty short. One time a scrawny boy had called her the Tower in gym class, but it had never stuck. She was glad for that.

  “And is this how you dress for dance rehearsal?”

  “Well… uh… I just got off the—”

  “I have something that will fit you!” April said, jumping up eagerly from the floor.

  April was petite with long brown hair pulled back from her pretty face in a smooth, high, straight ponytail. She had theater eyes, as Monica’s abuelita would say—eyes that were so expressive they spoke without words. She was maybe a year younger than Monica, short for her age. But big-tiny. Big personality, tiny body. That type.

  “Yes, yes”—Maria waved her off—“you can take five… why not. Another five, everyone.” She threw her hands in the air and walked off the stage.

  April led Monica down a narrow hall and up a couple of flights of stairs, talking the whole time. She clearly knew her way around the theater. “Here’s the wig room. You’ll love Chris. He gets wigs made from actual people hair. People from Europe, so probably nobody’s hair you know.” She blew past too quickly for Monica to lean in. “The director’s room—door’s always closed—and the sound room… door’s always open.” A man in the middle of telling a joke was roaring like a lion as another man laughed and waved a hankie at him.

  The men stopped what they were doing and waved. Monica waved back. April looked at the men laughing, then looked at Monica and laughed as well. As uncomfortable as Monica felt, having interrupted their rehearsal, April made her feel welcome. “Studio A”—a group of adult actors were mid-rehearsal. “Studio B”—more actors.

  “That’s ensemble—hardest-working people on the stage.” April was going at lightning speed. “They make leads like us look good.” April smiled.

  Monica had never thought of herself as a lead before. She was usually ensemble.

  Different rooms had different groups of people, all doing something together but separate from the other rooms. As they got deeper into the theater, Monica noticed oddities. Back here definitely wasn’t as grand as the main stage. A wall made entirely of unpainted plywood, a coconut-size hole in the floor. Crews were fixing and patching everywhere. Nothing seemed finished. A bucket placed under a leaking pipe. Big strips of duct tape over cracks. Monica looked closely at a shelf. Was that… mouse poop? As beautiful as the auditorium was, backstage was slightly unnerving. And disappointing.

  “Relly Morton, the kid onstage with the blue hair… total triple threat. Kind of kid who falls off chairs laughing. Relly hasn’t had much formal training, but his natural talent is astounding. He’s made to be on Broadway. Even his eyelashes were made for Broadway. Might be the smallest one out there, but he has the highest fan kick.” April made herself laugh. “It’s true. He’s perfect to play the role of Pax—he is curious about everything.”

  April was still talking when they entered her dressing room.

  “Hudson Patel. He’s the bigger one sitting on the floor. Cast as Crash. Two left feet, and funniest guy ever. Hmm… and sarcastic. His parents moved here from India when Hudson was a baby. You might recognize him”—Monica looked at her blankly—“because not only has he had some roles off-Broadway, but he has an online cooking show with like a million followers. So we’ll eat well. Oh! This is my dressing room. I share it with Tabitha.”

  They looked at each other.

  “I guess this is our dressing room now?” April said, more slowly.

  She pulled out her phone and took a quick selfie of the two of them. “I hope you don’t mind. I have a lot of Insta followers who like to see what life is like behind the scenes. You know!” Monica noticed she was already posting it with the hashtag #newroomie.

&
nbsp; The dressing room had been decorated like a bedroom in a teen magazine—without the bed. Two fuzzy pink chairs faced each other with a trunk between them, string lights, a bubble-gum machine, and stuffed animals. Posters hung on walls from Broadway shows April had performed in—“six, to be exact.” Annie, Matilda, Aladdin, Little Red, Les Misérables, Into the Woods.

  The community theaters Monica was used to only had common dressing rooms with separate changing areas. Sometimes there were twelve to fifteen actors in one dressing room. She studied the posters on the walls; then her focus turned to a delicate, pastel, diamond-shaped yarn weaving April had hung over the corner of her dressing-room mirror. April was busy digging in Tabitha’s trunk for clothes.

  “Honestly,” she said as she rummaged, “None of my things will fit you. I’m short. And you’re really tall. How tall are you? But Tabitha’s clothes will. She was pretty tall. Her understudy didn’t even last two weeks. I mean, that won’t happen to you or anything. I have a good feeling about you. You don’t stumble over yourself. Do you stumble over yourself?”

  April paused to take a breath and noticed Monica looking at the diamond-shaped yarn sculpture.

  “It’s a god’s eye,” April said. Monica turned her full attention to April. April threw her some clothes to rehearse in. “Made it at summer camp a few years ago. This horrible, horrible all-girls camp in upstate New York. Have you ever been to upstate New York? It’s really pretty. Where are you from, anyway?” April set down a bunch more clothes on Tabitha’s—Monica’s—dressing table.

  “California,” Monica said softly.

  April continued, “Oh, California! I don’t know if you have these in California, but in upstate New York they have enormous lakes with these loons that sound like they’re laughing with rubber bands stuck in their throats.” She imitated the call. “Eerie but pretty, right? But the camp… awful! All the girls hated me.… Same day I made the god’s eye, I got the lead in Into the Woods on Broadway and it became my good-luck charm. Some people say this theater is cursed, so”—she shrugged her shoulders—“why not give yourself a little protection in that department? Insurance. You know what I mean. Oh! My last name is DaSilva, by the way. April DaSilva. You might have heard of me? Ha! I was actually born in May. Weird, I know. I play Froggie. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you.”