Rough Draft

Box

            We Met Kids grew up listening to Tony’s opera stories each night before curtain, stories that taught us what magic this business could be, if you do it right. Those before us, though they were rarely our age, were able to weave dreams with their voices, to soothe and excite with every move. They controlled the audience, hypnotized them. The women did this best. Women like that singer who went into the world with no rehearsal and yet persuaded millions of people that she was truly the tragic heroine dying from tuberculosis. Women like that singer who fell from sky and yet still sang despite the hurting. Women like that singer who drank real beer while lying in a ring of fire and yet never missed a cue.

            Tony told many. Some were disasters, like the woman who jumped off the building and flew back up rather than stay dead, and those served as warning. But in many of them women were heroes, and those made us believe that maybe we’d have our own adventure stories one of those late nights. Maybe we would go down in history as the singers who did it all.

            Growing up I never thought it strange how Tony treated us girls. We feared him and we feared leaving so much that we changed ourselves on show nights. We didn’t put on makeup and wore baggy clothes and sucked in our chests. Indeed he wanted boys, so much that now I joke how our stories parallel that of Louise Hovick, the girl who grew up by never growing up, a Peter Pan of sorts. Her mother made her wear boys’ clothes and then one day she turned around and started taking all of it off, bit by bit, as a tease to the men who made her famous. None of us went that far but I still keep my eyes peeled.

            He was a stickler for rules, that man. Disobey and get humiliated. Sing a false note and get humiliated. One look away and get humiliated. He humiliated me the most. My friends and I would keep tally and giggle about it behind his back. Boys didn’t get humiliated unless they did something truly unsavory.

He showed us that girls who were girls could never make it, but he told us stories of women who could mesmerize the world with a note, who had a complete disregard for regulations and let no one humiliate them, ever. So that’s what I did within reason and I have a box for proof. It’s dusty but if you open it for one second you’ll go back and find me. I’m still there, sitting in the ear of the mammoth, hearing what it hears.

I. Hairpin

            I’ve been thinking about it all day. Your debut performance is very special, even if it be no more than acting, and only for two minutes.

            My dad rides up with me, going on about what’s new at work and how excited all his coworkers are for me. The train is filthy, but I’m the girl sitting in the corner, eating the macaroni and cheese that my mom made with a plastic fork that won’t last the night.

            When we get there it’s empty and my dad is wary to leave me alone so he sits with me for a while and we watch the people flooding in and out of mouth of the mammoth; many leave extravagant flower bouquets as gifts – I like to pretend they’re for me, a harmless pastime.

            Then my dad leaves but I’m not alone for long; the other kids shuffle in, their eyes two glittering marbles like the ones in our mancala board. The wranglers come to fetch us and we travel until we are led into the ear of the mammoth where sweet melodies flow in and out, where you can spend your life nestled up against the eardrum, predicting its tremors.

            We sit in a semicircle in the cochlea. There are seven of us in total and we’ve become close over the weeks of practice; I could rely on them for anything.

We are called in to change out of our civilian clothes into our performance garments; mine is the color of mustard. Your first costume is a special thing too – you never truly forget how it felt to put it on, the heavy material frictionless against your soft skin. And twirling backstage so that your skirt is an umbrella, shielding the little goblins that hide out in trapdoors from the downpour of sound – you may try to forget it but it will be futile.

Shoes go on, tightly laced so no loose nails can get in to stab your feet, and the lace gloves slip on like silk. My hair is roughly mastered by the hairdresser with a couple thousand pins to keep my indomitable brown curls out of my face. When we are all ready the wranglers hustle us down through the throat.

In one of the side chambers of the heart – a dark, musty area – we listen to the sounds that filter in, waiting for our chance. We huddle together here, a team. One of the boys – his name is Basil – and I have to enter together; he’s nice enough but so jittery which is distracting. I’m not jittery; I’m prepared. I’m the girl who stayed up late into the night, going through in my mind when to enter, which direction to run, just like how we did it in training. When the time comes I am more than ready.

The two of us are thrust into the heart which promptly becomes a shimmering ballroom, complete with silver men and women dancing in their ruby garments. The first second in the heart comes as a shock – your head will spin, but your memory won’t fail. You run seamlessly in the practiced direction, swiftly dodging the women’s petticoats which are lined with sharp thorns that will render you senseless. It is acceptable if you look out at the faceless spectators for a moment but no longer, else they will freeze you where you stand and all this will be for nothing.

            When I’ve sailed through the first round of gallivanting I meet up with Basil in the center of the spinning ballroom. The young women laugh at us, thinking we’re precious, but their attention shifts when the crowd begins to waltz, and they rush to find a partner, every woman to a man. At times Basil and I would joke how funny it would be if we started to waltz; utterly absurd – us dancing. We are better off getting our giggles out before we take off for round two.

When I get out of the heart I am panting but I feel good. I rejoin the others, with whom I exchange congratulatory hugs.

As we are flowing up to the ear I muse whether Elsie will be there to congratulate us. I haven’t been a cell in the mammoth for a full year yet, so I’m still not completely unafraid of her. But despite the strictness she has some beautiful toys that she’ll let us play with if we do good work. Some of us joke about stealing them but we’d never.

She’s not there but she left the guitar man and we automatically circle around him, a little overeager. His eyes are shut which means he’s sleeping but after Basil prods him with his forefinger his eyes snap open and he begins to strum his guitar, a big grin on his painted face that never goes away even when he’s had the worst day.

After we have changed out of our performance garments and the hairpins have been yanked from our hair, I meet my dad in the mouth of the mammoth where we decide to sit together and watch the rest of the performance on the heart monitor located behind a decaying tooth. About here is where you will get the feeling that you’ve just had the best night of your life.

When the heart slows to a resting heartbeat we meet my mom and my schoolteacher outside the mammoth. She is sweet and beautiful, my favorite teacher by far. I hug her and together we all get a taxi – they are all very proud of me.

In the taxi my schoolteacher reaches over and hands me a gift bag. Gift bags mean presents so suddenly I find myself very excited. I open it and inside there’s a box. I wonder if there will be another box inside of that box like in books but there isn’t. It’s just a box but it’s beautiful, embellished with blooming violets and a pieris marginalis butterfly. I am tempted to ask what it is for – it doesn’t look like a toy, but asking might be rude, and I wouldn’t want my schoolteacher to suspect I’ve forgotten my manners so quickly.

            So instead I try to balance the box in my lap and stare at it until we deposit my schoolteacher at her apartment and say our goodbyes. Then we’re home and I have to wash up for bed because it is very, very late and I have school tomorrow. While I am changing into my pajamas my mom says “Wait” and painfully extracts something from my hair.

 “What is it?” I ask.

“Just a bobby pin,” she says. “The hairdresser must have missed it when he was unpinning your hair.”

“Oh,” I say. “What do I do with it?”

“Keep it,” my mom says. “As a memento of your first night performing in that mammoth of a place.” She beams at me.

“But won’t they miss it?” I ask innocently.

This makes my mom laugh. “It’s only one hairpin,” she says. “It’s The Met. They probably have millions.”

“But if I keep it… isn’t that stealing?”

“No, not at all,” she replies. She sees that I am still unconvinced so she sighs and says “If it really means that much to you then put it in a bag and we’ll return it at the next performance.”

I nod and she yells for my dad to come in and together they tuck me into bed. We sing our evening prayers together and I say my customary goodnight phrases and then they’re gone and the lights are off and I can only just see the box on my bureau in the dim illumination of my nightlight. Mom put the hairpin right next to it and from under the covers I look from pin to box to pin to box. And the little pin looks so lonely and cold so finally I get up and gently place it in the box for keeps.

Unwittingly, I that very night had begun my career as a thief.

II. Snow

            I’ve been thinking about it all week. Your debut performance singing in an opera is very special, arguably the most special, even if it’s in a chorus of about twenty-nine other kids so it’s not like anyone out there is going to hear you amidst the echoes. But when you’ve waited as long as I have waited, it means the world.

            This time around I fell jittery, even petrified. When my dad leaves me in the mouth of the mammoth I almost consider sneaking out but then I understand that I have worked for this, so therefore I should do this.

            In the ear of the mammoth we warm up. Warm-ups are customarily very scary, especially when the warm-up is with Terrence who terrifies you more than Elsie ever could. Everyone looks at you differently, knowing that tonight is your first when they’ve been doing it year after year after year.

            Against all odds the warm-up goes well, which I take as a good sign. I change out of civilian clothes into my green performance garment that comes with black gloves, and the lace cap I disapprove of. Your first performance garment for Boheme is one of those many special things that you can never forget; since it returns every year the next time it returns you can turn to the little mite getting fit for your old performance garment, and when you tell her that it used to be yours, all yours, she will look at you with untainted wonder that you were once that small.

            When we have all changed we warm up once more; he is a taskmaster with warm-ups, so many kids doze off and get humiliated accordingly, but not me. I get humiliated relentlessly for not projecting out there in the heart despite my “unusually loud speaking voice,” but I have razor-sharp focus, one of my skills, so I have never been reprimanded for that in the least.

            It is the lack of oxygen that summons us per usual and we maneuver ourselves down to the heart, all abuzz with excitement. This transformation, one of the heart’s best, seems to truly be a fantasy to the kids new to it and a beloved treasure to the veterans.

            The heart is still in rest so we sit on its squishy floor to wait, I with my closest friend Talia, with whom I discuss magic – we both believe in magic passionately. Talia tells me that if anything is reassurance that magic is out there then it is this transformation and my smile widens in silent agreement.

            Talia and I separate once the heart begins its low hum, signaling it is about to elevate its heartbeat. I stand with my performance parents who whisper how excited they are for me as they pinch my cheeks; I do not reply that I am excited for me also because that might sound cheeky which I would not. Then it is suddenly very bright and we find ourselves in the Latin Quarter of Paris at Christmastime. Here it smells of holly and you can forget the faceless spectators, marveling instead at how lovey this Christmas will be as long as you get enough presents.

            From there on out it is all about keeping your wits about you; it is easy to get caught up in the shops surrounded by families reunited for the holidays, or in petting the donkey and sneaking it a sugar cube, or in yearning for the beautiful rose dress of that woman Musetta who is too busy entertaining her multiple beaus to notice you. But you must remember to snap your neck around to the faceless spectators, breathe, and flash a smile when it is time. If you don’t, Terrence will humiliate you for it later on which will change how you remember the Latin Quarter of Paris of Christmastime, or just this night, forever.

            I savor the breaks, when it is not my time to contribute to the music that is adding culture to the Paris streets; it is in these breaks that you can forget about your taskmaster watching you from the dark musty side chambers or your dad, expecting you to make him proud as he watches for you on the heart monitor. In these breaks you can fly up the stairs and buy a flower from the flower vendor with the last of your allowance or, if you are lucky, one of the sweetest boys whose name you ought to remember will buy one and give it to you, making you think how romantic it would be if he kissed you right here, on the steps.

            So you blush and giggle, trying to look as becoming as possible which is difficult because you are ten and no garment, civilian or performance, seems to flatter you right now. When you see that Musetta, who has had enough of being ignored, has thrown her velvety shoe at the nearest waiter, find a spot as quickly as possible, for the moment the heel hits the waiter, you will be encased in ice.

             I opt for a seated spot for The Freeze, like perhaps sitting on the steps where I can rest my head on someone’s shoulder. Make sure that you have your best smile on before you are frozen so that the faceless spectators have no cause to laugh at you instead of laugh with Musetta –  once one of the boys was drooling when The Freeze began and his drool froze with him, making him look pretty ridiculous. 

            When the waiter recovers from the head blow we defrost.

*FROM THIS POINT ON MY DRAFT IS STILL THE ORIGINAL RAW DRAFT. SINCE MY RAW DRAFT IS VERY LONG APPLYING STYLES TO IT IS TAKING TIME, SO I WILL FINISH MY ROUGH DRAFT ASAP. *

           

Then the band comes onstage which is fun. I wave my flag and sing but all the while I’m scouting for something to steal.

            I’ve built up quite a collection by now and I’m always on the lookout for more. The lollipops look appealing but I know that I won’t be able to resist eating them and the bagels aren’t quite as appetizing but they’ll get stale.

            The curtain goes down and then up again for the tableau where we all smile and wave. And then we’re done and we head back upstairs where most of the kids are dismissed but me and ten others stay for a costume change. It’s time for Act III.

            Act III is fun because it’s just acting and you get to frolic in the snow in a pretty cape. Tati uses her cape to pretend to be a vampire which I find both funny and scary.

            Act III goes well and afterwards Bobby, the costumer in charge of the capes, is helping me out of my cape and I point to the snow that has collected in the bottom of the costume rack. “Will you be needing all of that?” I ask.

            No one needs that much snow so next show he lets me bring a little red pouch that my grandmother gave me. He helps me scoop up the snow and sprinkle it into the bag. I fill the bag up as far as it’ll go and sincerely thank him because he’s one of the nicest people I’ve met there.

            When I get home and my parents have tucked me in for bed I get up and take the snow pouch out of my box. In the dim glow of my nightlight I scatter the snow like how they scattered the ashes of that little boy whose house I grew up in and who I loved like a brother. But this snow is better than ashes, because suddenly it’s winter in my bedroom.

III. Chalk

            I’ve been thinking about it nonstop since I got the call that I was going on. Your first ever performance going on as a cover is a big thing, even though everyone sees you as a last resort and nothing more.

            My mom got the call that I was going on while I was at Hebrew School and she came to pick me up early. Everyone watched me enviously as I left class before they had to go back to writing alef-bet-vet in perfect script.

            Now that I’ve stopped home to get my stuff together, Dad and I head out. It’s an uneventful trip, unlike the one to my first ever performance a couple years ago. That night it took years for the train to come and I knew that if it didn’t my whole world would come tumbling down.

            We get to The Met and I tell my friends that I’m going on and they all hug me. Tonight I’m one of them.

            I only got to go on in one rehearsal and that was when one of the girls was out sick so I got to play hopscotch with my friends and they gave me the prettiest of the dolls that reminded me of Mimì from Boheme. But us covers all took turns going on for sick kids in rehearsals so it didn’t make me special. This makes me special.

            I shrink a little from the glares of the four other covers, none of whom have gone on yet and there’s only a couple shows left. They want to suck the life out of me with those stares. I know that I only got picked to go on because I’m the right height, but as far as they’re concerned, I’m royalty.

            We get upstairs and warm up and there’s only fifteen of us so Tony is extra aware of me. I try to avoid eye contact which is easy enough considering I can’t see anything very well without my glasses. I’m not used to singing the boys’ part and I’m worried I’ll mess up and he’ll throw me out so I sing quietly, going off of the boys on either side of me.

            When the warm-up is over the other covers have to leave but I get to stay. It’s time to get in costume now so I go to the girl’s dressing room which smells like leaves and wood. The other girls get easily into their light dresses, except for Tati who squeezes herself into a boy’s costume. She’s in the cast but she’s also the cover for the solo because of her Russian, and she prays every night that Nathan won’t get sick so she won’t have to do it.

            One of the costumers hands me a boy’s costume like Tati’s with Richard’s name taped onto it and I stare at it for a moment uncomprehendingly. When I don’t take it from her she says “This will be your costume tonight. It’s Richard’s.”

            I stop myself from snapping that I know it’s Richard’s – I’m not a dummy. But instead I say “But… I have to be a boy?”

            This makes the other girls laugh a little. “You were singing the boys’ part during the warm-up,” one remarks.

            I still don’t reach for the costume. Now my costumer is getting impatient. “What, did you expect us to make a new costume for you? Take this and get changed fast. I don’t want Tony to blame it on me if you’re late.”

            I resist telling her that no one here wants Tony to blame anything on them. Ever. I take the costume and get changed into the pants that look baggy on me but I’m sure looked just fine on Richard. I put on his shirt that smells like boy and the socks and the shoes. The jacket comes next and after the dresser says “Now you need to get the hat and the wig on. Go out to the hairdresser and he’ll sort you out.”

            I want to ask her what she means by wig but I’ve already made enough trouble so I get up and leave. The hairdresser sticks a couple million pins in my hair before putting a curly brown wig (which confuses me considering my hair is already both curly and brown) onto my head and then the hat. As he’s sticking in some more pins to secure it, Tony pops his head out, saying “We’re starting the warm-up.” He doesn’t sound very happy. Then again, he never sounds very happy.

            The hairdresser curtly tells him that he’ll let me go in as soon as he’s finished his job. Tony’s face turns red but he goes back inside and shuts the door.

            When I’m done I go in for the warm-up and for a moment I think Tony doesn’t recognize me. I don’t think any of the kids do either. I fit into the boy costume easily, considering my chest is about as flat as some of the notes the kids in front of me belt out. They’ve just never thought of me as a boy before. Tony loves his boys, and his girls that he considers boys, but I’ve always been a girl to him, to all of them – a weakness on my part.

            When we’re done warming up the buzzer calls us downstairs but before I can get in line Benji stops me. “You haven’t learned the choreography yet. Let me teach you.”

            “Choreography?” I ask.

            He nods. “We march onstage and it’s very important you know where to march and when.” He seems a little miffed when I’m still dumbstruck. “Didn’t you watch the rehearsals?”

            I nod, yes I watched the rehearsals. I remember sitting in the second row with the other covers and two of the wranglers. I was watching and I made a comment that one of the kids Yves was doing a great job pretending to be a boy. One of the wranglers looked at me strangely, saying that Yves is a boy and hadn’t I noticed? And I shook my head because Yves looked like a girl and sang like a girl and I thought that meant he was a girl so I shrank into my seat, trying not to look more stupid than I already did.

            When he realizes that I picked up none of the choreography because I was always watching the girls in rehearsals and not the boys because I never thought I’d have to do the boys’ part, Benji sighs and quickly walks me through it, ignoring Tony’s calls to hurry up.

            He does a step and then I copy and it occurs to me that we’re almost dancing which would be sweet and maybe the best thing. But then I remember that we’re marching not dancing, and when he touches my back I understand that it’s because I’m one of the boys tonight.

            We finally head downstairs and I’m a little out of breath so I walk slow. Benji starts talking about his composition classes and he probably thinks that I’m not listening but I am. I always listen, to everything.

            When we get to the stage I’m scared and I remember that I need to steal something tonight so I tell my friends to keep an eye out. I get in the boys’ line behind Benji and in front of Tati and then suddenly we’re marching onstage and I take extra care to not step on his heels.

            Onstage everything goes fine. I don’t mess up, not that I notice. I fake my way through the choreography but not the singing. I try to be honest towards the singing which is hard.

            We get offstage and all the boys are slapping me on the back until I feel it bruising. We meet up with the girls who hug me and one of them grins, handing me the chalk that was her prop onstage and that she “forgot” to leave onstage. She’s batting her eyelashes at me which is something that girls never did to me when I was girl because that would be weird. Now it makes me uncomfortable but I take the chalk. I roll it between my fingers and they turn white. “I’m going to need a bag for this,” I say.

            We get out of costume and I’m almost expecting Tony to say something to me but the best I get is a stiff nod that I think was aimed in my direction. But trust me, you take what you can get.

            When I get home I take a bath to get the boy smell off of me and my dad tells me how he watched me on the monitor and how great I was. “Couldn’t tell you apart from the others,” he says proudly. “You fit right in with all those boys.”

IV. Rose

            I’ve been trying not to think about it since I found out I was leaving, by avoiding calendars and reassuring myself that I always had x number of hour left, but it never works. Your last performance is a big thing, one that many people dread and a few look forward to.

            I wake up like it’s any other day and go to physical therapy for my wacky knee where my favorite therapist Brian tells me he’s moving to Alabama and starts talking about how “Change is good” and all that and I almost break down right there.

            I sit in the lobby with a box of cookies from Fairway in my lap that we’re going to eat after today’s show is done. When class gets out all the munchkins emerge and look greedily at the cookies that aren’t for them. Everyone has heard about my leaving thanks to Tony’s big-ass announcement so I get some pitying glances from some kids and their mommies.

            We head upstairs and I try to not let my fingers linger too long on the lockers because this is just any other day. Upstairs everyone is hugging me and my friends talk excitedly about the plans we’ve made for after the show and who’s coming but I can’t think that far ahead. Tony hugs me, something I’ve almost gotten used to over the past week and Alice my favorite wrangler gives me a bouquet of lollipops with sweet labels on them because she’s always been looking out for me.

            We warm up and then get into costume. After fifteen performances this costume has become my skin and I dread peeling it off when the curtain goes down. I get makeup and hair and I’m ready.

            We all sit together and warm up again and I’m sitting with my friends today because not even Tony can stop us from sitting where we want. We get called and go downstairs and we’re backstage. We hug each other and dance together during the overture. Before it’s time to go on I hear someone tell me to make it count.

            Onstage I march and sing my heart out and try to make my angry faces go up to standing room where I know Tati is braving her fear of heights for me. We run and jump and I try to steal beer from one of the guys at the bar and then we’re offstage and my eyes water a little then but not much because I’m still busy catching my breath.

            We all go upstairs and Tony praises our good work and we sit together and debrief on who did what bizarre thing to which person. When that’s done it’s time for the break which I spend taking a gazillion pictures with my Polaroid of people and I. Suddenly kids I’ve barely talked to want a Polaroid with me as a keepsake. We watch some funny videos and reminisce about old times and I think how lucky I am. The break is over in a flash and we’re back in our seats to warm up for Act IV. I put my all in and then we’re heading downstairs and I cling to every locker and every brick of every wall.

            I savor every note of Act IV as petals rain down on us while we sang and laugh. When we exit I look out at the audience a few more times over my shoulder and then it’s done.

            Upstairs Tony tells me that I can make a speech but suddenly I’m crying and can only muster an “I love you guys” before I excuse myself to get the cookies. We eat and tears are shed and I go around and try to dry every single one with a big hug because I don’t want any of them to cry for me in a million years.

            I’m a bit surprised when the little boys I barely know start crying too so I give them extra cookies to make them stop. When we’ve finished the cookies we head downstairs to where my parents are waiting. Tati’s brought me flowers and I have another cookie. I say goodbye to a bunch of the kids and then to the wranglers and finally to Tony who tells me to stay in touch and it’s more cordial than affectionate but I know he’s trying.

            My friends went to wait outside for me and when I emerge from the stage door they start clapping for me and I try to take a snapshot of this moment to remember forever because this is why I love them. This and when we first got upstairs from Act IV and they showered stolen rose petals on me and I caught every one, every single one, because they are flowers that will outlast this springtime.