Unnaturally Green (30 page)

“I’m so sick of this,” I said through a stiff jaw.

I saw our apartment’s doorway up ahead, so I reached into my bag and scrambled for my keys.

“Sick of what?”

“Everything.”

I didn’t know who to be mad at. I felt mad at the world. Especially myself.

“Hey, slow down.”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Fel—”

“Why did you even come here? It’s all such a joke.”

At this, Marshall stopped walking.

“What are you saying?”

“I hate it here. I hate this stupid street. I hate the stupid green in my hair. I hate that I’m sick. I hate the way my family is making a big deal over the fact that I’m a standby. I hate that we’re stuck here. I hate that we’re eventually just going to break up anyway—”

“What? What the hell is this? Calm down,” Marshall said.

“Seriously, leave me the alone.
Go away!
”

I turned the key and headed inside. At the top of the stairs, I could barely catch my breath and felt my heartbeat pounding in my throat. I threw down my bag and shut myself in the bathroom, drawing a hot bath.

There I lay, with my chest covered in Vapo Rub. I watched heavy mist fill the room—a rainforest with a shower curtain. I sank down into the water until my head was submerged beneath the suds. The warm pressure seeped around me; into my ears, against my eyelids.

Then it hit me: this was the feeling I’d been having for months. Despite my triumphs, ever since I’d taken on the role of Elphaba I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was underwater; surrounded on all sides by preoccupations and anxieties, with no easy way to gasp for air.

And the person holding my head underwater? It was me.

My own worst enemy.

I exhaled, feeling a cascade of bubbles along my face.

After breaking the skin of the water, I wiped my eyes and saw Marshall sitting next to me on the bathroom tile.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Look. Don’t beat yourself up. I mean, four shows in two days? That’s ridiculous. Plus, the pressure of having everyone here—”

“I thought my first time on as Elphaba was supposed to be the hardest. Or the Week I Didn’t Poop.”

“Well, they’re all tied, I think.”

“When will it get easier? I just want it to get easier,” I said.

“Give your body some time to heal and catch up.”

“But what if I have to call out tomorrow?”

“Then you’ll call out.”

“What if—” I felt my throat catch. It always did that whenever I was about to say something scary. “What if this isn’t right for me?”

“What do you mean?” asked Marshall.

“Theater.
Wicked
. What if it’s not for me.”

Saying it felt like giving away the ending to the movie of my life, the one I’d invested 24 years in watching. Months before, it had been a romantic comedy. Lately, the third act had taken a turn towards melodrama.

“Then you’ll figure it out,” said Marshall.

“I don’t know what I want sometimes,” I said, mad at the screenwriters for robbing me of my confidence.

“That’s okay, Fel,” Marshall said simply.

 “But—” I stopped mid-sentence, slapping my palms down onto the water with a
clap
, “I don’t know what to do.

“It’s okay,” said Marshall. “Everybody feels that way sometimes.”

“Not true,” I said, sniffling.

I looked at Marshall. In the humidity, his sideburns had curled up around his ears and beads of mist were forming over his brow. The bathroom felt like a furnace. But still, he stayed.

“Where did you just go?” I asked.

“I stopped by the bodega. We’re out of Vitamin C, so I thought I’d pick you up some orange juice.”

“Oh, Marsh,” I said, tears in my eyes.

Forget carb-sweet-fat baskets. At that moment, orange juice was the most romantic gift I’d ever gotten.

I wanted to take back our walk home—or for that matter, the last few weeks. Since I’d begun my self-defeating quest for excellence, I’d become even more engrossed in my work. Gearing up for May 22, I’d been disregarding some of the Treaty terms, doing everything in service of my voice, my health, my goal. Meanwhile, Marshall was keeping absurd hours, walking me home from the theater late at night, cooking midnight dinners of poached eggs on toast, then rising a couple of hours later to open the health club at 5:15 a.m.

Through it all, he hadn’t complained. He hadn’t called me names, or told me I was selfish. He’d been there—just as he always had. On the bathroom floor, through the humidity, the pressure, the trauma, the auditions, the callbacks, the cross-continental moves. He was always at the ready with piggyback rides, oatmeal raisin cookies, orange juice, and encouragement.

He was Marshall Roy. So profoundly different from anyone I’d ever known.

And here I was, screwing everything up.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“For everything. For having you come all the way to San Francisco to be with me, and then watch me act like a totally psycho person.” I flicked some water with my index finger and thumb. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology
not
accepted,” said Marshall, leaning in, “because you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Not even for being totally mean?”

“I’ll let you have a free pass tonight.”

“Oh, Marsh.”

“The thing is,” he said, hugging his knees to his chest, “I’m always in your sidecar.”

“You are? Still?”

“Fel. Do you even have to ask?”

When we’d first faced the possibility of a long distance relationship, we came up with this idea of a “sidecar.” Whenever one of us went on a journey, we said, the other would be there—through bumps, detours, or traffic jams. The meaning kept evolving, but this much we knew: if we couldn’t be there physically, we’d be there emotionally. Invested, present, forging ahead.

As life unfolded, we’d keep switching off who was in the driver’s seat. No matter the route, together we’d press on.

“Nothing can stop us,” I said.

“You got it, buddy.”

“But, okay,” I said, sitting up through the suds, “how do I get better?”

I gripped the sides of my neck, pressing my swollen glands.

“If you can’t do the shows tomorrow, that’s totally fine. No matter what, you’ve done it—more than you ever thought possible. I mean, you got promoted in two weeks! You went on as Elphaba mid-show, your first day on the job! You survived the Week You Didn’t Poop!”

“And what is worse than not pooping?”

“You did two shows your second day, then later while you were sick!”

I laughed as Marshall stood at full, towering height, waving his fist for emphasis. “You’re Elphaba Thropp, for God’s sake!”

Elphaba Thropp, brave and uncompromising.

The next day I woke up and swallowed. Gloom and doom be damned.

I think I can do this.

I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and texted David.

And so the world didn’t end.

(LL101:
Surprise, surprise
.)

The weekend came and went, though not exactly as I’d hoped. No, I hadn’t done perfectly, but I’d done my best—squeaking in three performances in two days.

Since the show must go on, one person’s falter became another’s triumph, and Alyssa made an amazing Elphaba debut. Days later, the world’s most efficient bootlegger struck again— posting the end of her “Defying Gravity” for the eager masses.

Ah, the great circle of life.

My family flew out of town early that Monday morning. Marshall was on duty at the gym, so I took the whole afternoon to recoup, doing my usual routine of Neti Potting, gargling hydrogen peroxide, drinking my weight in water, and plopping down on the couch to watch
Say Yes to the Dress
(the most repetitive yet inexplicably entertaining TV show ever made).

As suspense built over whether Tammy would find the perfect mermaid silhouette in her price range, I got a call from best friend Becky.

“Hello, son!”

“Son!”

“What’s up, son?”

“Son, how was your Elphaba weekend?” Becky asked.

I recapped the minor drama of my calling out, taking special care to reenact the Flashbulb Feast, Italian accents and all.

“Fel, you are the best. Three shows in two days? That is insane.”

“Are you going for a run?” I asked, since her voice was cutting in and out.

“I’m doing the Pilates 100 while you’re on speaker.”

“Oh, amazing,” I said.

“So, changing the subject,” Becky panted, “guess who I ran into this week.”

“Who?”

From the sound of her voice, I already knew.

“Matt 3.0.—in the flesh!”

And here I had buried him in my Museum mausoleum, only to find he had quietly escaped to haunt the streets of Manhattan.

“Did you talk to him?” I asked.

“Yeah! And it was super awk.”

According to Becky, on St. Mark’s Place in New York’s East Village she had exchanged ten sentences with one Matt 3.0, Breaker of Fel’s Heart, who, according to official testimony, had “looked unattractive” and was wearing a hemp bracelet—a huge fashion faux pas for any man in Becky’s book.

“Don’t worry though,” Becky said. “I told him you were living with a fitness model.”

“What?”

“Marshall
has
shot fitness ads.”

(It was true. He had.)

“How are things with Marshall, by the way?”

Ugh. I hated talking about Marshall and Matt 3.0 in the same conversation.

“Things are good,” I said, hesitating. I took a breath and told Becky about the senseless fight we’d had two nights before—about how Marshall’s and my lovesick haze had at first been unassailable, but had been tested by our living together, then lately by the stressors of
Wicked
.

“Fel, you’re incredibly stressed—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “Still…”

My voice trailed off. “I guess everything is going to be okay.”

“Fel, don’t sweat it,” said Becky. “I feel good about things as long as you can talk critically about what’s going on. That hasn’t always been the case with you, right?”

Becky had a point. While dating Matt 3.0 I had been unable to see things as they really were. Whatever the reason, I ignored all the red flags and kept going, full speed ahead—with my head down and my heart on my sleeve.

“You’re sure he looked unattractive?” I asked.

“Oh, absolutely; like a post-op Michael Jackson.”

“Still, I’m weirded out,” I said. “I feel like this is a bad omen.”

“It is definitely not an omen,” Becky said. “But if it is, the only thing it’s predicting is many more years of Matt looking terrible and wearing man jewelry.”

Laughing, I tried to seize control of my imagination. If the ghost of Matt 3.0 was stalking the streets, I couldn’t let him weasel his way into my thoughts, confidence, or relationship with Marshall. Instead, I would visualize him worming back through the mouth of his mausoleum, where its stone door would close behind him, sealing itself shut, sturdy and cold.

Right before Becky hung up, she added (almost telepathically),