Wish Upon a Star (31 page)

Martina recoiled as if my palm were diseased. Her right arm flew back, and for just a moment, I thought that she was going to throw the bottle of Red Lucky Dragon at me. But then, I realized what was really happening. I saw the truth.

Martina had lost her balance, on the very edge of the stage. Her prima donna recoil from my extended hand had sent her teetering on the lip of the platform. Lacking any instinctive control of her body, any notion of a dancer’s balance, she flailed for stability.

I leaped toward her, trying to grasp her free hand. The rest of her circle moved, too, some closing in, others backing away, all of us flowing in painfully impossible slow motion.

Martina opened her mouth to scream, but gravity claimed her before she could make a noise. Helpless, I watched her fall into the orchestra pit.

WITHIN SECONDS, A half dozen people had grabbed their cell phones, had punched in 911. Ken dashed backstage and appeared in the orchestra pit almost instantly; he must have taken the stairs three steps at a time. We actors crowded the edge of the stage, peering down, trying to make sense of the chaos below us.

Martina was fully conscious. She was screaming, howling with more volume than she had ever put into her songs onstage. Ken had his hands full trying to keep her from moving. Even from my vantage point, though, I could see that her leg was twisted in a terrible way. I could handle the sight of blood without any problem; I could mop up Justin’s ordinary cuts without a flinch. But the angle of Martina’s knee wasn’t natural. It wasn’t normal.

I staggered upstage.

There was no way that Martina Block was going to open
Menagerie!
I was going onstage.

Eight weeks before, I would have been thrilled. Eight
hours
before, I would have been certain that the universe was functioning properly for once, that I was getting precisely what I deserved.

Now, though, I was overwhelmed with guilt. Had I made Martina fall? Had I planned for her to stand on the edge of the stage, for her to tumble into the pit? I
knew
what a drama queen she could be; I’d been rolling my eyes about her for months. I had to have anticipated some grand reaction to my question. I had to have realized that she was in danger. That she was going to tumble over the edge.

“I didn’t—” I said to no one in particular.

“Of course,” Shawn said, materializing at my side. The words were right, but his eyes were narrow.

“She just—”

“She just fell down, all by herself.” Shawn nearly spat the words. I couldn’t tell if he truly thought I’d done this on purpose, or if he was just furious with himself for not taking his own extreme action.

And he didn’t even know the full truth. He didn’t know that I could have called on Teel at any time. I could have made my genie move me into the lead role. I could have made my final wish, and everything would have happened cleanly, safely, without Martina getting hurt.

But I hadn’t done that. I’d been too selfish to call on Teel; I’d wanted to save my magic for a rainy day. And now, Martina was the one to suffer.

The doors to the lobby crashed open, and a team of paramedics stormed in. They rolled a gurney between them, maneuvering it down the theater aisle with a calming competence. The stage manager rushed to meet them, to show them how to get down to the pit.

I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t stand there and observe as they evaluated Martina’s physical state, as they discussed the best way to shift her over to the gurney, as they ran through the patter of their professional reassurance. I walked away from Shawn—from angry, jealous Shawn—and I stared at the set around me. The walls of the Wingfield apartment felt as if they were closing in around me, trapping me in their dingy embrace.

Finally, a lifetime later, the paramedics were rolling the gurney out the door. I forced myself to turn around. I watched them assure Ken that they’d take Martina to St. Vincent’s. He looked torn for a moment, then dispatched the assistant stage manager to accompany his star to the hospital.

By the time Ken turned back to us actors, his face was composed. He was calm, confident, the fearless director who could lead us through any disaster—even the loss of our star during our final rehearsal. The only sign that he was utterly, completely panicked was that he stood stock-still. Not a single bounce on the balls of his feet. Not a solitary twist of his neck as he worked out nonexistent kinks. Not the tiniest twitch on his lips.

And he was staring at me. Ken’s gaze was locked on me, as if I were the answer to his prayers, as if I could provide the perfect resolution to this crisis. And that’s when I realized that everyone in the entire room was looking at me, as well.

Panic started to ride my heart. I tried to breathe, tried to reason past my terror.

I could do this. I was a professional actress. I had trained for this role; I had sat through countless hours of rehearsal, of staging, of blocking and reblocking.
This
was the reason that I hadn’t been cast in the chorus;
this
was the reason that I’d staked my career on the distant, offhand chance that I would succeed, that I would actually appear onstage. The distance had closed. The offhand had come to pass.

I was going to play Laura Wingfield in
Menagerie!

“Let’s go,” Ken said. “We’ll start the show from the top. Places in fifteen minutes, people.”

The cast exploded into chatter, noisier than a cloud of cicadas. Ken crossed the stage to me. “The costume mistress will have to take in a few seams for the spoken-scene costumes. We’ll take care of that after the run-through. You can wear street clothes for now. The dance costumes should be fine. The dressers will have them ready for you in the wings.”

He didn’t give me a chance to say anything, which was probably just as well. What words could possibly assure him that I was ready for the role? Could possibly assure myself?

The rehearsal was a disaster.

Okay. Not a complete disaster. My genie-inspired singing and dancing skills carried the musical numbers. But the straight play? The lines that Tennessee Williams had written? The words that had originally drawn me to this production, seduced me into the show, because I had played a flawless Laura in college, because I knew Laura’s heart and soul as well as I knew my own?

I stumbled over every single word. I couldn’t remember the blocking. I stepped on other actors’ lines, repeatedly cutting them off or—worse—forgetting to come in when I was supposed to.

Every time I made a mistake, the entire cast
tightened,
ratcheted to a new level of tension. Stress radiated off of Ken—he was back to his constant movement, to his restless twitching. He paced up and down the theater aisles, and even with the theatrical lights blinding me, I could see him tugging at his hair, making his wiry gray curls stand on end.

With all the time we’d lost to Martina’s accident, we didn’t break for lunch. Instead, we kept right on rehearsing, moving immediately from the blockbuster, bring-down-the-house scene at the end of Act One directly into the song-and-dance extravaganza that kicked off Act Two. Everyone was tired, thirsty, hungry. Timothy’s catering tables looked as if they’d been swarmed by Mongol hordes. Not that I went anywhere near the tables. I couldn’t imagine dealing with Timothy, on top of everything else.

By the time we finished, all of us actors looked like the survivors of some natural disaster. Makeup streaked our collars. Our costumes were twisted; a few were torn. My lungs ached, and I realized that I’d been close to hyperventilating for the entire afternoon.

Ken gave us fifteen minutes to change into street clothes, and then he delivered his notes. He had detailed instructions for the conductor, dozens of references to late entrances, to lingering tremolos. He had specific comments on the singing, individual lines that he wanted to crisp up, to punch out, so that the audience could not miss their import. He reminded the dancers to focus on their arms, on keeping the visual lines of the show clean, crisp. He worked through every scene of the spoken play, giving countless recommendations to the actors playing Tom and Amanda, to Shawn’s enemy playing the Gentleman Caller.

But he never said a word to me.

I felt like I’d become invisible, like I was only imagining that I was in the show. I knew that I’d been bad, but so bad that Ken wouldn’t even
talk
to me? I sank deeper into my chair, wishing I could disappear.

Wishing… In the back of my mind, every time I’d flubbed a line, every time I‘d made a mistake, I’d heard a little voice urging me to summon Teel. Press my fingers together, say his name, that’s all I had to do and my genie would get me out of this mess.

I couldn’t do that, though. I didn’t want to succeed solely because of magic. It was one thing to hone my singing and dancing; I’d never claimed to be a musical theater star, before auditioning for
Menagerie!

At heart, though, I
was
an actor. I was supposed to know how to deliver lines. If I spent my final wish perfecting my acting skills, then I’d be admitting failure to myself. I’d be admitting that I had fooled myself all along, every single time I’d ever dreamed of a successful theater career. If I summoned Teel, I might win the battle of
Menagerie!
but I would lose the war of my independent, self-respecting acting life.

I couldn’t do it. No matter how disastrous the afternoon had been, I couldn’t admit utter failure by making my fourth wish.

At last, Ken dismissed the rehearsal, reminding everyone to arrive half an hour early the next night, for our first preview performance. Everyone rushed away, chattering like squirrels, making plans to go out for drinks, promising to run lines just one more time. Ken stood at center stage, staring at the elaborate walls of the Wingfield apartment, the perfect recreation of their cluttered, stultifying home.

I finally excavated the courage to croak out two words: “I’m sorry.”

Ken shook his head. “It’s not your fault. It would have been impossible for anyone to step in this late.”

“Maybe we can delay the premiere? Cancel the first week of previews and brush up on things?” I sounded like I was haggling for a trinket, bargaining at a flea market.

“Not a chance. The
Times
is coming tomorrow night. And the
Washington Post
is sending someone up—they’ve asked to take a backstage tour. They’re doing a whole article on late-summer can’t-miss getaways.”

Can’t miss.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to meet Ken’s spaniel eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say that you’ll go over the lines tonight. Say that you’ll do your best tomorrow. That’s all we can ask for.”

I should have appreciated his support. I should have thanked him for his calm acceptance. But something inside me knew that he was speaking out of resignation, not confidence in my ability. I nodded and stalked toward the theater doors. I barely managed to wait until I was outside before I phoned Amy.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, immediately picking up on my despair.

“I’m playing the lead in
Menagerie!
Starting with tomorrow’s preview performance.”

I thought that I could hear her raucous war whoop, all the way from New Jersey. “That’s amazing! What did you do? Poison Martina?”

“Pushed her off the stage,” I muttered.

“What? Just a second.” Amy covered her phone, and I heard her shouting to some riot in the background. “Quiet down! I’m on the phone with Aunt Erin.” She returned her attention to me. “I could swear that you just said you pushed her off the stage.”

“Okay, I didn’t push her. But she fell. And I think it was my fault.”

More muffled noise as Amy tried to quiet the troops. “What happened?” she finally asked.

I started to explain, started to describe the freak accident, but I only got partway through the story when I realized Amy couldn’t hear a word that I was saying. “
What
is going on there?” I asked.

“Dr. Teel is here. He and Justin just cooked steaks on the grill, and Justin is setting the table so that we can eat before I head out to my Services Marketing seminar.”

“
Justin
is setting the table?” I wondered if Amy was worried that aliens might have taken over her son’s body.

My sister laughed—the first carefree belly laugh I’d heard from her in months. “You wouldn’t believe it! He actually made his bed this morning without my asking—because Dr. Teel was coming over today!”

Amy babbled on for a couple more minutes. I could hear the joy in her voice, the release from stress. It wasn’t the same lighthearted chatter that we had shared before Derek went overseas, but it was close enough. “Oh!” she finally cut herself off. “They’ve got everything on the table. I’ve got to run.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. I didn’t need to worry much about acting. Amy wasn’t really listening.

I shook my head as I terminated the call. Even if I’d considered using Teel to get out of my theatrical mess, even if I justified forfeiting my pride, the entire foundation of my acting career, I couldn’t do that to Amy. Not now. Not with Justin showing so much improvement. Not with him behaving for the first time in two years. I couldn’t let Teel escape to the Garden just yet.

I was a big girl. I could take care of myself. I just needed to get home, to read through my script, to study my notes. I had a whole night ahead of me—more than enough time to perfect the role of Laura Wingfield.

I was halfway through the first act, reciting my lines like a madwoman, when the apartment disappeared.

“Teel!” I bellowed, more exasperated than I’d ever been before. “I do not have time for this!”

He was wrapped in his doctor guise—wickedly glinting blue eyes, perfect hair more pepper than salt, a pure-white dress shirt slicing into perfect charcoal trousers. I couldn’t believe that he’d actually spent the evening standing over a hot Weber grill; he looked completely unruffled, more ready for a night at the opera than an evening of child care.