Page 113 of Bad Crush
Once the door shuts behind her, I ask Mila, “Are you okay?”
“No.” Her voice trembles.
“Come on. Let’s get you in your costume. Then you’ll feel ready.” I have no idea if that’s true, but I sure hope so.
She steps out of the stall, looking a little green.
In the dressing room, she gets into her first costume, and we touch up her makeup.
“There. You look perfect.” And it’s a good thing because I can hear Director Hoffman’s voice outside in the hallway calling for everyone to gather around.
We join the rest of the cast as he gives his usual pep talk, which includes no less than five reminders, all worded slightly differently to stay alert backstage and be ready to go when it’s our turn on stage. We’ve never had an issue with someone sitting backstage not paying attention. We’re all anxiously and acutely aware of every second of the show until the curtain drops, but we listen to his reminders anyway.
Mila grabs my hand and squeezes. I try to think back to my first show at Valley in front of a larger stage than I was used to in high school or community theater. I’m sure I was nervous, but all I can remember is how excited I was.
My heart aches that today I won’t be the one out there.
When he dismisses us, someone else yells that we have five minutes before the house lights drop.
“Director Hoffman,” Mila says, still holding my hand. “I don’t think I can go on.” She presses her free hand to her stomach. “I think I have food poisoning.”
“Are you sick or nervous?” he asks, with no hint of compassion in his voice or eyes.
“Both, but I’m throwing up every few minutes.” She winces like she’s about to again.
He takes a step back, and his gaze moves to me. “Looks like you’re up.”
Butterflies swarm in my belly.
“Quickly now, we don’t have a lot of time,” he grumbles.
Mila drags me into the dressing room. She takes off her dress and hands it to me. I pull it on in a daze. My hair and makeup are already done, but she smooths a few wisps back.
I meet her gaze. She’s beaming, and she looks far less green.
“You aren’t sick, are you?”
She shakes her head and speaks quietly, “This is your part. I’ll get my chance.”
“Mila, no.”
“Yes.” She grins. “It’s already done. Now go break a leg.”
* * *
When the curtain falls,I close my eyes and soak up the applause. My heart only now starts racing as if all the adrenaline and nerves are finally hitting me. The lights come up, and we go out in groups to take our bows. From the wings, I can see out into the audience. I scan, like I always do, seeing faces I don’t recognize and searching for the one that’s never there.
Sometimes I like to pretend my mom is here, and I just don’t see her, or maybe she snuck out early to keep it a secret that she came. It’s a fantasy I don’t truly believe, but I indulge in it. One last time.
When it’s my turn, I walk out to cheers and yells. I wave and then bow. The applause seems to get louder and louder, and I let it fill me up, soothing the pain. Here I make a difference to many. I’m all of their daughters, all of their friends. I’m family, if only for tonight.
The entire cast joins hands, and we take one last bow together. As I stand and we start off stage, I get one last glimpse out into the audience. I know she isn’t here, but maybe I’ll always look for her.
Mila is waiting for me backstage. She squeals and practically tackles me with a running hug. “You were amazing.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For letting me go on tonight. It was everything.”
She nods. “Welcome. Now go back out there and let your fans squeal at you.”
