Jack & Louisa: Act 1 (10 page)

–LOUISA–

I hardly slept Friday night, except for maybe a few hours during which I had a dream—a nightmare, really—about Jack.

We were onstage in the middle of a performance of
Into the Woods—
the scene in Act 2 where the Baker, Cinderella, Jack, and Little Red all figure out how they are going to kill the giant, and at the moment that Jack is supposed to say “And I will climb a tree and strike her from behind,” a cell phone started ringing from his pocket. Even though we were onstage—in costume and in front of paying customers—he still answered it: “Hello?”

We all watched his face light up with excitement as he exclaimed, “Are you kidding? I’m on my way!”

He hung up the phone, turned to the audience, and shouted, “I’m going back to Broadway, suckers!
All of your houses look the same!
”

Then he ran into the wings and disappeared.

Those of us left onstage just stared at each other, dumbfounded, until Miles Krasnow, who played the Baker, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Seriously, Little Red—did you really think Jack would
stay
?”

I woke up and felt like screaming.

When I rolled out of bed on Saturday morning, exhausted from having tossed and turned all night, I was in as bad a mood as I’d ever been, so foul that my parents seemed downright scared of me when I entered the kitchen. They had tried to talk to me the night before when I came in, but I’d just told them I wanted to be alone and shut myself in my room for the night. Now, as I poured myself some cereal, I could not escape their concern. Mom cleared her throat and said, gently, “Lou, hon, do you want to tell us what’s going on?”

“No.”

“Maybe we can help?”

I started to feel a roar growing inside me.

“No.”

“You’ll probably feel better if you talk about—”

“
Jack is going back to New York!
” I exploded, slamming the cereal box down so hard that a few Crispix flew out onto the counter.

“He’s going back so that he can wait for something to
maybe
happen!”

My parents stared at me, uncertain. They looked like a pair of campers trying to figure out how to deal with the bear outside their tent. Mom made another cautious attempt.

“Sweetheart, what does that mean—”

“He’s leaving
our
show to go sit backstage at a
Broadway
show! Not
be
in a Broadway show! Sit
backstage
at a Broadway show!”

“Like an understudy?” asked Dad.

“Not even! He’s gonna be a
vacation swing
!”

My poor parents. They had no idea what I was talking about. And the truth was, I didn’t even know what I was talking about—not really. I had only half listened to Jack’s explanation of what he was being asked to do—once he’d said he might be leaving, I’d kind of gone into shock. (Though I was pretty sure I’d still managed to hurt his feelings. Again. I had gotten so good at that.)

“Lou, honey,” Mom said, “we don’t know what a
vacation swing
is—”

“Then look
it up!”
I screamed, storming out of the room. As angry as I was, I was surprised that neither one of my parents ordered me to come back into the kitchen to apologize. Normally, they would never let me behave that way. The fact that they just let me go almost made me feel worse.

Back in my room, I took my own advice and looked up “Vacation Swing” on my laptop. Ignoring links to discounted porch swings and “Swing Classic—Your Dance Vacation Destination!”, I found a New York actor’s blog describing his experience as a vacation swing for
Phantom of the Opera
. He explained that it was a lot like being an understudy—you had to learn an entire part (sometimes more than one), and be ready at a moment’s notice to perform. But what made it different was that it was only a temporary job, just as Jack had said. Vacation swings had to learn everything that the full-time understudies did, but they were only needed at the theater for a short amount of time—sometimes for only a week. Vacation swings were like an extra insurance policy for the show. I decided it didn’t make sense why Jack would want to work so hard for so little payoff.

My phone rang, and Jenny’s name popped up on the screen. Shoot. I’d forgotten about our plans. I must have done a poor job of concealing my grumpiness because as soon as I said, “Hey,” Jenny launched into crisis mode.

“Oh my God—what happened?” she asked, adopting her most serious tone.

Jenny prided herself on being a good problem solver. She came up with a great plan B when it rained on my tenth birthday, suggesting that we clear out the furniture from our finished basement and host an “indoor picnic” instead of a barbecue in our backyard.

I hoped that she’d offer some kind of solution now. But when I finished explaining to Jenny what had happened with Jack, she was silent.

“Wow, that sucks,” she said, finally.

“I know—so what should I
do
?” I waited for her to outline a plan.

Instead all she said was, “I don’t think there’s anything you
can
do. Except forget about it.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You have to!” Jenny commanded. “But let me help. My mom just bought me and my sister a manicure set. And since my sister bites her nails constantly, it’s really
my
manicure set, so I’ll bring it over. You should try ‘Bond with Whomever.’”

“What?”

“That’s the name of a nail polish color,” Jenny clarified. “It’s lavendery.”

I looked down at my nails. There wasn’t a nail polish color on the planet that could make me feel better, but I appreciated Jenny’s offer to Bond-Me-with-Whomever. It seemed fitting, considering I’d bonded with Jack, a traitor. “Whomever” couldn’t disappoint me more than he had.

“Okay,” I said, miserably, “see you soon.”

I knew I had to apologize to Mom and Dad before Jenny came over, so I went back downstairs and found them still in the kitchen, drinking their coffee.

“Sorry,” I said, sheepishly. I realized I hadn’t eaten my cereal. The bowl remained on the counter, quietly reminding me of the embarrassing tantrum I’d thrown.

Mom got up from her stool, wrapped her arm around my shoulders, and buried her nose in my hair.

“You ready to talk?”

• • •

Twenty minutes later, I felt like I was in an episode of
Dr. Phil
. Mom, Dad, and Jenny were all sitting on the couch in our living room, while I sat in an armchair facing them. Between us on the coffee table was Jenny’s manicure set, its contents spilled out across the glass top. Jenny had wasted no time and was already pushing back her cuticles with a rounded metal tool.

“Do you know for sure that Jack is leaving?” Dad asked.

“He said he hasn’t decided, but I’m sure he’s going to choose New York,” I said, curling my feet up underneath me. Mom jumped in.

“I think, for the sake of moving forward, we should assume Jack is leaving,” she said, using her most reasonable voice. “Louisa will not be upset if he stays, obviously. She will be upset if he leaves, however, and so helping her manage that pain is how we can be most useful.”

Dad tried to suppress a grin and failed. Mom turned to face him.

“What are you smiling at, Doug?”

“I’m just glad to see that you’re putting your psychology studies to good use,” he said, squeezing Mom’s knee. “People will come far and wide for therapy sessions with you.”

“Doug, do not make fun of me—”

“I’m not! I’m serious, Hannah—you’re impressive!”

As they giggled, Jenny shifted uncomfortably and shot me an impatient look. She held up a nail file and waved it around as if to say,
Can you please wrap this up?

“Hey, guys?” I interrupted. “Can we get back to
me
?”

Mom turned back to face me. She was blushing.

“Sorry, sweetie. Of course we can.”

The session resumed.

“Are you having trouble understanding
why
Jack would go back to New York?”

I wanted to say yes, but the truth was—I totally understood why Jack would go back. Sure, he’d be standing by for someone playing the role he was originally
supposed
to play, but it was on
Broadway
.
How could I blame someone for choosing what I’d only been dreaming about my entire life?

“No, I get it.”

“Okay, then,” Mom continued. “Are you maybe a little jealous of him?”

Ugh, of course I was jealous. It was such an ugly feeling, but I couldn’t deny that it was there.

“A little, yeah.”

“It’s perfectly natural to feel that,” Dad chimed in, “but you can’t let that cloud how you feel about him as a friend, you know? Jack’s not about to make a decision to intentionally hurt you or make you jealous.”

“I know.”

“So why don’t you tell us what upsets you the
most
about Jack leaving?” Mom asked, getting to the heart of the matter.

I didn’t answer right away. I could have said that I was upset because Jack made a commitment to the Players. That someone else would have to be cast in his role, and that he (or worse,
she
) would have to learn the part in a really short amount of time. I could have said that I was upset that Jack’s time in New York would most likely be wasted backstage, where he’d sit in a little room and
listen
to a Broadway show through an intercom. And sure, I could have said jealousy—that I’d never had to choose between two shows before, let alone a
Broadway
show, and the fact that he did get to choose just reminded me of how different we were, even though the last few weeks made it seem like we were pretty similar. I could have said any of those things, but none of them was the truth. What upset me the
most
about Jack leaving came out in a whisper.

“I just don’t want to do
Into the Woods
without him.”

And as soon as I said it I started to cry.

Jenny dropped her nail file, leaped from the couch, and threw her arms around me. Rather than tease me about having a crush on Jack, she just said, “Of course you don’t!”

Mom got up and returned with tissues.

Dad waited for my sniffling to subside, then offered one perfect piece of advice. “Then I suggest you tell him how you feel,” he said, “and still be prepared to let him go.”

• • •

At eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, I knocked on the Goodriches’ screen door. Jack appeared moments later. Upon seeing me, he hesitated.

“I’m not going to yell at you or anything,” I said.

“Okay.”

Jack opened the door and stepped outside. He looked tired, too.

“Have you called Davina yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. I’ve still got an hour.”

I saw in his eyes how much he was struggling with the decision, so I wasted no time in letting him off the hook.

“If you go to New York, I’ll understand,” I said firmly. “I mean, I’ll miss you. But if I were in your shoes, I would go.”

“You would?” Jack seemed surprised.

“Probably,” I said, feeling stronger in my conviction. “I mean, a new Broadway musical? C’mon.”

Jack smiled shyly.

“Yeah, it’s hard to say no to something like that.”

“I know. So say yes,” I replied. “The Players aren’t going anywhere—you can do next year’s musical.”

Jack flashed me a mischievous look.

“What if they do
Chess
?”

I smiled.

“Well, then you’ll have to wait two years. Unless you have a serious growth spurt in the next twelve months.”

“Highly doubtful,” Jack said, “but you never know.” He paused, then asked in a more serious tone, “Won’t they be mad at me?”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “Everyone will be so excited for you when they find out. The Schwartzes will probably suffocate you with hugs.”

“Yeah,” said Jack, chuckling, “I’ll have to be careful.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “And just think what Sarah and Simon will do!”

We started to crack up, picturing Simon wrestling Sarah to the ground as she screamed Jack’s name.

“Do you think Denise will miss me?” Jack asked wryly.

“Nah, as soon as you’re gone, she’ll forget you were ever there!”

We collapsed on Jack’s front stoop, howling.

As I fought for breath through my laughter, I realized that I’d been completely wrong. What I’d been most upset about was not the threat that Jack and I wouldn’t get to do
Into the Woods
together—it was that we wouldn’t be
friends
anymore. And with that realization came another: There was no longer anything to be upset about. I knew in that moment that no matter what Jack Goodrich decided, our friendship was solid.

–JACK–

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your five-minute call. Five minutes until the top of the show,” a woman’s voice called over the loudspeaker.

A chorus of playful shrieks trumpeted from the dressing room next door. If I had to guess, some of my castmates had spent more time delivering gifts and reading cards than doing their makeup and getting into costume. Rightfully so—it was opening night! My dressing-room station resembled something closer to a hotel gift shop than the backstage of a theater. Presents and flowers from my family and castmates decorated every square inch of my desk. Nana had sent me a beautiful bouquet of orange tulips. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate a vase, so they were currently chilling in an old Slurpee cup. My parents delivered a miniature bonsai tree with a giant silver balloon attached to it that read, “You’re 50!” Mom and Dad had a running joke that because no one manufactured Opening Night cards, they’d instead try to find the most random gifts possible. (My favorite remains the “Congrats on the Adoption!” bear I got for my
Mary Poppins
opening.) Even Davina sent along her token Edible Arrangement that sat nesting in a pile of unopened envelopes. I was tempted to scarf down a juicy strawberry, but I’d be disobeying the first rule of backstage etiquette: No eating in costume. The strawberry would have to wait until intermission.

I looked in the mirror, growing giddy with excitement, marveling at the awesome costume they’d built for me in such a short time. This opening night was going to be like none other. When I did
A Christmas Story
, it was in its second season, so while our opening night was spirited, we already knew audiences were going to love it. By the time I joined
Mary Poppins
, it had been running for almost six years, so while
my
performance was an evening of firsts, for the other thirty cast members it was probably just another day at work. Yes, tonight was going to be special. This was a show I’d watched sprout from words on a page into a fully blooming production. And while the last six months had been a roller-coaster ride for me, tonight I was getting to prove to the world that I was here to stay.

I parted my hair down the center, clipped my microphone in with the precision of a surgeon, and tugged on my hat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your places call. Places, please, for the top of Act One. Places, please, and have a great opening night!”

The backstage erupted into cheers. I took a swig from my water bottle, spit my half-sucked Ricola in the garbage, and pushed open the dressing-room door.

“Break legs, Jack!” my dresser, Margie, said, lugging a clothes basket of heavy dresses.

“You’re gonna be amazing!” another cast member said, passing me, pushing bobby pins into the front of her wig.

“You too!”

I rounded the corner and began up the stairs.

“Knock ’em dead, Jack,” our stage-right crew guy called, slapping my back.

“Thanks, Billy!” I replied.

The show curtain was still down, so our stage was scattered with cast members stretching and giving each other congratulatory squeezes and thumbs-up signs. I walked onto the stage, collecting my thoughts and silently mouthing my first lines of dialogue. I looked around; there was still one person I hadn’t seen. Then from behind, I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. I spun around and was greeted by the friendliest face in the world.

Lou looked incredible: her embroidered cape was tied tight around her neck, her cheeks rosy with blush, and peeking out from her hood, a mane of perfect brown ringlets.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to see you before we started.” I smiled. “I know you like to get in your zone.”

“Yeah, I think I’m good now.” She winked.

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

“A little bit. It’s packed out there! I know it’s bad luck to peek into the audience, but I was filling up my water bottle and totally couldn’t help myself!”

“Well, I’m glad. Our show’s gonna be amazing.” I grinned. “You’re gonna be amazing.”

“Thanks, Jack. You are, too.”

I leaned in and gave her a hug, slightly crushing her basket in the process.

“Whoops.” I shrugged. “I hope your pastries are all right in there.”

“Oh, trust me, they are. They’re those gluten-free ones Mrs. Schwartz brought in. They could withstand the apocalypse.”

We burst out laughing. Denise, who had been meditating upstage, cleared her throat. A raised eyebrow was all it took to shut us up.

“Hey,” Lou whispered, taking on a more serious tone. “I just wanted to say before we go out there, I’m really happy you decided to stay.”

“I’m happy I decided to stay, as well.” I smiled back.

I began thinking of all the things that had happened since our minivan pulled up to my Shaker Heights home—the not-so-subtle hint-dropping about auditions, the confrontation with Tanner, the laughing on my porch in the middle of a tough decision.

“Seriously,” I said, “thank you, Lou, for, well . . . everything.”

“Awww, it was nothing,” she said playfully.

Our cast party that night wouldn’t be as swanky as
The Big Apple
’s, but the people I’d get to hang with were the best colleagues any actor could ask for. I might not have gotten to do a fancy press line, but Sarah and Simon (now officially dating) would be on hand snapping pictures, giving us the full paparazzi experience. At the end of the day, a show was still a show, whether I played to an audience of thousands or to a handful of family and friends. It was the people I got to share it with that would make it unforgettable.

“Okay, we should get into our positions,” Lou said as the backstage lights began to dim. “Break legs, friend.” She smiled.

“You too, friend,” I said back.

As I watched her exit the stage, I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my body. It wasn’t nerves like I’d felt before an audition. It was more like the tingle I’d get standing at the top of a diving board, toes curled over the edge, knowing the only way down was by taking a giant leap.

“House to half. House to full,” Angela said from her station just off stage right. The rumblings of our audience settled into a silent whisper of anticipation.

“Cast, stand by,” she said into her headset, a smile beaming across her face.

I took one last deep breath and got into place, kneeling by my papier-mâché
cow.

As the curtain rose, our orchestra sprang to life. A spotlight came up on our narrator, Mr. Schwartz, as he said with conviction the four most magical words in the English language:

“Once upon a time . . . ”