Unnaturally Green (32 page)

Coming home, black-and-white Kansas was awash with color. Siblings, parents, and cousins were there to hug, swap stories about my grandmother, and inquire about the bits of green around my ears. It was the bitterest of sweets: returning to a place you loved, to say goodbye to someone who had defined that place for you.

In this way, home felt changed. Like I’d skipped out on someone and come back to find they’d dyed and cut their hair, or put on a fake nose with glasses. I regretted that it took my grandma’s dying to get me to come back.

Why hadn’t I been there to say goodbye? (Not over the phone, but in person?) Why hadn’t I been at my cousin’s wedding to compliment my grandmother’s hair and shimmery gold suit? If I’d known what the year would bring, would I have gone off to do
Wicked
?

Back in San Francisco after the funeral, I felt so confused. Before each performance, covered in green, not only could I not recognize myself, but I could barely look in the mirror.

Watching the sunrise on my patio after one sleepless night, I called my mom.

“I miss Grandma,” I said through tears.

“Me, too,” she said with a sigh.

We talked and cried, and I told her how my head felt clouded by doubt.

“I don’t know why I’m back here,” I said. “I guess coming home got me questioning again. Asking myself what to do once
Wicked
is over.”

“Take it one day at a time,” my mother said.

“I hate being so far away now. There’s just so much I want to do.”

“The joy is in the journey,” my mom replied, something she said to me often.

We talked some more about my grandma, and about how beautiful the funeral had been. Soon, we’d reached that place of emptiness—where we’d dumped out everything and had no more energy. All we could do was try to breathe.

After a silence, my mother spoke.

“If you think about it, Felicia,” she said, “your grandmother knew you only had a certain number of Elphaba shows. I’ll bet she just had to find a way to see you last weekend.”

“Ha. You’re right.” I hadn’t thought of this. “And I wouldn’t put it past her, you know?”

“She was with you,” said my mom, “I’m sure of it.”

“You think?”

“Of course she was. And you know what? She’s going to brag about it from now until the end of time.”

19. SAYING GOODBYE

T
he countdown to closing began.

After my grandmother’s funeral, I slowly began to mop myself off the floor. Instead of dwelling in sadness, I tried to approach the final months with optimism, working to table my feelings of guilt or needling dread about what the heck I was going to do come September.

In June, Eden—the idol and mentor—announced she would bid the cast farewell, and that a to-be-determined replacement actress would fill in through September.

In the face of this news, it occurred to me that I hadn’t, as planned, become Eden’s loyal protégé. It had been trickier than I thought for a standby to get to know her principal actor—let alone kiss her ring and lounge with her in togas on large rocks. But that was the nature of it: Eden always worked when I didn’t, and vice versa. Determined to do something about it, I emailed Eden and asked her to meet me for lunch.

A couple of days later and there we sat, an Elphaba and her standby, at a table in an outdoor garden, tying up loose ends over chicken curry.

“This place is great,” Eden said, as she took a bite from her sandwich, her green nails standing out against the white ciabatta bread.

 “Thanks again for meeting me,” I said, talking like there was dust in my mouth. (Although I’d known her for a few months now, I still felt like a stammering theater geek.)

“No problem, Felicia—my pleasure.”

With permission to proceed, I sprung into action, asking Eden about her vocal health rituals, what it had been like standing by for Idina Menzel or originating the title role in
BKLYN
—the burning questions I wouldn’t ever have the chance to ask again.

“And how about your
Wicked
audition?” I asked. “What did you do to prepare?”

Eden told me she’d been coached by Stephanie J. Block, a former Elphaba who’d played the role in
Wicked
’s first workshop.

“And, man,” she said, “am I glad I had Stephanie. I could not act at
all
back then.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” I replied. “
You
?”

Everybody knew that one of the reasons Eden was such a phenomenal Elphaba was not just because of her voice, but because of her captivating acting.

“No, seriously, I had no idea what I was doing. Singing, I could do. But acting? I had to work at it—really hard.”

As we laughed together, I felt myself growing more comfortable. It was so easy to talk to Eden. She was frank and honest, and as she reminisced she leaned her head back, looking up at the trees.

“And I remember,” she said, “I had to go on the night after Idina won the Tony.” She laughed to herself and shook her head. “Talk about having to win over a disappointed crowd.”

Eden, like me, had been a standby. I loved this fact. While it was years in her past, she had at one point known what it felt like to be in limbo, with the burden of having to prove herself, time and again.

Being standby had first bonded me to Libby. Now, I realized, it also bonded me to Eden. At lunch, we lamented our strange Elphaba fate of always looking slightly off-color and never
quite
being able to wash away all the green. Soon we were two girls gabbing away—about mishaps, relationships, her life in L.A., and what it had been like having to do long distance with her soon-to-be husband. As she saw it, they would make anything work.

“Joseph,” she said, “was the first man who took precedence over work. That was huge for me.”

I told Eden about my own adventure with Marshall—how what had begun as a romantic comedy premise lately evolved into something much more real and lasting, in that scary life-changing way.

“When you know, you just know,” she said, smiling.

“Not to kill the tender mood or anything, but…”

I pulled out my Blackberry and showed her a picture of Marshall, shirtless.

“Girl,” she said, laughing, “you’ve got to keep this one, if only for his abs.”

Since first trailing Eden, I’d known her to be a generous spirit; at lunch I was reminded of this once again. Despite her fame, she took extra care to stop and take notice of others. To be there for somebody like me.

Somebody
green
.

But I suppose, at the end of the day, we had that in common. Eden’s complexion was light like mine, tinted ever-so-slightly from remnants of makeup. She wore a crocheted hat over her rich black hair, which hung in waves down below her shoulders—an accessory that was as stylish as it was practical.

“Whatever hides the green,” she said, smirking.

This reminded me of one last topic.

Should I bring it up?

It was an anecdote from my past that I’d nearly forgotten. But I had a hunch Eden would understand.

“I haven’t told anybody this,” I said as I furrowed my brow, “but one time this director randomly paused rehearsal and told me I needed to look better. Like, prettier. Actually, his exact words were, ‘You know, you could look really pretty if you just tried.’”

“What, was he nuts?”

I laid down the facts.

“I mean, I always look nice for auditions and stuff,” I said, “but sometimes, at rehearsals…I don’t know. It’s just not ‘me’ to always look
perfect
. Have you ever felt that the business puts pressure on you?”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Eden said as she leaned in. “Okay, on the one hand, I get it. This is a looks-based business. But at the same time, it’s like: a girl can only do so much.” She took off her crocheted hat and ran her fingers along her hairline. “I mean, look at this.”

“I feel your pain,” I said, in green girl solidarity.

“There are some people who are always going to look perfect. They’re going to come out of the stage door looking totally fabulous—like Shoshana. After her shows, she would appear in full makeup, and dark glasses, looking totally fierce. Me? I don’t have the energy.”

She paused, then looked me in the eye. “You just have to be yourself.”

After the last shred of chicken curry disappeared from our plates, we paid the check, hugged, and parted ways down the sidewalk.

As I walked, I felt a spring in my step.

I just had lunch with Eden Espinosa!

The 12 year-old me would not have believed me if I told her.

Rounding the corner, I realized it was obvious: the reason Eden was so astounding was not because of dressing room rituals, resume credits, or hundreds of thousands of fans.

It was because she was so very
human
.

All around,
Wicked
’s tectonic plates were shifting. On the same day Eden was scheduled to leave, Kendra (our Glinda) and French Nic would also bid the cast farewell
—
Kendra to perform in a new L.A. show, and Nic to star as Bert in the touring company of
Mary Poppins
.

Marshall and I were thrilled for him, but as the most enduringly peppy Fearsome Foursome member whose energy level rivaled even that of his mop-like dog, Nic would be sorely missed.

To ring in his last few days, the Fearsome Foursome met on Monday for one last workout session, during which there was much trotting (the girls), homoerotic grunting (the boys), and wistful reminiscing (everybody).

“I don’t know what I’ll do with a new Fiyero,” I said to Nic.

“How will any of us cope,” said Marshall, who was definitely more upset than I was.

“Bert is a great role and everything,” I went on, “but I’m positive you’ll miss getting your face smeared with green during ‘As Long As You’re Mine.’”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Nic.

Post-workout, the four of us took the elevator to Nic’s apartment, where we squared things away, cleaning the floors and surfaces while episodes of
Family Guy
played on Nic’s flatscreen. As a thank-you, Nic gave Marshall and me a gift card to a wine shop, and every last one of his Costco-bought toilet paper rolls, which numbered 28.

“This is seriously the best gift ever,” Marshall said. I thought he meant the wine card, but then saw he was lifting the shrink-wrapped toilet paper in his arms. As both a lover of a good bargain and a person of epic proportions, Costco was like Marshall’s Disneyland, what with its 70-packs of chicken wings and swimming-pool jars of mayonnaise.

He looked over at me, grinning. “Our butts are going to stay so clean.”

Soon the space was mostly empty, with a few lingering electrical cords and pieces of furniture. It dawned on me that Nic’s apartment had been the site of the very first cast game night. Etai had been dog-sitting for Nic when the rest of us had invited ourselves over, eating Nic’s tortilla chips, playing his Xbox, and talking to his dog in Sean Connery voices while Chris Hansen brought truth and moral justice to America.