START SPREADING THE NEWS – PART 13


 START SPREADING THE NEWS – PART 13

It’s a frantic morning for the cast as we prepare for the final run-throughs in front of the department heads. They’ve come to observe what we’ve learned so far, and the pressure is on. Everyone is dressed in their best dance clothes, with faces painted and false eyelashes in place. We’re running on fumes at this point, having pushed ourselves to the brink through countless rehearsals. The idea of being “let go” at this stage is still a real threat hanging over us, and we’re doing everything in our power to avoid that.

The ‘Company’ has posted a list of what we should look like for today, pinned up on the stage manager's wall. We’re told to follow it precisely, down to the last detail. The fear of failure is palpable, and the stakes feel higher than ever.

For the next two days, we run the show back to back, giving it everything we’ve got. The audience is made up of department heads, but they’re stone-faced, offering no visible reaction to our performance. It’s disheartening. When we’re not on stage, you can find us napping in the wings, desperate for a few moments of rest, only to be jolted awake just in time for our next entrance.

My nerves are frayed. I sit on the steps that lead to the wings and chain-smoke my second pack of cigarettes for the day. Five feet away from me, a mouse is stuck on a glue trap, its cries echoing through the silence as I inhale. I can’t bear to listen to it suffering. I walk over, pick up a stanchion, and bring it down, ending the mouse’s misery quickly. It feels wrong, but I’m too tired to process the death properly. I end up sticking the stanchion to the glue trap and the dead mouse, too exhausted to feel guilty.

Like well-trained monkeys, we smile and nod when the Director or the department heads address us. They’re so busy fawning over the department heads that they don’t notice one of the girls nodding off to sleep in the wings. I can’t help but think that the Director better have bought a box of Depends, because if anything goes wrong, he’ll definitely soil himself. He nearly chokes on his own laughter while cracking jokes in front of the cast. It’s clear to us that he’s just as nervous about pleasing them as we are.

On the first day of performances, we’re a hit. The department heads love us. But, of course, there are going to be changes in the show. This is hardly a surprise to us—there’s been a change every single day since we started. It’s become the norm.

After the show, the Director pulls me aside. He tells me I looked great, that he’d been worried because he thought I had been looking lazy over the past week. I have to clarify—what he didn’t know is that I’d let my understudy take over my role while I stayed close by, teaching him and making sure he got everything right. That’s how I looked lazy. But I don’t explain myself; I just nod, too tired to argue.

Later that evening, the Director is rushed to the hospital with severe dehydration. We won’t see him again until we arrive in Italy.

Honestly, no one is all that nervous about continuing the next day without him. In fact, without him hovering over us, it feels like a weight has been lifted. Even when we sword fight, we move like a well-oiled machine, effortlessly in sync. The department heads are happy, the company is happy, and we’re happy because we get the next morning off. It feels like a small victory.

We head back to our condos and celebrate with drinks, toasting to the success of the run. Soon, we’ll be heading home, or so we think. Our minds are already dreaming of what comes next, but little do we know, the road ahead will not be as simple as we imagine.

 

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