These are the moments a lifetime in the making. We toil in the shadows of our dreams. In the alleys of preparation and hard work where it’s dark and nothing’s promised. For years, we cling by a thread of hope and imagination, dedicating our lives to a pursuit with no guarantees.
But tonight, if only for tonight, it’s all worth it.
I’m still floating when Takira bursts into the dressing room.
“Neevah!” she screams, throwing her arms around me and rocking me back and forth. “You did it. You chewed that performance up and spat it out. You hear me?”
I laugh and return her squeeze, new tears trailing down my cheeks. It’s relief and reward and, in some tiny corner of my heart, regret. Regret that my mother isn’t here to hold me. Regret that if my sister were here, I wouldn’t even know where to start wading through our shit so we could celebrate together. You know what? Tonight is about tonight, not past drama with Mama and Terry, and I’m determined to enjoy it.
“Thank you.” I pull back to peer into my friend’s face. “I can’t believe it.”
“Well, believe it. You served notice.” She snaps her fingers and grins. “Neevah Saint is here.”
“Now to do it seven more times.” I laugh and start taking pins from the wig, which is as hot as a herd of sheep on my head.
“Oh, you got it, unless Elise hears how amazing you were and cuts her vacation short.”
“Not happening. She was ready for a break, but she’d never missed a show.”
I strip off the costume and stand in only panties, unselfconscious. Modesty is one of the first things to go in this business. I’ve undressed hurriedly in a roomful of actors and dancers in smaller shows where there was a dressing room, so we get real communal real fast.
I tug on skinny jeans with a tight-fitting orange sweater, and layer it with a brown leather jacket, scarf, boots. I wipe away the heavy stage makeup. It feels like my skin can breathe for the first time in hours. I assume there will be some fans at the stage door, even if it’s just a few. They’ll have to get the real Neevah because I don’t want anything more than a slick of lip gloss and a bit of mascara. A brown, orange and green plaid newsboy cap covering the neat cornrows I wore under my wig is all I’m doing for hair. Slim oversized gold hoops in my ears finish the look.
“Ready?” I ask Takira, hefting a slouchy bag on my shoulder.
“Let’s do this. Hopefully your adoring fans won’t take all night, ’cause your girl is starving.”
We’re still laughing, and I’m so preoccupied with my empty stomach, I’m completely unprepared for the crowd at the stage door. Are they here for John? For some principal player because surely they’re not all here for the understudy.
“Neevah!” a young girl, maybe ten or eleven, calls. “Can you sign this?”
She thrusts a pen and a Splendor playbill toward me. She glows, her smooth brown cheeks rounded with a wide grin. Her eyes shine with . . . pride?
“Oh, sure,” I mumble dazedly, taking the pen and signing my name.
She’s the first in a long line of girls, all shapes and colors and ages, saying what it meant to see me onstage. Mothers whispering how impactful it was for their Black and brown daughters to be in the audience tonight. The impact is on me; what could feel like a weight or burden or responsibility feels like a warm embrace. Feels like strong arms encircling me. Supporting me. The first time I saw someone who looked like me onstage, it planted a seed inside of me. It whispered a dream.
That could be you.
It makes me emotional to think I might have done that for any of these girls tonight, and I spend the next twenty minutes scribbling my name on playbills through a film of tears.
“Neevah!” a deep male voice calls from the back of the now-thinning crowd.
I squint at the tall man, frowning until I place him.
“Wright!” I take a few steps and he meets me halfway, giving me a tight hug. “Oh, my God. You were here tonight?”
“Was I here?” When he pulls back, a warm smile creases his handsome face. “You blew it out of the water. I knew you were good, but damn.”
Laughter spills out of me and I don’t think this night could get more perfect. I randomly met Wright Bellamy a few weeks back at a gig when he subbed for the pianist, giving the audience more than they bargained for with such a famous musician tickling the ivories that night.
“Thank you.” I step away and shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, huddling in the leather jacket against the chill of an October night. “I was nervous as hell.”