along?”
I did my best to be entertaining and polite, but inside I was swooning through the ether of happiness. Then Charlie announced that the second show would start momentarily. I wasn’t close to being ready!
I hurried back through the tables but was slowed again and again by admirers. Panic began to well in me. If I didn’t get back in time … Once backstage, I ran to the dressing room. “Fiedee, fiedee, fiedee.” Grace glared at me as a praying mantis would eye a cricket, but she didn’t have time to scold me, not when she had to worry about her own performance, her own position, her own life. As Grace and the others filed out of the dressing room, I peeled off my cheongsam and threw on my Gay Nineties costume. I went backstage, desperate to join the number. Suddenly, surprisingly, someone yanked my shoulder. It was Eddie—dressed in his tails and top hat. He was furious.
“You stupid bitch!” he hissed. “Are you trying to jam this up for all of us?”
He went on to curse me with words I’d never before heard. When the ponies whisked through the curtain, they ducked their heads and edged around Eddie and me, up the stairs, and into the dressing room. They had to change and be ready for the next routine no matter what happened to me. Only Grace stayed by my side.
“I’m sorry, Eddie.” My voice trembled. “This is my first show. I didn’t pay attention—”
“Jesus Christ.” He drawled out the syllables to emphasize his disgust.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, prompting Eddie to throw up his hands in frustration. Then he gestured to Grace. “Clean her up, for God’s sake. We’re on in a couple of minutes.”
Grace pulled me into the dressing room, where it felt like we werein the middle of a tornado. Girls pitched aside their skimpy undercostumes from the Gay Nineties number and pulled on their black-sequined tuxedo corsets for the routine with Eddie as fast as possible.
“Zip me up, will ya?”
“Is my top hat cocked at a good angle?”
“Do I look fat in this?”
“I’ve got a run!”
“A seam just split. What am I going to do now?”
Small dramas happened all around us, but not a single pony wasn’t aware of my lapse—my irresponsibility—when this job was so precious. But if I got fired, they’d follow the old saying: Step on her bones to climb the ladder . And I would just be a lonely girl ignored by the wives and mothers at the Chinese Telephone Exchange.
Grace hastily slipped out of her costume and into her tuxedo outfit. I sat on a bench, weeping. Once Grace was ready, she shooed Ida and the other girls out of the room and kneeled before me.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
That Grace was upset with me was almost more than I could bear. I fought my tears, sucking in my upper lip and biting down hard enough that I tasted blood. Grace grabbed a tissue, and I watched in the mirror as she wiped away the worst of the streaks down my cheeks.
“You need to have a sense of humor about these things,” Grace counseled, even as she tried to erase the irritation that chewed at the edges of her voice. “If you don’t, you’ll never survive in show business. If you miss a step, fall down, or get yelled at, you’ve got to”—here she began to sing—“pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.”
I didn’t know what in the world she was singing, and it must have showed on my face.
“It’s from Swing Time ,” Grace explained. “The Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie?”
I stared at her blankly.
Grace attempted a new approach, reminding me that she was thehead of the line and needed to get me out on the floor or her job was in jeopardy.
“Stop crying right now,” she ordered. Then she pinched my thigh as hard as she could.
“Oow!” I rubbed my leg. Grace blotted my cheeks with foundation and then used the powder puff so enthusiastically that little clouds of white dust swirled around us. Once my face looked passable, she
I did my best to be entertaining and polite, but inside I was swooning through the ether of happiness. Then Charlie announced that the second show would start momentarily. I wasn’t close to being ready!
I hurried back through the tables but was slowed again and again by admirers. Panic began to well in me. If I didn’t get back in time … Once backstage, I ran to the dressing room. “Fiedee, fiedee, fiedee.” Grace glared at me as a praying mantis would eye a cricket, but she didn’t have time to scold me, not when she had to worry about her own performance, her own position, her own life. As Grace and the others filed out of the dressing room, I peeled off my cheongsam and threw on my Gay Nineties costume. I went backstage, desperate to join the number. Suddenly, surprisingly, someone yanked my shoulder. It was Eddie—dressed in his tails and top hat. He was furious.
“You stupid bitch!” he hissed. “Are you trying to jam this up for all of us?”
He went on to curse me with words I’d never before heard. When the ponies whisked through the curtain, they ducked their heads and edged around Eddie and me, up the stairs, and into the dressing room. They had to change and be ready for the next routine no matter what happened to me. Only Grace stayed by my side.
“I’m sorry, Eddie.” My voice trembled. “This is my first show. I didn’t pay attention—”
“Jesus Christ.” He drawled out the syllables to emphasize his disgust.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, prompting Eddie to throw up his hands in frustration. Then he gestured to Grace. “Clean her up, for God’s sake. We’re on in a couple of minutes.”
Grace pulled me into the dressing room, where it felt like we werein the middle of a tornado. Girls pitched aside their skimpy undercostumes from the Gay Nineties number and pulled on their black-sequined tuxedo corsets for the routine with Eddie as fast as possible.
“Zip me up, will ya?”
“Is my top hat cocked at a good angle?”
“Do I look fat in this?”
“I’ve got a run!”
“A seam just split. What am I going to do now?”
Small dramas happened all around us, but not a single pony wasn’t aware of my lapse—my irresponsibility—when this job was so precious. But if I got fired, they’d follow the old saying: Step on her bones to climb the ladder . And I would just be a lonely girl ignored by the wives and mothers at the Chinese Telephone Exchange.
Grace hastily slipped out of her costume and into her tuxedo outfit. I sat on a bench, weeping. Once Grace was ready, she shooed Ida and the other girls out of the room and kneeled before me.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
That Grace was upset with me was almost more than I could bear. I fought my tears, sucking in my upper lip and biting down hard enough that I tasted blood. Grace grabbed a tissue, and I watched in the mirror as she wiped away the worst of the streaks down my cheeks.
“You need to have a sense of humor about these things,” Grace counseled, even as she tried to erase the irritation that chewed at the edges of her voice. “If you don’t, you’ll never survive in show business. If you miss a step, fall down, or get yelled at, you’ve got to”—here she began to sing—“pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.”
I didn’t know what in the world she was singing, and it must have showed on my face.
“It’s from Swing Time ,” Grace explained. “The Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie?”
I stared at her blankly.
Grace attempted a new approach, reminding me that she was thehead of the line and needed to get me out on the floor or her job was in jeopardy.
“Stop crying right now,” she ordered. Then she pinched my thigh as hard as she could.
“Oow!” I rubbed my leg. Grace blotted my cheeks with foundation and then used the powder puff so enthusiastically that little clouds of white dust swirled around us. Once my face looked passable, she
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