Page 28 of The Wilder Widows

“Marge, you could have been an actress.” I grinned while we continued past the bathroom sign on our left. “That was an Oscar-worthy performance.”

“I can’t believe it worked,” Sylvie whispered as we pressed together and kept on hustling down the long, abandoned hallway. It wouldn’t be long before the bouncer came looking for us.

“Do you know where to go?” Doris asked, and I paused, listening.

“This way. I can hear the girls.” We followed the voices, and the giggles got louder as we closed in on the dressing rooms. When we turned the corner and spilled out into backstage, the nerves I’d been suppressing crackled back to life.

It was decades later, and the energy remained the same. The excitement. The anticipation. It was palpable, and it seeped back into my soul. The girls raced around snatching costumes off the racks and struggling for space in the lighted mirrors. Dozens of sets of legs matching mine hustled around while they squealed with the same excitement I felt.

“Wow. It’s crazy back here!” Sylvie said while a dancer blew past. “Is it always so busy?”

I nodded. “Always. It’s part of the fun. The getting ready. Makeup. Hair. Costumes. It never got old.”

“So how do we find her? The lead dancer? That’s the one we need to talk to, right? Which one is she?” Marge asked.

I swept my gaze through the horde of women and then down the hallway to the door with the golden sign. “There. She’s the star, so she’ll be the only one with her own dressing room. She’s in there.”

We moved through the dancers to the door that said, ‘Shelley.’

“She’s in here?” Doris asked.

I nodded, remembering how it felt the day I was the one assigned my own personal dressing room. Part of me had been sad to be pulled from the commotion of the other girls, but most of me had been elated to have the prestige of my own space. I was certain this dancer felt the same. I knocked on the door.

“Enter!” her voice sing-songed, and I took a breath before I turned the knob.

We stepped inside, and I saw her reflection as she dusted highlighter across her cheeks. She looked up and caught us staring at her in the mirror, then turned around to face us.

“Who are you?” she asked, furrowing her infuriatingly smooth skin. I remembered when my skin looked like that without the help of doctors.

Marge closed the door behind us and sealed us inside the room.

“Hi, Shelley. We hate to intrude, but I have an offer for you,” I said, stepping toward her.

Worry lined her face while she examined us once again. “What are you doing in here? This is my dressing room.”

“I know. I was you once, the star of the show, and I would have been furious if a group of strangers barged into my dressing room just before curtain call.”

“Well then, you should probably know to get out.” She arched a painted-on brow.

“I’m here to ask you not to dance tonight.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, standing up and facing me.

“Because I’ll give you five thousand dollars to stay in your dressing room and let me take center stage.”

“What?” She choked and then dissolved into laughter. “You must be joking.” But I didn’t join her in laughter, and soon, her face dropped. “You can’t be serious? You’re not serious.”

“Sweetheart, I’m dead serious. And in about forty years, you’re going to look back and remember this moment and understand exactly why I’m standing here offering you five thousand dollars to sit in your room tonight and let me back on that stage.”

“This is crazy! Our routines are rehearsed for weeks before we take the stage. You can’t just take my spot!”

I lifted the corner of my lip and then broke into the first steps of her routine, spinning to a stop to see her slack-jaw as she appraised me.

“Not bad. How old are you?”

“None of your business. So, what do you say? Five thousand dollars, and you just stay in here.” I pulled the stacks of cash out of my bag and watched her eyes grow at the sight of all the crisp green bills.

While she stared at the money and chewed on her bottom lip, I held my breath.