“You can’t expect me toperform!”
“Come on, now. I promised from day one I was going to break you out of your mind, so here we are.”
“No.”
“Gertie’s in a real pinch tonight—down three dancers.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’ve never performed before?Ever?Even in your high school’sLittle Womenproduction? I bet you played the perfect Meg.”
“Well... there was show choir.”
“There you go!”
Show choir. My mother, concerned that I was far too shy for my age, urged me to audition my sophomore year of high school. No one was more surprised than me when I made the cut. It was a year of swirling tulle skirts and red sequined bodices. Amid my fear and hesitation, that year I let go in a way I haven’t since. My contributing solo to Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” helped win us first place in the Midwest Regionals. I felt glamorous, confident, and at-home in my skin in a way I haven’t since.
But I was sixteen. Now I’m thirty-nine with a son, a PhD, stretchmarks, and real heartbreak. I’m too old and weighted to ever be that girl again.
Amid some weak protesting, I let August pull me out of the cab and through the back door of Fin de Siècle. I find myself in a dimly lit dressing room surrounded by beautiful women in full makeup and flouncy, short burlesque costumes. All are about ten years younger than me. Heavy curtains cover dressing rooms while cosmetics, glittery combs, and colorful fans clutter the vanities. Ribbon chokers with bright silk flowers dangle from mirrors, and everything smells like sweat, perfume, gin, and cigarette smoke.
“Gertie!”
“Oh, Auggie! Thank god you’re here!” A young woman hurries to us, lightly kissing “Auggie” on both cheeks. She’s wearing a cranberry corset with a garter belt, tights, and silver dancing heels; her black curls twist elegantly around her head. “Both Maud and Penny called in an hour ago, and myreplacements are all booked! I’m starting the show tonight and we need more bloody dancers... Elizabeth?” She looks me over.
“I’m not dancing...”
“She’s marvelous! American show choir circa early 2000s,” August quips, slinging his arm around me.
“Don’t worry, luv, you’ll be fine,” Gertie says. “I’m going to have Tyler fix you up and get you started. We’re on in an hour!”
She hurries away, giving August costume instructions. He winks at me before disappearing behind a dressing room curtain. Yes, it’s unusual that they’d take someone last-minute. But perhaps they aren’t the mosthigh-production-value place, and they’re desperate and it’s just a chorus role. Fear bubbles up as I contemplate making a complete fool of myself on a stage in front of strangers. I can run out now. I can leave and catch a taxi back to the row house. I’m under no obligation here. Yet I stay rooted to the floor, frozen with peculiar yearning as bustling performers hurry past me, brushing against my elbows with warm bare arms.
“Elizabeth!”
I turn around as Tyler introduces himself. He’s wearing the same outfit as Gertie, with a silk pink rose choker around his throat, and he sports a long blond wig.
I ask him to call me Lizzie as he leads me to a makeup chair. Tyler’s ease and American accent relaxes me as he slips a makeup cape around my shoulders and pulls out the drawers for hairbrushes and beauty products.
Gertie sets a tall pink cocktail with a black straw on the vanity. “Our most popular house specialty after the absinthe fountain. It’s a sloe gin fizz. Not too strong, but just enough to take the edge off before the show.” She pats my shoulder reassuringly and then raises an eyebrow, pulling my chin toward her. “Add some sparkles to those eyelids, Ty, to make her eyes really pop.”
“On it,” he says, handing me the drink as she hurries away to check on a quick skirt alteration. I take a sip, the flavor sweet, light, and tart all at once.
“So we have eyelid sparkles, and we’re going to rouge you up a bit for under those lights.” He holds an eye shadow palette against my skin, cocking his head one way and then the other. Then he starts to prime and powder, skillfully and quickly covering my face before he works on my eye area.
“What is this place exactly?” I ask as he darkens my eyebrows, narrowing his heavily lined eyes while concentrating with the brow pencil.
“Sweetie, when it comes to Fin de Siècle, this is the real deal. Best vintage bohemia outside of old Montmartre. We’re everything granny and modern all at once: these sweet floral drinks, old-fashioned costumes, but we perform with all the fabulous pop culture fluff. You’ll see and hear it all tonight.”
“Oh.”
He applies plum-colored lipstick and then gently blots my lips with a tissue.
“Show choir, huh?”
“That was years ago. I’m about to make a complete fool of myself...”
“Stop.It’s the same concept, different moves.”
