ROUGE, Chapter 1

ROUGE - Chapter 1

A trumpet blast, followed by silence. We were all frozen on our marks. Center stage, my arms were raised in a V, and the insides of my eyelids turned from pink to black as the lights went out and the curtain fell, sending the odor of musty velvet swirling around us. Applause filled the house, but on our side was the swift click-clack of tap shoes, the whisper of tights against taffeta, fishnets and feathers. I dropped my arms and exited stage right.

The glare of the spotlight had dazzled my eyes, but I’d done this so many times, I could find my way blind. I caught the small hand waiting for me in the wings as I passed. Not so small anymore, I thought as we navigated the maze of boxes and discarded scenery back to my dressing room. 

The odor of grease paint and cigar smoke drenched everything, and my throat was dry from singing and from the cornstarch used to absorb the damp. The rosin that kept us from slipping on the glossy stage floor crackled beneath my feet as we passed dancers speaking in low voices about what worked and what didn’t and whose fault it was. 

The dark passage we followed turned into a dimly lit hall lined with tiny dressing rooms where most of us lived. Secretly, of course, as this was not Storyville, and our New Orleans theater would be shut down if it were discovered so many single women lived here together. Prostitutes, they’d say, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But I was born here, and the rest had no other options. So we all kept the secret.

I lifted the handle on our tiny door, and we pushed inside, both speaking at once.

“Oh, Hale!” Teeny’s voice was breathless. “You were like a dream—”

“Help me get this thing off.” I interrupted, easing into the chair and trying to hold my head still as I pulled pins from my enormous headdress. “It must weigh fifty pounds.”

She hurried over, her small fingers searching my scalp for the remaining pins.

“Like a real queen of the stage,” she continued as she removed the last tiny instrument of torture and lifted the enormous mélange of cut glass and feathers from my head. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Beautifully wicked.” I slid my fingers into my hair and rubbed my scalp. “I’m going to have a headache the rest of the night.”

I straightened up and peeled off my fake eyelashes as Teeny’s hands smoothed my dark brown locks behind my shoulders and down my back. 

“I’ll never sing like that,” she said.

“Let’s hope your dancing can cover for it.” My tone was sharper than I’d intended, and I glanced up at her bright blue eyes. Her blonde hair was streaked with auburn highlights that on some days shone bright red. Every day she grew more beautiful, and she was only twelve. My head hurt worse. I had to get us out of here.

“We’ll get back to work on that tomorrow,” I said in a gentler tone.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried about getting me in the show.” She turned and placed the headdress on its stand beside my mirror. 

“I know you don’t,” I muttered.

In my dressing mirror, I watched as she lay across the small trundle we shared, wondering for the thousandth time if I’d made a mistake begging Rosa to let her stay that night, years ago, when she’d shown up starving at the back door. For six years she’d slept in my bed, shared my food, worn my outgrown clothes. She’d never cost the show a penny, but soon she’d be required to pull her own weight—one way or another.

A gentle knock interrupted our conversation. “Miss Ferrer?” A tenor voice called through the door. 

“Freddie,” I whispered. “Hide!”