THE CAST

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There are thirteen of them that I remember: Pippa, Renee, Jazzy, Daveed, Leslie, Oak, Thayne, Jonathan, Chris, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen and Lin. Lin is the star of his own show. The brightest of the bright.

I know I'm shocked.

I'm no scientist. There isn't one biology assignment that I've completed, and homework? Never heard of it. That's why I'm so fascinated by these people. They must be a myth. How else would they be able to get wasted with each other in the green room Saturday night and be reincarnated into colonial gods for the Sunday matinée? They're inhumanely dedicated, these people, the ones who shed their sweat and blood and hairspray to portray theatrical versions of Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr and Thomas Jefferson and William Shakespeare.

My bad. To portray John Laurens.

They max their credit cards on the daily. They bask in the heat of the spotlight. Their dressing rooms are stocked with incense, satin robes, and cabinets of gourmet hangover cures. They are megastars, living life on the stage of the Hottest Show on Broadway— figuratively and literally, the hottest, with those million dollar spotlights. They are the pride of New York. The ones who made it big.

I want to hate them, but they're so cool. They don't stumble or slip or crack during high notes. I bet none of them ever screw up or get into fights or feel like screaming until their lungs collapse.

I leave the audience to go to Lin's dressing room three songs before the final bow. I bump people in the knees when I squeeze past. One kid whines in protest when I shove past him with my hand. If I were a kid with the money to see this show, I wouldn't sit through a three hour musical history lecture. I would sneak backstage and cut the strings from the fly systems. If they're here in the first place, they don't have to worry about finding the cash for prison bail.

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