It was an open call
for Merrily We Roll Along
and I wore a charcoal suit,
blue ribbon in my hair.
Like 900 other teenagers,
I huddled on the floor
next to my instrument,
silent on cheap carpet.
I did my biology—
committed cell structure to memory—
and tried to make eye-contact
with the older boy
strumming his guitar
next to the broken elevator.
When my number was called,
my throat dried out
and I tripped into the studio.
The judges smiled vaguely
from their corner
where everything happened.
There was the accompanist, of course,
and a smoking panel of adults who sifted
through stacks of headshots,
separated us into mysterious piles.
Stephen Sondheim was there, too,
but I was too young at 14
to recognize him or to know
what someone like that
could do for me. He was the first
in a series of important people
to watch me and my torn sheet music:
The little girl in her mother’s shoes,
who forgot the words of her song
and hated the piano player.
