The Carlyle Hotel rises 35 stories above East 76th Street on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The two-bedroom suite The Nederlander Organization rented for Mom and me was on the 31st Floor. It was Mom’s until either the show closed or her six-month contract was finished. On Wednesday morning, June 27th, at a tick or two after nine in the morning, Alice and I rode the elevator down to the lobby.

I had risen at 7AM to feed Alice and liberate her from her crate, a white plastic playpen with a latch door that Mom had surprisingly had the foresight to acquire in preparation for our stay during the summer. Sometimes she remembers the small details in life. Mostly, though, she sleeps. Mom was still in bed and not likely to greet the new day until noon.

I had wanted to delve into the specifics of her relationship to David Wetherell, spanning the two decades from the filming of Thick as Thieves in the South of France to table readings for Blues for a Diva in the past fortnight. But what I got in response was Mom holding the refrigerator door open in the suite’s kitchenette, pointing to its empty interior, and reminding me to do some grocery shopping the next day. I sighed and suggested we revisit the discussion in the morning. She shook her head and explained why that wouldn’t happen.

Alice elicited varied reactions from the people in the busy lobby. Some stopped and wanted to pet her, others just shot us disapproving looks. The staff at the front desk smiled and nodded at us. I had to pick Alice up in my arms to negotiate the revolving doors. The doorman knelt down to pet Alice.

“You’re Lulu Brooks’ daughter, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Cherry. This is Alice,” I replied.

“How do you find your suite, miss?”

“I check the room number on the key card,” I deadpanned. He burst out in genuine laughter.

“Well, I can see you’ve not only inherited your mother’s beauty but her comic timing too. Have a nice day, Miss Brooks.”

Two blocks west, we crossed Fifth Avenue and walked south to the East 72nd Street entrance. Close to the entrance was The 72nd Street Playground with little kids already playing on the swings, climbing pyramids, digging in sandboxes, and cavorting under the splash fountain. Alice was excited to see all the activity but there were signs stating no dogs allowed. So we moved onto East Green where Alice took her sweet time deciding on just the right spot to leave her mark or marks plural. When she was finished, I took out a biodegradable poop bag and cleaned up after her.

As we resumed our morning walk, heading toward the ampitheater where SummerStage concerts are held from June through August, I envisoned the day before me. Whenever Mom could rouse herself from her 12 hour recharge, we’d ride the car service to the rehearsal studios located near Time Square and she’d introuduce me to the whole sick crew. I shivered at the thought of only knowing three people at rehearsal: my mother, David Wetherell, and Maia, whom I’d only just met on the flight from LA. Of course, I was familiar with some of the other names. Trent Foster, pop star, Annie Flaherty, blonde ingenue, and Danny Dantley, the director.

Mom always said I was painfully shy as a child. My transgender status hasn’t improved my social skills. When people look directly at me, I wonder what they really see. Do they see a boy wearing girls’ clothes? Is my voice high-pitched enough? Is my hand shake dainty enough?

Returning to our suite at The Carlyle, I replaced Alice in her crate. She’s old and sleeps most of the day now so being restricted to her crate probably doesn’t bother her. I put her favorite chew toy and a small bowl of water in the crate.

Then I peeked into Mom’s room and saw her still in the arms of Morpheus, her sleep mask keeping the non-existent glare of the morning sun out of her eyes, even as she had drawn the blackout curtains shut in any event.

Looking at the time on my phone, I decided to be a dutiful daughter and do some grocery shopping to fill up that empty refrigerator. When I called down to the front desk and asked where the nearest market was, they told me Whole Foods was on East 87th Street, ten long city blocks away. They suggested I order a delivery. I was shocked when I called Whole Foods and learned that a half-liter of oat milk cost $6 and a dozen organic, pasture-raised eggs cost almost $10. Not to mention that a loaf of whole wheat bread set me back another $7!

Mom had just walked out of the shower when Maia Everly dropped by our suite around noon to share a car to the rehearsal studio. While Mom dried her hair, put on her makeup, and picked out her outfit for the day, Maia played with Alice outside of her crate.

“I’m not a dog person, you know,” Maia insisted while stroking Alice’s white, powder-puff coat of fur.

“You’re even steven. Alice isn’t a person dog.”

“Looking forward to meeting everyone, Cherry?”

“I’m kind of socially awkward, Maia. Mom says I don’t look people in the eye when I meet them.”

“You’re a pretty girl. You’ve got nothing to hide or be shy about. Do you?”

Mom walked into the room, her hair perfectly brushed, makeup spot on, and casually attired in a sweater and jeans. “Ladies, let’s hit the streets!”

“We usually read for an hour and then have a late lunch catered by Ellen’s Stardust Diner. The pastrami on rye is to die for,” Maia informed me.

“I’m hungry. I just had a cup of coffee and a cigarette for breakfast—” Maia stopped me in front of the door and took hold of my shoulders.

“Girl, that’s not good. That sounds like the kind of breakfast Maris has several times a week,” Maia said, a serious expression on her face.

“Oh, Maia, stop it. She’s not that much of a reprobate,” Mom interjected as she held the door open for us.

“Who is Maris?” I asked, quite innocently.

“Cherry! Maris Lafferty is playing my mother in the show. She’s a Broadway legend. 4 Tony Awards! She played Eliza Doolittle in the revival of My Fair Lady—”

“That was 30 years ago!” exclaimed Maia, as we walked down the hallway toward the elevator.

“Shhh! She might be on this floor.” Mom placed her index finger against her lips.

“She’s already at the studio. Twice last week she got there before Danny even. I despise her. She’s always giving me notes about the script. Mostly so she can have more lines for herself!” Maia groaned and cursed under her breath all the way down in the elevator.

“She’s a little pushy, I’ll admit. But I’m learning so much from her in just two weeks of table readings. It’s like a master class in theater—”

“More like master-bation, if you ask me.” Maia saw Mom’s disapproving glare and dramatically covered her mouth with her hand. I giggled all the way to the car that was waiting for us outside.

42nd Street Studios is a building near the theater district that was renovated specifically to accommodate all the stage, dance, and musical productions to hit the boards on Broadway and other local venues. Blues for a Diva was in its second and last week of table readings. For the next four to six weeks, Danny Dantley will use the studio to block out all the stage movements and timing within each scene, while costumes are fitted for the cast, props are built, and technical issues are resolved. Previews performed in the actual theater where the show will open may go on for three to four weeks. Finally, opening night has been scheduled for Thursday, September 20th. Why a Thursday night? Mostly superstition, Mom tells me. Like the saying, “Break a leg.” Friday is the least popular night to open. Ony 2% of shows open on a Friday night.

Maia, Mom and I took the service elevator to the 5th floor where our studio space was. “It’s quicker and most people don’t know you can use it,” Maia told us. “Take the regular elevator and you get stuffed inside like a can of sardines.”

We were the last members of the production to arrive. Typical Mom. A husky, bald-headed man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and sporting a full beard rushed to greet us as we stepped out of the service elevator.

“Lulu! Maia! I was about to put out an all-points bulletin on you two,” he laughed. He turned to me. I started to back into Mom. “And who is this? Is this Cherry? Welcome! Welcome to the crazy world of Broadway!”

“Cherry, this is our director, Daniel Dantley,” Maia proudly touted.

“Everyone calls me Danny.”

“Everyone calls me…uh…Cherry?”

“Cherry’s just a little shy, Danny. But she’s very excited to see Mom at work in her ‘office’”

“Let me introduce you to our little theatrical army.”

He took my arm and walked me over to the long table that dominated the middle of the room. Half the people were seated while the other half stood by the windows or poured cups of coffee for themselves at the crafts table.

“This is our leading man, Mr. David Wetherell.” David, wearing his leather motorcycle jacket, smiled and waved at me from the crafts table. I smiled back. I was still smiling at him when Danny turned me toward an older woman who was dressed more formally than everyone else. Casual seemed to be the byword for rehearsal except for this lady.

“Cherry, meet Maris Lafferty, doyenne of the Broadway stage.”

“Come closer, dear. My eyesight is bad and I’m too vain to wear glasses.” She took my hand and stroked the back of it, squinting at me as she did so. “You are Lulu’s daughter? You must take after your father because your coloring and the shape of your face does not favor your mother. No, not at all.”

Reflexively, I slipped my hand from her grasp.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, honey. You have a very unique kind of beauty. Very different from your mother. Are you following in her footsteps, Cherry? Is the siren song of the dramatic arts calling to you?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t really decided what I want to do yet. I just finished my junior year in high school.”

“I see much potential in you. When I was your age—”

Seemingly out of thin air, Trent Foster, casually attired in a grey pullover sweatshirt and jeans, materialized in front of me. He flashed a toothy grin, brushed his hair out of his eyes with two fingers, and thrust his hand out.

“Hi, Cherry, I’m Trent Foster. Pleased to finally meet you. Your mother says great things about you.”

“She doesn’t believe you, Trent. She thinks I only speak badly about her,” Mom laughed self-consciously.

I muttered to myself, “I don’t think you speak about me at all.”

“This is…come here, bro. This is my good friend, record producer, and our musical director…B-Loved Genius!” He placed his arm around the shoulders of a young black man wearing a blue sweatshirt and a broad smile.

“I…I’ve heard some of your stuff on Spotify, Mr. Genius.”

“Another stream, another half a penny. It is what it is. Right, Trent?”

“Do you play any musical instruments? Sing, maybe?” Trent asked me. I shrugged. He laughed. They both laughed.

“Did Mom tell you I play an instrument?”

“Cherry, Alastair and I paid a lot of money for your piano lessons. And then you added guitar lessons!” Mom held her arms out as if in surrender. “We have a grand piano and three or four lonely guitars sitting at home in Calabasas that you haven’t touched in two years. I just thought Trent and B-Loved might want to hear you sing and play something for them. I think you’re so talented. But you have to put yourself out there.”

“The only place I sing is in the shower,” I confessed.

“Well, do you want an audience?” Trent arched his eyebrows comically.

“Don’t tease the girl, Trent,” Maris admonished.

“Do you know the Painter Sisters, Dolores and Mary Jo?” asked B-Loved, pointing to two young black women drinking their coffee by the windows. They waved to me. I waved back.

“Yes, I like your music.” I turned back to B-Loved. “I’m surprised that you all are committing at least six months of your time to playing Broadway. Wouldn’t that take away from touring?”

“We think a hit Broadway show would take our careers to another level, widen our fanbase, expand to lucrative markets, yadda, yadda.” Trent handed me a cup of coffee. “But mostly it’s an excuse for me to take a leave of absence from school—”

“That’s right! You attend Pepperdine. I read that somewhere online recently.”

“She’s a big fan of yours, Trent,” Mom gushed.

“I am not! I mean, no offense, Trent. But I’m more into metal bands like Polyphia and Animals as Leaders.”

“Ah, yes, math rock. Interesting stuff. To me, it’s kind of mid, you know.”

“Danny, you haven’t introduced us to Cherry,” said a tall blonde I recognized as Annie Flaherty, the latest ‘it’ girl to come out of network TV and teenage zombie movies.

“Oh, forgive me, Annie. Cherry, meet Annie Flaherty. She’s playing the hot number who steals Trent’s character from the character played by your mom. Va va voom! To quote Nicki Minaj.”

She shook my hand and smiled sweetly. “And this is my friend, Philippa Chang.”

An Asian girl who looked to be around my age stepped forward and limply shook my hand.

“And who do you play?” I asked her.

“I’m not an actor,” she answered in a half-whisper.

“Philippa is my traveling companion. My cousin Paul rooms with her at Stanford.”

“They don’t allow girls and boys to room together at my high school. I guess things are more progressive in college. So, you and Paul must be a thing, huh?”

“Oh no, I’m not gay—” Philippa’s eyes grew large and she covered her mouth with both hands.

“What Philippa means is…exactly what did you mean?” Annie looked at Philippa expectantly.

“I misspoke. What I meant to say was I’m just rooming with Paul and one other guy named Jerry. It’s a three-bedroom suite. Nothing . Absolutely nothing is going on between us. Any of us. No…just…nothing.”

Annie noticed Trent leaning in to overhear our conversation. “Trent, it’s just girl talk. Nothing for you to concern your busy body self with. Go over and sit down at the table. Danny wants to start soon.”

“Funny. He’s just arguing with Maris right now. They moved out into the hallway so we couldn’t overhear them. So I changed channels and came over here to get the inside scoop. Did I hear someone say they weren’t gay?”

“All right everyone, let’s get started. We’re burning daylight. Seats, everyone!” Danny clapped his hands loudly and whistled simultaneously. “Cherry, we’ll do the introductions for everyone else as we go along, okay?”

Maia handed me a copy of the script as Philippa and I sat on chairs away from the table. I followed along as the actors read their lines, intermittently stopped by Danny when he wanted to change lines or tighten up the rhythm of a scene. Maris interrupted almost as much as Danny did, suggesting places in scenes where she could rephrase or add to the lines given to her character. This inevitably bristled Danny and the two of them would have intense, brief arguments before either one would finally capitulate. I must admit that I found their escalating contretemps more entertaining than the play itself. But, then again, I’m not a good judge of stage dramas.

I noticed that Philippa was not following along with the script. In fact, she never opened the thing. Instead, she either stared at the windows or trudged over to the craft table to refill her cup of coffee every ten minutes.

“You don’t seem too interested in the reading. Boring?” I asked her when she returned with another cup in her hand.

“Oh, it’s not that. I’ve been here every day for almost two weeks. I think I’ve memorized the script like breathing in secondhand smoke. It’s just more of the same, you know.”

“Why don’t you go out and see the sights? Is this your first time in New York?”

“Oh I have to be here every day. For Annie. She’s the one who coerced me into staying with her for the summer.”

“Why?”

“It’s something I can’t get into unless…well, I don’t know if I can trust you. I mean, we’ve just met and you might have an agenda. Who knows about anyone, really.”

That was a puzzling answer so I decided to change the subject.

“You must feel stranded in the city. Not knowing anyone here except Annie—”

“Actually my brother Christopher is in the city right now. He’s working on an installation.”

“Your brother is Christopher Chang? The sculptor? Wow! I saw an outdoor sculpture of his at The Getty in the Central Garden. I don’t know much about art but I really liked it. Instead of sitting here all day, why don’t you spend some quality time with your brother?”

“Oh, no. God no! He can’t see me like this. He wouldn’t understand…” She gulped her coffee and caused a coughing fit that interrupted the table reading. Everyone asked if she was alright. I patted her own the back and she quickly recovered.

“I’m okay, everyone. Just went down the wrong pipe, I guess. Sorry for the disturbance,” Philippa waved them off. She turned to me and whispered. “Thanks for saving my life.”

I shook my head. “You weren’t dying. But you’re welcome just the same. Just drink slower, please.”

“Maybe you’re closing in on my circle of trust, Cherry. But you have to swear that you’ll keep anything I might tell you under the lid.” She resumed sipping her coffee as I gave her the “scout’s honor” sign.

After enjoying my pastrami on rye sandwich (as Maia had recommended) from Ellen’s Stardust Diner, Danny gave everyone an extra 20-minute break before resuming the reading. People drifted into small groups to shoot the breeze while I noticed David’s absence from the room. I found Mom sitting at the piano in the corner, chatting with Maris, who was leaning on the fall board.

“Mom, where did David go?”

“He went downstairs to put some more money in the meter. His motorcycle was ticketed last week when he forgot.” Mom moved on the bench to give me room to sit. “Sit, Cherry. Help me sing that song your gran taught you when you were five or six. I was just telling Maris about my growing up in Rhode Island.”

“Mom, I don’t think Maris wants to hear me sing. My voice has…uh…changed since I was six.”

Mom stood up from the bench and clapped her hands together. “If you won’t sing, at least accompany me on piano while I sing it—”

“Mom!” I protested.

“She’s quite good on the keys,” Mom told Maris proudly. She demonstrably cleared her throat and trilled an F note on the Dorian scale. “I’m ready, honey.” She nodded and I tried to remember the intro arpeggios to the song. We began.

The room erupted in applause and Mom took a bow. When she straightened up, she proudly pointed at me but I tried to bury my face in the fall board. I can’t get over being bashful in front of people.

“Oh, simply delightful, Lulu!” Maris exulted. “Cherry, you truly tickled the ivories on that. Another wonderful Arthur Schwartz song. You know, I dated his son Jonathan, the DJ. Between marriages, of course. His and mine both.” She laughed.

It was half-past six o’clock when Danny abruptly jumped up from the table. His voice had turned hoarse during the long afternoon of reading. Maris’ “suggestions” had incited a number of heated arguments including a shouting match between Maia and her. Danny had to literally step in between them before the shoving turned to fisticuffs. And I’d put my money down on Maris having a haymaker in her right hand.

“Okay, kids, time to call it. We have three more days of table readings and I hope we can tighten it up before we start the real rehearsals next week.”

“Will we have the new pages by tomorrow?” Maris asked in a measured tone.

“I don’t know, Maris,” Maia acerbically replied. “We’ve gone through blue, pink, and yellow paper already for the first three revisions. I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on green paper for the latest changes.”

“I’m sure Maia will try her best to have the revised pages ready. Everyone, go home! Be careful out there. We’ll kick the can again tomorrow at noon.”

“Guess it’s a quiet evening in our suite. Just the two of us, kiddo,” Mom sighed as we walked toward the service elevator.

Trent came running up to us. “Hey, ladies, a bunch of us are going to Miss Kim’s in K-Town to have Korean and do some karaoke. B-Loved got us a private room. Wanna join us?”

Before I could answer, Mom held up her phone. “I’ve already ordered the car. Why don’t you go with them, Cherry? You kids have a good time. I’m going to take a bubble bath, order in, and see what’s on GlobalNet.”

“Mom, you have to come,” I pleaded. “You’re not using a walker…yet.”

“All of you are less than half my age. I don’t have the get up and go I had when I was that young. And, young lady, no alcohol. You’re not old enough to drink.”

“Yes, mother.”

“See you tomorrow, Lulu. Come on, Cherry. Do you like K-Pop?”

Koreatown in Manhattan is an 8-block rectangle in Midtown that stretches from 30th to 34th Street, between Sixth and Madison Avenues. In this tight urban space, traditionally known as The Garment District, over 150 Korean businesses operate, from small restaurants and beauty salons to bank branches and corporate offices. We were headed to Miss Kim’s, one of the colorful karaoke clubs and bars that attract not only Korean patrons but New Yorkers of every ethnicity, age, and social strata.

Our party, Trent, B-Loved, the Painter Sisters, Annie, Philippa, Trent’s drummer Gooch, his bass player Lucky, and me, settled into our karaoke box and quickly ordered a family-style selection of dishes from the menu. For appetizers, we had French Fries, Edamame (Steamed Beans), and Beef and Veggie Dumplings. For entrees, we ordered Chicken Wings, Tuna Tataki, and Grilled Sausages. For sushi fans, we asked for Salmon, Tuna, and Veggie Hand Rolls. That was plenty enough for nine people.

The karaoke machine in our room stored English language songs as well as Korean tunes. You could also play the songs with or without the lead vocals. There are always people who prefer to sing along rather than go solo and some clubs will accommodate those patrons. So Trent programmed the music while we ate. Yes, he did play some tracks from his most recent album, Second Story Man.

After we finished our feast, the karaoke festival began with solo performances of Motown classics, Beatles songs, a Led Zeppelin number, the Who’s “Baba O’Riley,” and Spandau Ballet’s “True.” I chose to do The Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun,” since it suited the timbre of my voice. Of course, I was easily the worst sounding singer in our party.

“You’re a natural contralto, Cherry. You and Philippa both,” Trent observed. I shrugged. “Hey, since we’re in a Korean karaoke club, why don’t we try some English language K-Pop? I’ve got some favorites. Mind if I assign them? I’ll try to match your voices to the songs. Meanwhile, let’s order some booze—”

Annie spoke up. “Cherry and Philippa are underage, Trent. And so are you. Let’s just order some soft drinks. Just for tonight?”

Everyone nodded in agreement so Trent acquiesced. “Yeah, let’s not try to have the place closed down. Do the honors, Gooch. Cherry Coke for you?” He turned to me. “Just kidding. Order whatever you want. Everything’s on me and B-Loved. Now, Annie. How about we try “Dream” by Cc & Ryric?”

“I’m game,” Annie said as Trent handed a microphone to her.

My bad singing aside, everyone was having a ball as the evening wore on. B-Loved suggested that the five girls in our party sing “Oh My God” by the female supergroup (G)I-DLE. So Dolores and Mary Jo huddled with Annie, Philippa, and me to arrange our parts. Needless to say, Philippa and I were restricted to harmony parts. Still, I thought it was the highlight performance of the night. Even if I say so myself.

When we finished, all three guys applauded and whistled. Three guys? Where did Trent go? I sidled up to B-Loved while Dolores and Annie were deciding which (G)I-DLE song to do next.

“Hey B, where’s Trent? Little boy’s room?”

“Trent? He didn’t feel well. Said it must have been the calamari. He’s got some sensitivity to mollusks. Went home. I called an Uber for him.”

We were about 30 seconds into “Latata” when I remembered that we never did order the calamari appetizer.