Broken for You Read Online Free PDF Page B

condoms.
    It was an hour and forty-five minutes before the night janitor noticed he light under the costume shop door and started jangling his keys. All i n all, Wanda's first sexual experience had turned out just fine. Not only hat: She'd found a surefire way to banish closing night blues.
    She slept exclusively with actors after that—right up to the moment w hen she met Peter. Always on the go, always leaving, always looking head to the next big part, they had a flighty but infectious spirit. They m ade her laugh. She got to watch their spotlit hammy antics from the o bscurity of the sidelines; she liked that, too. And as she learned early m from Brian McConnell, good actors have a knack for improvisation, m aking them naturally gifted when it comes to sex—which is, of course, u nder the best of conditions a highly improvisatory event. But all that playfulness and self-absorption had a downside; eventually Wanda's t hespian paramours started to resemble the Lost Boys of Never-Never Land, and since she had no desire to be anyone's mother, invariably the time would come for them to part. She was very careful to manage her personal dealings with actors as well as her professional ones, so that her affairs always ended amicably. This was important. Among stage folk, it is said that there are only thirty-three people in the theatre. To Wanda's colleagues, this expression has a generalized, benign meaning: "Everyone is connected, part of a family. Everyone knows someone you know." But to Wanda, it meant, "Don't burn any bridges, and don't screw and tell." She had never left bad feelings in the wake of a breakup. Of course, she also had to interact closely with many other kinds of theatre professionals—directors and designers and light board operators and theatre technicians—and she s trictly forbade herself from be coming romantically involved with any of them. She had to write cues, record blocking, attend production meetings, run rehearsals, oversee the running crews, command the proceedings of tech and dress rehearsals, maintain the quality and consistency of the show throughout its run. And she was good, very good, at all of it. But it was her ability to deal with actors—her skills as a peacemaker and go-between, her ability to smooth ruffled feathers, soothe bruised egos, and, when required, lay down the law—that made her a first-rate stage manager, one who could, based on word of mouth, her experience, and her qualifications, get work anywhere. She'd already secured a job at the biggest theatre in town, and she was confident that other jobs would follow. That part of her life, at least—the work part, where she was functional, extremely competent, and sane—would settle into a familiar routine.
    This move into Margaret's house, however, was something entirely new, and she was mildly nervous about it. She had never in her adult life shared a living space with anyone but Peter. She had certainly never lived in a mansion with a woman of Margaret's age and apparent social standing.
    Good thing I was able to get my shit together before she threw me out of the house, she thought, remembering how she'd rattled on about Peter and all but swooned in front of a total stranger. I came to him like a pilgrim?' Where the hell did THAT come from?
    Wanda walked over to Mickey and Minnie, pulled them toward her face, and inhaled. Nothing there but extra-strength Tide and fabric softener. She yanked the towel down and kicked it out of the way. Drawing close to the mirror, she stared at her face for the first time in two weeks.
    She looked like hell. She reached up and gave a few firm, quick tugs to her right eyebrow, then her left; several weak-looking, dark, curving hairs stuck to her finger and thumb. She flicked them onto the floor.
    “Thank God I’m getting out of here,” she said out loud. “Thank God for Mrs. Hughes.”
     
    By cab, Wanda's first trip to Margaret's had been an easy twenty-minute ride, culminating in an