FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL 7. FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL From the street, Wicked’s stage door looked like any other door, except for the fact that it was the width of a car and had STAGE DOOR written on it—so actually it was not at all like other doors. It sat squarely at the long edge of the theater, next to a painted mural of Wicked’s logo, the iconic image of a blithe and blonde Glinda whispering something to Elphaba, whose eyes were obscured, her mouth curling into a smirk. Weary from yesterday’s sidewalk safari, at 12:54 p.m. I made a beeline for the theater, keeping my eye on the mural, hoping to outrun the drunken, shoeless, sword-wielding street folk. Dressed in a belted muu-muu, I arrived at the pair of utility doors, my rehearsal tote in one hand, my crumpled rehearsal schedule in the other, feeling like an overgrown kindergartener on her first day of school. There was no one waiting outside, so I reached for the handle, pulled, and walked in. Easy enough. Kindergarten shouldn’t be too bad!
