Hollywood's newest darling—Joey Grant—had just slapped the entire industry across the face with two massive sleeper hits, back-to-back.
Then she vanished.
She turned down every olive branch the big studios waved at her, posted a short blog saying she was stepping away to study and grow for a while. She needed space, she said. She'd come back when she was even better.
Nobody knew what "studying" meant for her. Was she pulling a Natalie Portman and enrolling at Harvard while she was red-hot? Or going full Meryl Streep, taking classes at a drama conservatory after already winning the big prizes?
Either way, directors don't have to stay in the spotlight like actors do. Taking a year or two off between projects is totally normal.
Her fans were bummed they wouldn't see anything new from her for a while, but they were willing to wait. They trusted their queen Joey would return in full glory—and probably shine even brighter.
At the same time, they couldn't help but admire her. Most people, when they're on top of the world, get drunk on the praise and start believing their own hype. Not Joey. She was already thinking about how to level up, how to come back stronger and more polished. That kind of self-awareness? Most folks can only dream of it.
They were dead certain: when Joey finally stepped back into the Hollywood (or Broadway) spotlight, she was gonna blow everyone away again.
Meanwhile, on Broadway—that famous stretch of theaters all crammed together on one wide New York street—thousands of people pour in every single night to see a show. Doesn't matter that Phantom, Cats, Les Miz, and Miss Saigon have been running pretty much nonstop for decades. People still line up around the block.
And yeah, a lot of those shows haven't changed a single step or note in thirty years, yet the houses are still packed.
Joey walked into one particular theater that looked…rough. Not run-down exactly, just sad. Compared to the buzzing crowds and bright marquees outside the big houses, this place felt straight-up haunted. Barely a soul in sight.
The Olympia Theater Olympia had definitely seen better days. It had been dark for months after their new show, Spring Awakening, tanked hard at the box office and got yanked. No new production had been booked yet, so the whole building just sat there, empty and lifeless, waiting for someone to breathe life back into it.
Even the signs pointing to the dressing rooms were gone. Joey wandered around forever before she finally found them.
She stepped into the backstage dressing area.
Not a single actor in sight.
Lord have mercy—she was the first one there. The only one who wasn't late.
How was this company supposed to put on a decent show with discipline this sloppy?
Looked like her very first job wasn't directing the musical—it was whipping this team into shape.
She flipped open the folder with everyone's headshots and résumés. Most of the cast were part-timers. All the solid full-time Broadway pros had jumped ship long ago, leaving whoever was left. A bunch were Hollywood actors—mostly bottom-of-the-barrel TV and movie bit players—who came to Broadway on the side to sharpen their craft. That's actually super common. Even huge movie stars will do a Broadway run to get better, because live theater kicks your butt in ways cameras never will.
Joey stood there with her hands on her hips, pacing, waiting.
Finally someone rushed in. She matched the face to the sheet: a guy named Fis, daytime job painting houses, nighttime gig as a chorus member.
She gave him a polite smile. "Hey, I'm Joey—the new director."
He blinked, slow on the slow side. "Yeah… I heard. They say you're some hotshot Hollywood director."
She nodded and kept waiting.
Half an hour later, the room slowly filled up.
She didn't say a word the whole time—just stood there holding the stack of résumés.
An hour after call time, pretty much everyone had trickled in, except a few who'd called out.
Joey rounded everybody up—guys from one dressing room, ladies from the other—and started putting names to faces.
Jek—personal trainer by day.
Sandy—recurring background on a cable drama.
Lance—actual career stage actor.
Hess—makeup artist moonlighting as a performer.
…and so on.
Mostly part-timers, a handful of full-timers.
She looked them over. "By now you've probably heard—I'm a Hollywood film director, and I'm your new stage director on this show."
Most of them were smirking inside.
Sure, she might be a genius on a movie set, but what does she know about theater? About Broadway?
Who did she think she was, strutting in here like she owned the place?
Joey could feel the shade, but her face stayed stone-cold. "I know exactly what you're thinking. Starting right now, I'm the director. You do what I say, or you're out. I can fire any of you."
She turned to the blackboard and wrote four big rules in marker.
"Rule one: No more being late. I don't care if you're a plumber, a lawyer, or a barista during the day—when we say rehearsal starts, your butt is in this building.
Rule two: Once you're out of the dressing room in costume or rehearsal clothes, no phones. Zero. I'm not competing with your boyfriend's texts or your stock trades. If you're that busy, quit.
Rule three: I've written individualized daily training plans for every single one of you. You'll do them, log them, and hand the log to me at the end of each day—until I finish the new script and we start real rehearsals.
Rule four: Yeah, I've never directed a stage musical before. But I'm here because I want to make something great, and you're going to trust me."
She clapped her hands together and finally cracked a tiny smile. "That's it. If you can't hack it, leave right now. If you're in, stay."
A few people grabbed their stuff and walked out.
Most stayed. They were here because they loved theater—real love doesn't quit that easy.
Everyone took their training packet from Joey and headed to the rehearsal studio.
One of the full-time dancers, Pfister, couldn't help himself. "So… when do we actually get a script and start rehearsing a show?"
"Not yet," Joey said.
Pfister rolled his eyes. "Then what's the point of all this basic stamina and muscle-memory crap? We're not rookies. The reason Spring Awakening flopped wasn't because our technique was weak—it was because the script sucked. We need a killer book, something like Hairspray last year that blew up the second it opened."
A bunch of others chimed in, "Exactly! Instead of playing drill sergeant, go find us a hit script!"
Joey's face went dark, then she let out a cold laugh. "Oh, so the second I ask you to train you start whining and dreaming about overnight fame, huh? You'll get your killer script soon enough. But until then, you're doing the work. End of story."
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Clock's ticking. Get started. Door's right there if you don't like it."
The room grumbled but finally shuffled off to train.
That's when a young actress named Lisa spoke up. "Everybody chill for a second. Some of you don't go to the movies much, so maybe you don't know—she's the hottest new director in Hollywood right now. If she can make movies that good films, she can absolutely direct a hit musical. Let's give Joey a shot."
Joey glanced at Lisa—a day-player from a couple of L.A. sets, probably here to work on her craft… or maybe angling for a better movie role down the line.
Lisa's little speech calmed the room a little; people shut up and got to work.
Still, almost everyone in that room didn't trust Joey one bit.
And that's when it hit her—she might have bitten off way more than she could chew.
There were a hundred easier ways to level up her skills. She'd picked the hardest one possible.
But she'd already signed on the dotted line. No backing out now.
Her only choice was to build a Broadway dark horse that would explode onto the scene and save this theater from being sold off.
Day one wrapped up fast.
The very next morning, Joey was on a train to Cambridge.
Yup—she was going script-hunting.
And her first stop? Harvard University.
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