I walk through the drama room door just as the bell rings. It feels like there’s one inside me, too, clanging away. I keep replaying that look on your face when you saw me. The smile. Ring! Ring! Ring!
Peter is working on his English accent for the scene he’s doing this week from Pinter—I forget which play. Alyssa is helping Karen with the first sixteen counts of the dance they’re in for the concert this spring. Kyle’s singing “Lily’s Eyes” from Secret Garden, totally lost in a world of his own, and I listen to him for a moment, utterly enchanted. He has the kind of voice that makes everything inside you sit up straight. If God could carry a tune, I bet he’d sound like Kyle.
I cross the room and plop down next to Natalie, who’s sitting on the carpeted floor, cross-legged and deep in conversation with Ryan. From the concerned looks on their faces, I suspect they’re talking about you, analyzing your first day back. I want to tell her how you stared at me. I want to use words to trace that half smile.
“How is he?” I ask instead.
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell. Summer said his parents are freaking out. They didn’t want him to come back yet.”
“Well, duh,” I say. “He tried to … you know.”
“Yeah,” she says, soft.
It’s strange to think that your life is going to go back to normal, that you’ll have math homework and run laps at P.E. You’re so beyond that now.
Miss B comes out of her office, which is located just off the drama room. We don’t have chairs or desks here, just lots of space to play. We turn our bodies toward her. She helped us all through what happened to you—there were whole class periods that turned into counseling sessions.
“Who’s auditioning for Chicago today—can I get a show of hands?”
I look around—nearly everyone has raised a hand.
“Excellent,” she says, smile wide. “Be sure to bring your music to the choir room and comfortable clothes for the dancing portion.”
Natalie grips my hand. She has no reason to be nervous—she’s a total triple threat. Plus, she’s pretty, but she doesn’t know it, which is the best kind of pretty.
Miss B passes out new scenes for all of us and I’m paired up with Nat and Lys, as usual. We’re playing cheerleaders in a scene from the play Vanities. I’m secretly excited about this scene because I’ve always wanted to be a cheerleader. It doesn’t matter that as a smart, arty girl I’m supposed to hate them. Being a cheerleader has always seemed like a way to change your fate, to become something bright and shiny that no one can look away from. Nat and I went to the meeting at the beginning of this year, just to see what the tryout required. As it turned out, we were both too broke to be cheerleaders. You have to buy a specific color lipstick, special shoes, the uniform, bows, warm-up outfits … I guess there’s a reason why all the rich girls are in cheer.
But none of this—cheerleaders, popularity, becoming a sparkle kind of girl—matters in light of you being back, you being broken.
“Do you think Gavin’s going to audition?” I ask Natalie.
She shakes her head. “I have no idea.”
How must you feel, knowing that as you smile and sing and dance, everyone will be thinking about what you did, their idea of you reorienting itself around this terrible thing?
“Let’s read through it, yeah?” I say, holding up my script.
We jump into make believe like it’s a pool on a sweltering day. Here, we wear other people’s skins and it helps us forget our own, lets us pretend, for a little while, that we’re okay.
*
THE CHOIR ROOM is packed with actors. I sit a little ways from Miss B, keeping track of everyone. There’s only one name I haven’t checked off the list yet.
“Hey.”
Someone plops down next to me. I turn. It suddenly becomes a little bit harder to breathe. I can cross that last name off the list.
“Gavin. Hey.” Everything in me lights up like Christmas.
We’ve never been alone before, never had a real conversation that didn’t include other people. When we were in rehearsals for Earnest, you’d mostly talk to the guys. Except for our one or two conversations about music and directing, we’ve mostly had brief exchanges about stupid, inconsequential stuff. The last thing we talked about was garden gnomes. But now I can feel that letter, hovering in the air between us.
I understand …
I know right now it seems like …
You matter, even if you think you don’t …
I’m here for you …
“You ready to get up there, show Miss B what you got?” I ask.
You lean in, conspiratorial, forehead nearly touching mine. You wink and it’s the goddamn sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“It’s in the bag,” you say.
Your voice has its usual carefree tone, but amazing actor that you are, you can’t hide the tension underneath. I follow your lead, though—if you want to pretend everything’s fine, then I will, too.
“Pretty confident, are we?” I ask.
You laugh and I notice that when you do, you look down at your lap and shake your head a little. Soon, this gesture will become familiar to me. Dear.
“Put in a good word for me?” you say.
“I’ll think about it.” Now it’s my turn to wink.
“This is pretty fabulous.” You reach out and gently tug on my sweater. It’s covered in sequins, one of those cheap five-dollar things from H&M.
“You’re the only straight guy I know who can say fabulous and get away with it,” I say.
You grin. “That’s because I’m fabulous.”
The first round of singers go up, most of them variations on awful. You actually cringe once and slide lower into your chair, like the sound is physically painful to you. I like that you try to keep this on the DL—you’re not a jerk, just a connoisseur.
You turn to me, eyes snagging on mine. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft. “Your letter, it kinda … saved me.”
I blush, pleasure blooming in my chest. I don’t know it now, but there will be a garden inside me soon. And it’ll grow thorns.
“Oh,” I say. Why can I suddenly only think of expressions from French class? Je suis un ananas. I am a pineapple? “I mean, cool. I hope it helped. Um.”
I bite my lip, look down at the audition slips I’m clutching in my hands. Nothing ever comes out right. I wish Tony Kushner or some other beautiful playwright could live inside my throat and just say the right thing for me at the right time.
“It did,” you say. “Help, I mean.”
Something in my bones tells me this moment is important.
Miss B calls your name before we can say anything else and you pass me your audition slip (your handwriting is surprisingly neat) and lope to the front of the room. You hand your music to the pianist, then look at us with what my grandpa would call a shit-eating grin.
You’re suddenly Billy Flynn, perfect casting for the conniving lawyer. Anyone who wants that part probably gave up the moment they heard you were still auditioning. Like so much, it’s yours for the taking.