Five, Six, Seven, Nate!

by Federle, Tim

  “That’s right,” Garret says. “But we want it to be organic. A bit more danced.”

  “Fabulous,” I actually say.

  “So,” Monica says, facing me, “I’m going to wrap this scarf around your shoulders. You’re going to play the girl.”

  “Hey, don’t get any ideas,” I say as a joke. But actually, Libby makes me play the girl 80 percent of the time. And 100 percent of the time I don’t mind and frankly sort of look forward to it.

  “I’ll grab one end of the scarf,” Monica says, “like it’s your sleeve. And I’d love you to chaîné out of it, to your left.”

  “Sounds great.” And a little dangerous. Also: what’s a chaîné? “A chaîné is like a spinny thing, right?”

  “Yes,” Garret says, “it’s like a spinny thing. Hold in that stomach”—oh God, he’s got a cane, and it’s poking into my belly—“and spot the corner.”

  Everyone talks about “spotting” in dance. The only spots I ever see are after I’ve turned.

  “Guys,” Kiana the stage manager calls over, “you’ve got five minutes till the actors are back from lunch.”

  My stomach hears her and gurgles, so to cover up I stammer: “Lemme give the spinny thing a shot,” and whip away from Monica so hard, it pulls her over. Scarf and all.

  “Wow,” she says, breath inches away from my face. She’s a smoker and a gum chewer, and that’s my favorite smell combo: tar on mint. I know that’s not very classy, but it makes me miss my Grandma Flora. “Second time in as many days you’ve had a girl fall over onto you.”

  “Reminds me of me when I was his age,” Garret says, sticking the cane into the crook of my hand and helping me up. “How about this,” he says, consulting a pocket watch, which I didn’t even know were made after World War Zero. “Since we’ve only got four minutes until the actors are back, why don’t the two of you switch roles. Nate: Take Elliott. Monica: Take Girl with Coat, or whatever we’re calling her.”

  “Awesome!” I go.

  “So,” Garret says, “mayhem, mayhem, mayhem . . .” He kind of swirls his hands in the air, representing a bunch of actors. “The teacher faints onto the desk, the wind machine is blowing—”

  “Oooh!” I say, “a wind machine! Amazing.” I throw my scarf to Monica.

  “So we’ll count to three, and then you’ll grab the fabric,” Monica starts to say—but I’m jogging away from her. “Where are you going?”

  “Grabbing a box! To play Elliott’s desk!” I push over one of the dozen wooden cubes we’ve got, jumping to the top and catching sight of a wall clock. “We’re running out of time!”

  Monica laughs and sticks out her arm, and Garret yells, “One,” and Monica shouts, “I’m already prepped for ‘Three,’ ” and I hold the scarf tight as she whirls away from me, beautifully. And then: nothing. We stare at Garret for a reaction.

  “Interesting,” he says, in the same way my science teacher says “Fascinating” when I’ve decorated my homework margins with flowers. “Monica, if you’d calm the turn down when you’re teaching this to whichever child is playing Girl with Coat—”

  “Girl with Jacket,” Kiana hollers, “and it’s Hollie. And she and the other actors are waiting by the door, Garret.”

  “We’ll play with all that as the template,” Garret says, standing, dumping most of the salad in the trash. “Let’s just make sure to have Jordan stand on that box. Not a bad idea, Nate.”

  “Cool.”

  Not a bad idea, Nate.

  Those words ricochet through my head, bouncing around like a delirious pinball that’s made out of sugar. Like a gumball then, I guess.

  “Yo, Nate!” Keith runs over from the door. “Where were you on lunch? We missed ya.”

  “Just in the studio creating another signature moment,” I almost go. “Uh—just hanging back,” I go instead.

  And as the rest of the actors flood in, spilling around us and dropping bags and jackets in the corner, my pinball gumball sugar head is so delirious with Garret’s single compliment in this new wind-machine reality, that I barely overhear two of the adult dancers whisper to each other.

  “Did you see the piece in the Post?”

  “No. Who buys newspapers anymore? What’s up?”

  “Our first controversy at E.T.: The Musical.”

  Stage management claps and whistles, herding the pack. They’re all buzzing from lunch.

  “Allegedly Garret is furious with Dewey.”

  “Oh?” the other dancer says, pulling on a sweatshirt and beginning a series of warm-up lunges that would send me straight to intensive care.

  “Allegedly. They disagreed about casting from day one and now the Post is reporting that they’re thinking of firing an actor . . . somebody they’ve disagreed with from day one. Plus, we’re massively over-budget.”

  “What was the headline?”

  “Dewey or Die.”

  But she never makes it through the word Die, because just as the D is leaving her lips, Dewey strides in—his face as red as E.T.’s glowing stomach.

  “Garret,” he calls out. “Can I see you in the hallway for a second?”

  Garret gathers his jumpsuit, which sits like Peter Pan’s shadow, rumpled up in a chair. “By all means,” he says. “Monica: Care to carry on with the finale?”

  “I’d love to,” she says. But she looks nervous.

  And as Garret leaves the room, I hear one last thing from the dancer behind me: “Basically, we could be heading into the most expensive flop in history. If somebody doesn’t get us some good press, we’re all going to be out of a job a week after opening.”

  We’re deep into rehearsals and I finally got my first compliment. Not a bad idea, Nate. But maybe it doesn’t even matter.

  I look around, desperate to see if any of the other kids overheard this critical gossip. But they’re busy not listening. They’re texting, joking, being regular kids. I wonder what it’s like.

  “Okay, dancers—and others—let’s start with the third section in the finale: wing time steps.”

  Normally I’d lead the groans. But all I can think about now is my Broadway adventures crashing down in a sad black pile. Just like Peter Pan’s shadow.

  Paper Towels As Distraction Technique

  (Three weeks till first preview)

  I’m starting to learn that “the thing” about New York is you can’t even go and take an innocent pee without running into trouble.

  “Hello, Mommy.”

  Oh God. Somebody else is in here. Was I saying any of my lines out loud? (Yes, I’m still studying the E.T. lines in a bathroom stall—even if it’s almost been a whole week since rumors started swirling that the show might not even run.)

  “Everything’s good, Mommy. I think the director is very happy.”

  This kid’s mom is screaming through the phone so loudly, I’m self-conscious a woman’s in the bathroom with us.

  “Yes, Mommy. The publicist said it’s looking very likely I’ll appear in a Teen Vogue spread.”

  Oh God. Jordan.

  “And that we’ll need an all-new wardrobe for the interview. And speaking of: Which credit card should I use?”

  My family barely has one credit card. Jordan’s has multiple. One for new cars, one for new outfits, one for miscellaneous purchases over a million dollars.

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  The words are nice but the tone is a little harsh. This kid’s Mommy is grilling him, that’s for sure. I shift in the stall as quietly as possible.

  “Yes, of course the other leads loved the cupcakes from Amy’s Bread. Just like you said they would.”

  I roll my eyes so hard, I bet Jordan can hear socket veins straining against themselves.

  “I have to go, Mommy. We’re staging the last scene and I need to work up something sad in my sense memory.”

  It’s quiet for about twelve seconds, and I hike my feet up just as I hear him crouching to look beneath the stall: almost caught.

  “You can do this
, Jordan,” I hear him say, whispering into the mirror. Then he breathes so heavy it sounds like he’s hyperventilating, and I look through the slit in the bathroom door and watch him slap his face so hard, it almost makes me miss my bullies back home. One had to admire their incredible aim, if nothing else.

  “Oof. Oof.” He grunts with each slap, then shakes it out and stares his beet-red reflection down. “You. Are. Elliott.” Slap. “Be. Elliott.”

  I nearly jump off the toilet seat and break up his own fight—Libby and I have a rule about rescuing anyone being bullied, thinking it our sort of secret superhero job to right the world’s wrongs. But there’s nothing in our rule book about somebody bullying himself. And besides, Jordan’s moved on to scooping a glop of Vaseline across his bullet-like fangs, flashing a trillion-dollar smile at himself: “Show time!”

  He shuffles across the locker room to the exit, and when the door shuts behind him in a wheeze, I let the last exchange sink in. This kid beats himself up to prepare for a role. There is so much about the world I still don’t understand.

  “Glurp bleep balingo.”

  I start quiet, reviewing all of E.T.’s lines on page six, knowing I’m not needed for another fifteen minutes downstairs. They’ve basically cut my chorus part back so much, I could practically be a stage manager and at least not have to worry about my hair.

  “Glurp,” I say, staring at the page and then looking away to make sure I have every vowel in the right order. “Glurp.” But who am I kidding? I have a photographic memory, all but wasted in the background. And as I’m about to move on to “bleep,” I don’t even make it to the b before—

  “Who is that?”

  Oh, Dude. (The flop. Not the word. I can’t say the word dude with a straight face. Though, according to my brother Anthony, I can’t say anything with a straight anything.)

  “Um.”

  “Come out of that stall. Who’s there?”

  “Uh.”

  “Were you eavesdropping on me?” There’s more worry than fury in Jordan’s voice, like the time Dad threatened to barge in on me and Libby after we’d noisily switched outfits in my bedroom. “Come out.” Jordan’s pounding on the stall, harder than you’d think a skinny kid could hit.

  “Don’t you need to save those fists for your own face?” I almost yell, but don’t. I just swipe my feet to the floor and grab my bookbag and script, kicking the door open.

  “How long have you been in here?” I blurt. (Reverse psychology, a total Libby technique.) “I had my earphones in and . . . and didn’t hear a thing.”

  Jordan scoffs. “Please, Nate. Do you . . . do you even, like, have earphones?”

  He’s right. I don’t even have an iPod. Rich kids notice everything.

  “Well, sorry for having to pee,” I say, shifting my weight and launching to the sink to pump out a few handfuls of paper towels. (Terrible for the environment, but you can stall for hours with a few handfuls of paper towels, dabbing at mysterious cracks on your face.)

  “You followed me in here, didn’t you?” he says.

  “I was in here first. I mean, not to be technical, but . . .”

  He wiggles his nose so hard, a wedge of hair-sprayed cowlick comes loose, popping straight up and practically making a cartoon boing-sound.

  “Well, irregardless,” he says. “If you overheard me on the phone with my manager, you should have spoken up. Or coughed. Or something.” His face is practically purple, the slap marks bleeding through like when you practice your autograph in a foggy mirror.

  “Wait, your mom is your manager?” I say.

  “Oh. Oh, right. I guess I’m getting phone calls mixed up. Pardon me for, like, being a little thrown off. My mom warned me about spies, but I didn’t believe her.”

  I can tell he’s not used to being mean. You can always tell, because a real bully has a little bit of fear in his eyes, like everything they’re saying might be true about themselves. Jordan’s eyes are fogged over in the trance of stardom.

  “Listen, Jordan: At least your parents let you use their credit cards,” I try. “I bet my dad wouldn’t let me borrow his if it was the last day on earth.”

  “Oh, puh-lease. My mom told me what part of town you’re from. Jankburg?” Jordan laughs, the bathroom tiles picking up on the act and ganging up on me, too. “You can’t ask for your parents’ credit cards when they haven’t even got one.”

  But then he winces, like he’s expecting me to hit him. Like he doesn’t totally . . . mean what he’s saying? My hand muscles make the very opposite of a fist. I drop the paper towels, speechless.

  “Boys.”

  We’re caught. I flip my head around so fast, my neck cracks in places I didn’t even know existed. The head stage manager towers over us. “Jordan, you are three minutes late for rehearsal. And, Nate, why didn’t the guardians know where you were?”

  “Oh God,” Jordan says. “I am so sorry, Roscoe.” Jordan’s freaked out, turning so many colors, I half-expect to see a pot of gold at his feet. “Are you going to tell Dewey on me?”

  “Just get downstairs, Jordan.”

  Jordan shakes his head at me. “Good luck practicing your E.T. lines in the bathroom. Which is, like, the biggest audience you’ll probably ever get.”

  But his voice fades by the end, like he’s reaching for words he hasn’t quite memorized.

  Jordan pushes past Roscoe and tries to slam the door, but it’s one of those air-pressurized dealies that closes superslow. All we’re left with is a steady backdraft of Jordan’s cologne (Drakkar Noir).

  “What was that all about?” Roscoe asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe Jordan’s having a rough day?”

  “I’ll say,” Roscoe says, scratching his chin. “You okay?”

  “Oh, me?” I giggle. “Totally fine. When somebody talks like that to me back home, I usually end up with a mouth full of toilet water. So this was a piece of cake.” God, I’d love a piece of cake right now.

  Roscoe gives me the pity face. “You oughtta not hang out in here, Nate-o. We share this bathroom with all the other shows rehearsing in the building. And you need to be with a guardian.” It’s obvious this guy doesn’t work with kids, much. A thirteen-year-old can only get into so much trouble by himself in a bathroom. It’s the soccer field where we really need protection. All that kicking. “Get downstairs, Nate.”

  “Sure thing, Roscoe,” I say, throwing my bookbag over a shoulder.

  “Hey, and Nate? No matter what that kid says, learn those E.T. lines, yeah?”

  “Oh, I will. Sure I will.” Like I couldn’t already recite the entire thing backward already.

  “I’ve done a bunch of shows,” Roscoe says.

  “Uh-huh?” Of course, now I have to pee.

  “And you never know when you might have to go on. Please, I’ve had to stand in for actors. In opening numbers, on opening nights.” Roscoe’s now leaning into the door, staring off into the wide open space of his career. “Never open a show during a snowstorm, I always say.”

  “So do I!” I shout for some reason, finally throwing those paper towels away and pushing past Roscoe to the stairwell.

  “Oh, and Nate? Check the callboard. Somebody pinned up a note for you.”

  Adventures on a Stove Top

  (Three weeks till first preview)

  Onions are the perfect thing to chop when you’re feeling sort of generally sad. When you already want to cry.

  “Well, that sounds all right, then. Like a stage manager is on your side.”

  “Yeah, I guess, Aunt Heidi.”

  I’m chop-chop-chopping away, making the onion portion of my Grandma Flora’s famous chili recipe. The last ingredient you add in is a whole bottle of beer, but the alcohol boils off in the heat, so it’s not like it’s any big deal. Still, Aunt Heidi might let me pour it in, which is cool.

  “We could practice lines sometime, if you like?” she says, holding a can of beans like it’s made out of rusty nails. (She’s not much of a cook.) �
��You could show me some of the E.T. choreography?”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say, tipping the cutting board into a pot. Man, I’m actually really good at chopping stuff. I was the star pupil in Home Ec. “But I want to have all my lines down before I show you anything.”

  “Nate, you’re a star memorizer. I heard you and Libby quoting entire passages from Passing Strange the other day over Skype.”

  We were actually swearing our heads off—Passing Strange was a megaflop, with a surprisingly catchy score—but Heidi’s right.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but it doesn’t seem like there’s much of a purpose, you know? To going over my lines? I’ll never go on for E.T. anyway. Mackey is a minor movie star, and—”

  “Minor,” Heidi says. “Way minor.”

  She knows her way around minor actors. Heidi’s booked two commercials in the last several months, and I was even around when she got the first one. She calls me her lucky charm, but it’s funny because you usually hold lucky charms close, and Aunt Heidi sometimes has a hard time being affectionate.

  “And anyway,” I say, stirring the chili pot, “Asella is such a pro. And they love her. And apparently they only put the first understudies on anyway. So. Yeah.”

  “What’s this all about, Nate? Why are you so worked up? You’re still making your Broadway debut!”

  God, I wish Freckles were here. Aunt Heidi’s roommate. Another guy—and one who really “got” me, because he’s an actor, too, and wasn’t born in New York. I bonded with him during the great Audition Escape from Jankburg, and here he had to go and get a show out of town. That being said, I get to have Freckles’s room, and it has lots of cool drawers to explore.

  “I know I’m superlucky,” I say. “I feel bad because it’s almost like I’m complaining.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Heidi says, “it is almost like that.”

  The phone rings just as I’m debating laying my head inside the oven. Aunt Heidi screens the call and I take a sip of chili.

  “Heidi . . . what do you do when something you thought you really wanted turns out to be . . . disappointing?”