by Federle, Tim
What? “What are you talki—”
“Listen. Genna’s got a crush on Jordan so bad, Dewey calls her Genna Rylance. The whole company knows. Where’s your head been?”
In the sky. Looking at autographs. Thinking about Keith. And Little Bill. (And . . . Jordan.)
“Then what’s with these notes she’s giving me?” I say to Asella, suddenly remembering the envelope that’s hiding in my pocket. I rip into it, eager to share the evidence that an actual girl likes an actual Nate.
“Get to my dressing room before rehearsal starts.” But it’s not from Genna, this time. “I’ve got a headline.”
“This is from . . . you,” I say.
Asella curtsies.
“Weird.” I try to shake it off, but . . . Genna’s got two crushes? Is this what cheating feels like? “So . . . what’s your headline, Asella?”
“Actors,” we hear over the backstage monitor, “start getting into microphones. We’ll do a tour of the theater and then begin spacing the dance break in ‘Long-Necked Neighbor from Outa’ Space.’ ”
“So here’s the deal,” she says. I didn’t know a deal was being made. “The event, with Jordan?”
“There’s more to this deal?” I say, letting her suitcase drop to the floor.
“It’s nothing big,” Asella says, “but Monica and Garret added some staging. To the song. Just for the event. I had a last-minute rehearsal yesterday. And before I forget everything they showed me, I need to show y—”
“Is it complicated?” My stomach boils and freezes at the same time.
“Relax, kid,” she says. She hasn’t called me Nate once today. She might actually think my name is Kid Foster. “There’s a little, like, waltzy thing that happens in the middle of Jordan’s big song. The one you’ll be co-starring in.”
“On TV,” I remind her, the universe, myself.
“Right. And I picked up the sequence fine, but I’ve seen you dance.” Asella stops, trying to find words that won’t flatten me. “It might take you a smidge more time to pick up. And we’ve only got less than a week.”
“What are you saying?” I’m counting on this money. I’m counting on being on TV. I don’t even like counting. (See: my math tests.)
“If you want to pull off this event, I have to teach you the steps.”
“Okay. Okay. Can we—I don’t know. Do we have time?”
“We’ll have to make the time. On five-minute breaks, during lunch, at night.”
“My Aunt Heidi will never let me stay in midtown after rehearsal.”
“It’s your tail, kid,” Asella says, biting off a hunk of tape and hooking the roll to a clip on her belt. The room looks like a neon crime scene, like somebody taped out the body of a dead hexagon.
“We’ll do it, then,” I say. “We have to. I can’t go on national TV and not know the staging.”
“That’s the attitude, kid,” she says, thrusting that box of prunes at me. “Go for it.”
I take a handful in my mouth. It’s like if slugs were covered in Splenda, these “prunes.”
“Good,” Asella says, closing up the box and pulling out a humidifier. “Close the door,” she says. “We’ve got five minutes until the backstage tour starts, and we need to steam our throats.”
“Screw our throats,” I say, kneeing the door shut. “Let’s start waltzing.”
“Attaboy. Start on the left foot.” She stares me down and talks superslow. “You’ll hold for three counts of eight after Jordan finishes the first chorus of his song.”
“Oh God. This already sounds like Geometry,” I say—still figuring out how not to swallow these prunes, now wedged between two teeth.
“You can do it.” She holds out a garbage can, I spit out the prunes, and we start again—right after she says, “I believe in you, Nate.”
The Nearly Main Event Almost
(The morning before previews start!)
One thing when you’re going to be on live national television for the first time is that you shouldn’t eat a lot the night before. Free tip!
I’m already gurgly, the fear of screwing up in front of millions of viewers bopping through my head like a bad summer song. And on top of that, last night was Breakfast for Dinner at Aunt Heidi’s, and she’s actually pretty expert at French toast. Which means I had three helpings just to make sure.
“You look a little . . . white,” the chef in question says, nudging my knee on the subway ride into the city.
“My skin hasn’t seen the sun in months,” I say. “I’m like the veal of middle school.”
Aunt Heidi laughs, but it’s true: My skin is so see-through, you can make out veins.
“I still can’t believe,” she says, sipping from a tremendous thermos of coffee, “the producers didn’t send a private car for you.” I should note that Heidi has begun making coffee at home in the mornings. She just quit her waitress job to focus on acting, so she’s become “quite frugal”—which means “poor” in Latin. “I just can’t believe the star of the number has to take the seven train. Who do I have to talk to about this?”
This wakes me up. “Nobody! You don’t have to say a word!”
The whole scenario today is risky, bordering on death. Heidi’s not in on the big secret switcheroo—only Asella, the stage manager, and me. And Libby. And my dreams.
“You know,” I say, punting, “E.T. had to come to America in a big metal tube, himself. So it’s like . . . I’m getting in character. On the subway. And stuff.” My lies are less clear at dawn. Man, it’s early out.
“Okay, sport. Whatever you say. Next stop is ours.”
Thank God Asella worked out today’s scheme with Roscoe; he’s going to pick me up on a very specific corner—a few blocks from the event in Central Park—and get me into costume before anyone (named Jordan Rylance) catches wise. Roscoe’s cool that way, if you don’t mind your adults pulling fast ones on other kids.
“Look alive, Nate.” Heidi and I shuffle out and push upstairs to the street level.
Problem is, fast things don’t usually go so hot for yours sincerely.
“Don’t blow your breath like it’s cigarette smoke,” Heidi says. We’re power walking in the icy air to Columbus Circle. “I’m thirty-four days into quitting and I don’t need the reminder.”
Just then a pack of noisy teenagers, who look like they never went home last night, walks by us, each possessing a cigarette and a haircut they’ll regret if anyone has a camera.
“Look away, Aunt Heidi,” I say. “Look awaaaay!”
But she doesn’t even see them. “Heads up,” she says, instead, “it’s that Jordan boy—”
Bundled up from cowlick to Converse, in a plush, luxurious sleeping bag of a jacket: Jordan Rylance steps out of a (private) car, his Mommy following just after, enveloped in her signature leopard coat. Her gloved hand clutches an egg and cheese sandwich, which steams like a volcano.
“—and his mother,” Heidi mutters.
All four of us met at the audition, and Heidi’s no big fan of Mrs. Rylance. That said, I bet the biggest fan of Mrs. Rylance is some jeweler in Western Pennsylvania. The lady sparkles like the Big Dipper. Good nickname for her too, since my mood essentially takes a crashing dip whenever she’s within twenty feet.
“Okay, Aunt Heidi,” I say, flipping around to cover my face and practically pulling my T-shirt up and over my head. “Guess you can drop me off now!”
“What are you talking about?” she says. “I’m gonna stand in the crowd and cheer you on up there, you knucklehead.”
Hundreds of people are already gathered around the foot of a makeshift stage in the distance—and some are even holding homemade E.T. signs. Oh God. This is bad. I’ve already messed up step one of Operation National Exposure: losing Aunt Heidi on the way.
“Nate!”
Unless Roscoe appears.
“Hiya, Foster,” he says, bopping over. One thing is that grown-up men shouldn’t wear big earmuffs. Ever.
“Hi, I�
�m Nate’s aunt, Heidi.” She extends a hand, and Roscoe looks like he’s going to fall over. He’s a bit of a lady’s man, is what Asella calls him, and you’ve got to admit that Aunt Heidi is kind of a fox.
“Hi, I’m Nate’s stage manager,” he says, shaking Heidi’s hand like it’s a baby’s rattle.
“O . . . kay,” Heidi says, pulling back and gulping from her thermos. Which is totally empty, by the way, and already was by Queensboro Plaza twenty minutes ago. God, it’s amazing to watch a real actress use a prop.
“I’ll take Nate from here,” Roscoe says, grabbing my shoulder. “We’ll get him all suited up and then he and Jordan and I will head back to the theater. Big final dress rehearsal today!”
“Hooray,” I say.
“Okay,” Aunt Heidi says, grabbing my free arm and tugging me back. “But can’t I stay with Nate until he goes onstage, at least?”
I know Aunt Heidi gave up a commercial audition at nine this morning, so it’ll probably tick her off if she can’t stay here. That being said, the audition was for some shampoo called Unforgivably Natural, and between you and me, Aunt Heidi dyes her hair every two weeks, so it would have been pretty dishonest.
Roscoe tips his fake cowboy hat at Heidi. “Can’t have anyone but production staff in the actors’ trailers.”
He’s lying. I just watched Jordan’s mom scoot after him into theirs.
Aunt Heidi squats by my side, pulling my knit cap down over my ears. “You going to be okay, buddy?” she says, like I’m four and not almost fourteen. “Are you going to be warm?” This is the default position all ladies go to, no matter what: a child’s warmth.
“Oh sure,” I say, but it comes out like popcorn on a fryer, my teeth chattering like heck out here. “I’ll bbbbe ttottalllly ccool.”
“A little too cool,” she says, standing up so fast that she accidentally knocks my hat off—which is hilarious, since she’s become my warmth advocate. “Can we get Nate some hot tea now, and also get him inside his production-staff-only trailer?”
Amazing. Who needs an agent with Aunt Heidi, man killer, around?
“Well, that’s all I’m trying to do, Miss,” Roscoe says, this time without that huge grin. I don’t think so, anyway. His moustache is so overgrown, it hides any mood change.
“Well . . . maybe Unforgivably Natural is still seeing fake-brunettes,” Aunt Heidi says. “I’m going to dash. I’ll see you tonight, Natey. Don’t forget your steps. And don’t forget to have fun.”
No chance about the last part—I’ll only have fun once I don’t stomp all over Jordan’s big feet—but the steps part? I’ve run the waltz so many times, you could cut me off at the waist and still send my legs out to perform the number.
“Love you, Aunt Heidi,” I say, and she blows an air kiss and hurries off toward the subway, watching me the whole time. But I bet you anything she’ll still sneak to the back of the crowd and watch me up there today. She’s very aunty that way.
“That was close,” I’m about to go, but Roscoe grabs my neck and hurries me to the curb, tucking me behind an idling cab.
“Listen, son,” he says, biting at the words like turkey jerky. “We could both get into hot water over all of this.”
I’d love nothing more than to get into hot water right now. Heck, I’d even splurge for bubbles.
“I’m sorry!” I say. “I know I was supposed to meet you way down the street. It’s just. You know ladies. They walk in fast-forward when it’s cold out.”
Roscoe tries hard not to laugh. “Lord, why do I still do this?”
I think he means show business in general, but he could mean outdoor events with children, too. Or wearing earmuffs. I would sooner lose my ears than wear muffs to school.
“I think you ‘do’ this,” I say to Roscoe, “because you owe Asella a favor? Something about a photo in a bar.”
Traffic zips past us.
“That’ll be enough,” he says, his eyes going wide. The cab speeds away and Roscoe points me to a trailer. Like, a real trailer, the kind actors hang out in on movie sets! “That’s your home today. You’re sharing it with an actress from Call Me Stro, since the whole world thinks you’re Asella. Otherwise, they would’ve just set you up in Jordan’s trailer.”
“Sounnds ssswwell,” I say, hopping up and down to stay warm. I’m probably eighty internal degrees right now, but I remind myself that in Florida—the only exotic place the Fosters have ever traveled—eighty degrees is considered a lovely day. A vacation!
“All right, let’s get you inside,” Roscoe says, pushing me along, “before anyone sees you.”
But by the time he’s saying sees you, I’ve spotted somebody we both know.
“Duck!” I whisper-scream, crouching behind Roscoe’s substantial legs. “It’s Bernie the First! At twelve o’clock!”
And there he is, walking toward us with the kind of energy that Libby’s new boyfriend would use to corner me for, like, wearing earmuffs.
“Oh, he’s with us,” Roscoe says, kicking me out from behind him. “Bernie’s an inside jobber.”
And that’s when Bernard Billings-Sapper unzips a huge plastic bag, bigger even than my strange pirate teddy bear. The one from that two-timer Genna.
“Welcome to your first TV appearance, Nathan,” Bernie says. “Or, sorry: Nate.” He holds up E.T.’s mask, a jack-o’-lantern of folds and freckles. “Congrats.” He hands it to me. “You’re the first person to put one of these on, little star.”
And just like that, the chattering leaves my teeth and takes an express train straight for my heart. “Wow.”
The Main Event For Real
(The day before previews start!)
Even in 25-degree weather, with frost dusting the treetops a powdered-sugar white, I’m piping hot, dressed head to toe as the most famous alien in the world, other than Ricky Martin.
“I’m going to hold your hand,” Roscoe says, “and steer you across the promenade to the stage. So you don’t run into stuff.”
Here’s the great thing about being the kind of kid who, even with a full range of eyesight in his everyday life, frequently runs into poles: When you’ve got a mask on, you’ve finally got an excuse to be a klutz. No one’s gonna ask me to run around in this getup.
“Hi, Asella!” I hear. “Wanna run around and warm up with me?”
Ugh. It’s him, Jordan Rylance, in Elliott’s white T-shirt and red hoodie and brand-new costume jeans. The only giveaway that he’s even playing a part is his sneakers, which are covered with plastic bags and tied at the ankle (to protect his precious feet from the snow).
“Nah, I don’t need any help warming up,” I’m about to say—to blow my own cover, two seconds into the mission—when Roscoe cuts in.
“Asella’ll be just fine, Jordan. I think she’s already pretty hot in there. Give us the thumbs-up if you’re hot in there, ’Sell.”
I try to give a thumbs-up and almost knock my helmet off, just because E.T.’s thumb is built like a long branch. Everyone laughs except Jordan’s Mommy, who stops adjusting his microphone. “Quiet, J.J.,” she says. Ninety bucks his middle name is Jesus. “Let’s save that voice for America.”
We’re standing beneath a blazing outdoor heater, with the stage set up just beyond. It’s a portable gym riser–type thing, laid out next to a beautiful stone fountain at the entrance of the park.
“I bet you’ve been here a million times,” Jordan says, talking through his Mommy’s hand—oh dear, at me. “On the trip where we came to New York to get my headshots taken, we shot in Central Park so I could swing from one of the lamp poles. Just like Fred Astaire in Singin’ in the Rain.”
My already sweating forehead practically splits in half. Fred Astaire? He means Gene Kelly, and he should be ashamed of himself, because Gene Kelly is from Pittsburgh. The only good thing we can even boast. Other than Clark bars. And Libby. God, I hope she’s DVRing the show today.
“We booked a session with a New York photographer,” Jordan’s Mommy sa
ys, “because you’ve got to have the best if you want the best results.” She takes off her leopard coat and wraps Jordan’s shoulders in it. “We’d already burned through five Pittsburgh photographers, spending several thousand dollars.”
“Apiece,” Jordan says, real quiet, his face half-covered by the leopard hood.
“Save it,” she says, elbowing Jordan so hard that he slips in his plastic-bag shoes. “Save. That. Voice. How much do we have to spend on those two little cords for you to take them seriously?”
He slurps at the tea and grits his teeth.
“And so,” his mom says, “we came to Central Park and spent a small fortune.” She licks her teeth free of an emergency-red lipstick that keeps migrating across her fangs. “I went without mani-pedis for a month!”
I throw my head back and shake my shoulders up and down, simulating silent film laughter. It’s actually nice to know what a mani-pedi reference is, though.
“That’s enough, Mother,” Jordan says, gulping from his sweating thermos. “Asella doesn’t need to hear all this.”
“The important thing is this,” she says, pulling Vaseline from her purse while simultaneously biting off a really expensive leather glove (you can tell leather is expensive if it’s purple). “All the trips and all the money and all the lessons—all of them lead up to this moment. My J.J. on national TV, promoting my J.J. on Broadway.”
She scoops out a margarine-size wedge of Vaseline and smoothes back Jordan’s eyebrows, which are already so unruffled, they look tattooed.
Roscoe reappears, back from consulting with a pair of ladies in black sweatshirts and stocking caps. Crew people. “We should get you two back into your trailers if Cirque: Windtasia is going to take so long up there.”
Oh! I heard about this show on a TV set in the back of a cab. (Yes, you read that right, by the way: a TV set in the back of a cab.) In Windtasia, the performers’ feet never actually touch the stage. Supposed to be “spectacular in a French-Canadian sort of way,” according to a reporter on New York One.
