by Federle, Tim
God, I wonder how he is.
“What’s it saying, Nor’?” Monica asks. But she looks pretty uninterested in Nora, focused instead—like the rest of them are—on me. Staring like I might at any second disappear. Like my whole performance was that of ghost boy, and they better do their best not to let me slip under the door crack.
“Well,” Nora says, reciting from her phone, “one user says ‘Greatest musical since Passion.’ ”
Roscoe snickers. “Oy.”
“And another person—okay, we can skip that,” Nora goes.
“What? What!” Monica shouts.
“Oh, somebody says our dear Nate is five years too old for Elliott. But you know what I say to that?”
She says a really terrible word to that. And hearing such a cuss word come out of a British lady’s mouth, you practically expect to see an old bald man behind her, pulling the string.
Speaking of: “Put that away,” Garret says to her. “Shall we go to Sardi’s? Shall we treat Nate to a bit of a moment?”
“Nate Foster,” calls the doorman from my intercom, “you have visitors at the stage door.”
“Visitors?” I say, standing and suddenly realizing I’m in the robe. It’s a pretty awkward thing to be in, with a bunch of adults hanging around. What a lame-looking party, I guess.
“The visitors are just beginning,” Roscoe says. “I think we’re going to have lines around the block.”
“So: Sardi’s, shall we?” Garret says, trying to get the group on the same page. On the same foot, really. Dance people are all alike, the cattle herders of humans.
“Well,” I say, “I have to ask my Aunt Heidi if I can go out.”
By now the adult huddle has grown to include Mackey, several of the grown-up chorus, and now Aunt Heidi herself—making, as always, an entrance. Once an actress, always an actress.
“I burst my way through security downstairs!” she says, splitting my crowd in half and attempting to lift me up high. “Good lord,” she says, “you’ve gotten so heavy.”
This might be the very worst thing to say to a child actor, who wants to forever remain the exact size and height he is now.
“My back!” Heidi says, and drops me, even though she’s kidding.
“Bad backs must run in our family,” I say, which gets too big a laugh. It’s like how everyone’s jolly after a really bumpy flight. (Libby says her entire cabin applauded the pilot when they made an emergency landing in Phoenix, once.) God, I wish Libby were here.
“Well,” Garret goes, putting on his overcoat, “Monica and I are heading to Sardi’s. I hope to see you lot there in twenty minutes.”
“What about the production meeting?” Roscoe says. “The whole staff is gathering in the house, after the audience clears, to discuss the performance. What went wrong. What we need to change. And where the heck Dewey’s hiding.”
“You people enjoy the production meeting,” Garret says, taking Monica by her very thin bicep. “The problem in this show isn’t my steps. The choreography will remain the same. Monica and I are off to a very dirty martini.”
“Or three,” says Monica, batting fake eyelashes.
“And then somebody,” Garret says, exiting with the speed and terror of thick oatmeal, “can fax my hotel afterward and tell me what we’re doing about the writing in Act Two.”
(Later, I’ll ask Heidi if fax is an app.)
Mackey breaks in, thank God. “Well, I propose we give the kid a little space.” Everyone seems to nod in agreement, even though Aunt Heidi hardly moves. (She’s rubbing her back like I’m a buffalo or something, by the way.) And once everyone gets lost, she can’t help herself.
“Your parents would just die,” she says, dancing around a little. “They would just die if they could have seen you tonight.”
And suddenly I feel awful for every time I wished they would just die. You know when you’re little, and you think a bunch of stuff would get solved if the annoying people in your universe would just keel over. I don’t think it ever does. I don’t think a permanent good-bye is ever a permanent solution to anything. Other than leaving middle school.
“Aw, buddy,” Heidi says. “Don’t cry. This is a great night.”
But I can’t believe my luck, is all. Or Jordan’s luck. His bad luck. Or that Libby is dating a bully back home. That I got laughs tonight. The “with you” not “at you” kind. I can’t believe . . . any of this.
“I’m not crying,” I say, crying, “I’m reacting.”
And I can’t believe that my dad has been to every one of Anthony’s soccer, swim, track, and vaulting meets—courtside, ringside, anyside—and he’d never in a million years make a trip to New York. He doesn’t trust airplanes, for one. Can’t blame him there; they’re like toasters with wings, and without the benefit of strudel. But still. And yet.
“I just need a second,” I say, pushing Heidi away but in kind of a nice way. “It’s just been . . . a day.”
“Wait’ll I text your pal Freckles,” she says.
“Wait’ll I text my pal Libby!” I yell, but when Aunt Heidi hands my phone back, I don’t even have time to scroll for her name, because—
“Quiet that voice,” I hear.
The room is so obscured by last-minute flowers and ill-phrased balloons, we can’t even see where the voice is coming from. But there she is, peering up from the clutter.
“Quiet that voice and save it,” Asella says, shaking her head at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever watched such a gutsy understudy performance.”
She laughs to herself, and you can just see a whole film play across her mind. Something from her past. Something about an understudy, something funny or sad. Something that I’ve managed to outfunny and outsad, tonight. Me.
“You must be Asella,” Aunt Heidi says.
“You must be proud,” she goes. “Proud out of your mind.”
“I am,” Heidi says. “I don’t even have a right to be and I am.”
“I’m so excited you’re both meeting!” I squeal way too hard. My voice hasn’t come back down from the high. No, literally: Half of Jordan’s songs were still in the wrong key, and I had to screech them out. Oliver Twist, meet helium. “You’re my favorite ladies!”
“What’d I say about protecting that voice?” Asella says.
“Sorry,” I say, and then, “sorry” again, and then we all kind of chuckle and I mouth: “Sorry.”
“I overheard the production team talking in the house,” Asella says, playing with the string of my balloon. And avoiding my eyes.
“Oh?” I lip-synch.
“Okay,” she goes. “I snuck under a seat and spied on them in the house.”
Aunt Heidi laughs, absentmindedly stealing a Ricola from my dressing tables. (You can have as many cough drops as you want on Broadway and say it’s for your voice. Amazing perks.)
“Let’s just say they were quite pleased with your performance,” Asella says, beaming like a mini-moon. I guess that makes me the earth, which is appropriate; this night meant the freaking world to me.
“You look like you have more news,” Aunt Heidi says. Girls can always tell when other girls have secrets.
“All I’m saying,” Asella goes, pulling a ski cap on tight, “is that there’s rumors our little Nate might be made the matinee Elliott.”
“What does that mean?” I say, my voice fraying like wet paper towels.
“It means you should keep quiet,” both of them go.
Asella takes over: “Because maybe you’ll get to play this part a couple times a week. Permanently.”
I practically die, here. “Whoa.”
And you know the weirdest part? It would strangely make me sad not to be in the background of the frog dissection scene, because I have a really fun bit with Keith where he picks me up and holds me really tight, like he’s protecting me from a berserk frog. But, like, supertight.
“Matinee Elliott,” I say, squeezing my robe together.
(But I’d get over i
t.)
“You wanna join us at Sardi’s, Asella?” Aunt Heidi shakes out my dried-ketchup jacket and hands it to me.
“Aw, you kids have fun.”
Aunt Heidi chortles and does the whole “oh please” thing—but God, does she love being called a kid. She’ll probably let me stay up late for a week just in the afterburn of this glorious comment.
“I’ve got a dog to walk,” Asella says, backing up and, if I’m not mistaken, getting a little watery in the pupil region. “You made me practically bashful in the wings tonight, Foster. You made the whole company have to step up our game a little.” Now her voice is definitely cracking.
“Thank you.”
She goes to speak. But she’s forgotten her lines. “Blasted theater air,” she says, rolling her eyes, pointing at a vent that isn’t even blowing. “It . . . gets my throat all dry.”
“Me too,” I say. “Mine too.”
And just when she waves good-bye and curtsies, and just as Heidi turns her back so I can change into my jeans, Asella pivots around again.
“Just keep being you, kid. Whoever that is. Whoever he becomes. Just . . . Nate.”
And then she’s off, fast as a superhero jackrabbit, disappearing into a teepee of treats and cards, popping down the stairs four at a time. Off to walk Doc.
“So . . .” I say to Aunt Heidi, because otherwise I might cry again. “Sardi’s?”
“Sharpie,” she says.
“Huh?”
Is this a sick comment on how off-note my singing was tonight? (“Better to be sharp than flat,” according to Libby, “because sharp means you’re aiming high.”)
“Sharpie,” Aunt Heidi says again, handing me a fabulous silver pen. “Unused. Bought just for you. For this moment.”
Oh.
I want to say, “What for?” To play dumb. To play sweet. Like I haven’t dreamed up this exact scenario for just about ever.
“How come?” an old version of me wants to say.
“How many of them are out there?” I say, instead.
“Dozens,” she says, her voice tightening, her eyes going oceanic on me. “Maybe hundreds.”
“Let’s go together,” I say, pulling up my jeans, grabbing my jacket. “Behind every good man is, like, an aunt.”
We leave for the street, off to sign dozens (maybe hundreds) of autographs.
Whoever I am.
Whoever I become.
Just Nate.
Like If Kindling Could Talk
I’m reviewing the most current version of my autograph in my head, having recently played with one that uses all uppercase cursive letters with a backward slant.
“I know my nice Nikon is in here,” Heidi says, rooting through her purse as we get downstairs. “If I can’t find it, I’ll just use my phone’s camera . . .”
And as we pass the stage doorman, who watches sports all day long on this mini-TV, I hear a crispy dry voice calling my name. It’s like if kindling could talk.
“Nate.”
Coming from one landing down, heading to the basement.
“Over here.”
Oh. My. “Um—one sec, Aunt Heidi.” God.
“What do you mean, one sec?” she says, her hand pressed into the stage door.
I can see a million kids’ faces out there, all about my age. On instinct, I look behind me, knowing they’re waiting for a star. They’re not. Or they are. They’re waiting for me.
“I just have to . . . say hi to someone.”
Heidi cranes her head around, sees him, and gets it. Right off, she gets it, and leaves me, disappearing outside to the crowd. My crowd.
“What are you doing here?” I say, inching toward him. What if he’s contagious?
“I couldn’t,” he says, but then he stops. “It was really hard to be home tonight.”
This comes out so honest and real that I almost want to boo-hoo for him. But it’s obvious he’s done a lot of that himself already.
“Your mom would kill you if she knew you were here.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, laughing the way you do when something isn’t funny at all. “She was pretty conked out on the couch, but I still had to sneak out the fire escape.”
“That sounds incredibly dangerous,” I say, even though I’ve hung out on a few myself. “Wait—they’ve got fire escapes at hotels? I thought you were staying somewhere fancy.”
He checks the knot on his scarf.
“We were. We were in a so-called fancy hotel at first, just so we could put the address down on the company contact sheet.” He licks his lips. “But we found some studio apartment on Craigslist. For Mom and me.”
I mentally correct it to For Mom and I, and then congratulate myself for not correcting him out loud, and then realize he’s actually right. Grammar isn’t my thing, but I think you know that.
“So what are you doing here?” I say. “You should be home, getting better.”
“Oh, really?” he says, cocking an eyebrow so hard, his left ear practically wiggles. “Because you seemed pretty happy to be up there tonight.”
“You saw?” I yell.
“Hey, boys?” This, from the doorman. “We gotta close up backstage in a few minutes. You guys gotta get on your way.”
I don’t really “get” doormen. All they do is sit around watching football and flirting with the chorus girls. Actually, wait. I do get doormen. They’re like every uncle who ever didn’t lift me up high to play Superboy. It’s like my whole life, everyone’s been afraid of getting too close to me.
“Yeah,” Jordan says, “I saw the show.”
We ignore the doorman altogether, because if there’s one thing about doormen, they never get up from their chairs.
“I can’t believe this.” I really can’t.
“I was home,” he says. “And my mom drew me a bath . . .”
Instantly, he’s embarrassed.
“Funny term, right?” I say, to save him. “It’s like—don’t draw me a bath. I can’t sit in a cartoon.”
He laughs. It’s a pretty funny joke and I thought of it pretty fast.
“But I had to see the show,” he says. “I had to see what it looked like. It was amazing.”
He sniffs a big gob of something back into his throat. His eyes water. Is he emotional or just sick? Or both? Or are my eyes wet, and am I watching this whole thing from underwater?
“I’m not infected or sick or anything,” he whispers. “The doctor says I just lost my voice from too much practicing. Go figure.”
“I’m so embarrassed you saw me play you tonight,” I say.
“Boys, I’m serious,” the doorman says. “I’ll call security.” But the guy’s bluffing. There is no security. He’s security.
“I made up half the lyrics to ‘Whitest Boy on Earth.’ ”
Jordan giggles the way rich kids do, with extra consonants. “Those were some pretty original lyrics, yeah. But I preferred ‘Bum-bum-bum’ to half the stuff they’ve got me singing anyway.”
We both smile, but I think for different reasons. I don’t even know what I mean but I’m sure I’m right.
“Or half the stuff they have Elliott singing,” he says. A paper bag crinkles and I realize he’s holding a big something. “Or half the stuff they’ve got you singing,” he says, quieter.
“Oh please, Jordan. This is so your role. You’re so Elliott. Have you seen the front of the theater?” His name is as big as a Volkswagen Golf, which Anthony’s first girlfriend drives, by the way.
“Yeah, well . . . anyway,” he says. I bet he doesn’t even know what a Volkswagen is. I bet his dad drives a Porsche. Or drove one, once. “You did a really good job, Nate.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to count to three.” Oh man. Eddie’s standing over us now. Apparently doormen do get up from their chairs, if two sensitive boys are having a heart-to-heart.
“Just have to get something from my dressing room, Eddie,” Jordan says, switching to Prince Boy mode. God, the kid’s
a good actor. “My inhaler. You know. Asthma.”
Jordan fakes a cough, which is pretty hilarious since he’s managing a real one.
I follow Jordan up the stairs. I wonder if I smell like ketchup. “This is really crazy,” I say when we arrive in his dressing room.
“Yo, kid”—Eddie, over the intercom—“your aunt’s at the stage door and she’s looking for you.”
“We gotta make this quick, Jordan. Get your inhaler and then we’re outta here.”
“I don’t have an inhaler,” he says, handing me the bag. “I don’t have asthma.”
I peer into the bag. “Pierogies?” Pierogies. Huh. The spectacular carb delicacy from our hometown. “You brought me . . . pierogies.”
“Yeah. Yep.”
Pierogies are like ravioli except filled with potatoes and fried with onions. So just imagine that for a second: It’s like somebody was like, “No, the bread part of the pasta isn’t enough. How do we put another starch into it?” They’re not even allowed to teach pierogies in nutrition class, because the minute a kid learns about them, they never eat anything else ever again.
“What are these for?” I say. “These are so random.”
“They’re from Pittsburgh,” Jordan goes. He looks superwhite.
“Well, duh. Yeah.”
“Just like the Penguins. And the Pirates.”
These are reportedly Pittsburgh sports teams.
“Well, I’ll make sure to share these with my aunt.” I scrunch the bag closed. “She loves hometown food, even though she pretends it’s for hicks.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Jordan says. His hands shake.
“Get what? I almost never get anything, so.”
Jordan slumps into his makeup chair. Or tries to. I’m so much taller than he is (shocker!), and his chair was adjusted for my height tonight; Jordan misses on the first try and crashes pretty hard to the floor. But he’s one of those kids who doesn’t find normal stuff amusing, so he doesn’t laugh and neither do I.
“The Penguins,” he goes. “The Pirates.”
Oh God. Am I supposed to come up with the next clue in the list? I’m terrible at these games. Plus, I’ve got fans waiting outside.
