The Reece Malcolm List

by Amy Spalding

  When we get to her house, we go to her room first so we can digest a bit before singing. Travis lies down on the bed immediately, but I glance around the room, wishing my own had as much character as her framed photos and posters, and the bookshelf with everything arranged by color.

  “How do you find anything?” I ask, hoping she won’t revert back to Other Mira and bite my head off.

  “That’s what my dad says. But sometimes that’s the fun of it; I come across stuff I wouldn’t otherwise.” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “Also I love how it looks.”

  “No, me, too, I should have said that first.” I notice the red, white, and black spine of Destruction, neatly nestled in the maroons. “Your room’s really nice.”

  “It’s just a room, no big deal. Lissa said yours is amazing, some great view of the hills, huge closet, your own bathroom.”

  I shrug. “It’s pretty nice, yeah. I just haven’t . . .” Shut up, Devan. Why am I tempting fate and nature? Mira is not to know anything about me that isn’t surface.

  “You haven’t what?”

  “Found a way to make it my own,” I say, even while telling myself not to. “It’s still, like, a room my mother set up for me.”

  “Maybe you can ask for your birthday,” she says. “That’s what I did. It was still all pink and frilly until last year, when they let me repaint it and get new shelves and the bed. God, is Travis asleep?”

  I laugh when I see that he actually is. “So I hope he apologized to you.”

  “He did but he didn’t even have to. I understand what it’s like not getting what you want the most. Sometimes it turns you into someone else.”

  Mira’s so hard for me to figure out that I can’t even imagine what, or who, it is that she wants the most. Since she seemed so angry when Sai and I first showed up, was it something to do with Travis? Did she have one of those embarrassing and pointless crushes on a gay boy? (It happens.) I hope for her sake it’s something else.

  Travis is awake before long, so Mira’s parents let us take over the living room. We sing what feels like every last piece of sheet music Mira owns before Mira’s dad walks back in to (nicely) suggest Travis and I go home. The car seems quiet after the nonstop singathon, and I notice that Travis is grinning at me.

  “What?” I ask, preparing for a perverted comment about Sai or Aaron Finley.

  “I’m really glad I forgave you, Devvie. You’re one of the best people to hang out with.”

  I pretend to look exhausted. (Okay, to be fair, it’s almost one in the morning, so I am exhausted.) “Don’t even think about starting that again.”

  He grins at me even more as he pulls into my driveway. “It’s so easy to make you crazy. You know I missed you. See you Monday.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Things I know about Reece Malcolm:

  36. My friends think she’s cool.

  Rehearsals are consuming more and more of my life, which is exactly what’s supposed to happen. There’s comfort in getting up early and staying late and devoting most of your waking life to this living, breathing thing. When you share that with others it makes sense that it’s bigger than yourself, but if I was asked I couldn’t even put into words how much bigger it actually is, like sizing up the universe.

  We’ve stopped rehearsing the show as separate scenes, and now work on the acts themselves, when we aren’t polishing a particular song over and over again. The pieces are finally adding up, though. And while I definitely live for performing, I try not to hurry past these parts, either.

  I’m actually telling Travis this while he whines about being ready to open, even though oh my God I’m so ready to open. We’ve already run through all of Act One after school, and are now watching Sai, Aaron, and Mira rehearse “Franklin Shepard, Inc.” (It’s Sai’s song, really, but they have to sit onstage with him and react.)

  “I thought you were pessimistic,” Travis says with a pout.

  “I’m just saying! We rehearse for two months and then we have ten performances, total. If we make it all about those ten shows—”

  “But it is all about those ten shows,” he says. “That’s how it works, Devvie.”

  We wince as Sai lands on a really wrong note.

  “I just don’t want life to be like that,” I say. “Living two months for ten shows in two weeks.” Up until now I pretty much have been living like that. Each day something to get through to hopefully bring me closer to the one where I met my mother. And now I’m here, but it’s not like all of life immediately fell into place like I was so sure it would.

  “Sai, come on,” Mr. Deans calls out. “I know you know these lyrics by now. You should, at least.”

  “Mr. Deans should kick him out,” Travis says. “Replace him with someone who can hit notes and memorize lines.”

  “Like you?” I shake my head while feeling super embarrassed for Sai. “It’s about more than hitting notes and memorizing lines, you know. Sai’s such a good actor.”

  “Are you saying I’m not?”

  “No, just . . . ” Sai is still singing (it’s a long song) and giving it a lot, but it’s so obvious—at least to me—he’s trying to fight off melting down. I think about Sai’s dad, and Sai’s sad empty house, and I wish I could carve out something safe and easy for him right here. Not flubbed lyrics and bad notes. “Stop enjoying him not being perfect so much.”

  “You’re useless,” Travis says. “You’re way too in love to think clearly.”

  “You’re in love?” Brian Fredricsson—who plays Joe, the Broadway producer who gives Frank and Charley their big break . . . and whose wife eventually leaves him for Frank—sits down between us, even though we’re already pretty close. “With Aaron Finley?”

  “I’m not in love,” I say. “With Aaron Finley or anyone else.”

  Travis shoves his hair back from his face. “I think I could be in love with Aaron Finley.”

  “You barely even know him,” I said. “That isn’t love.”

  “You sound like my mom.”

  I glare in his direction, which is tough to do because of Brian sitting so close and all. From the way Brian looks downward with an expression like he’s eaten something that went bad, I guess he hoped Travis didn’t have eyes (or anything else) for Aaron.

  Grownups don’t seem like this. They’re just with each other. When does that set in? Sitting around obsessing over people who aren’t available to you is pathetic. And still. Here we all are.

  I go straight home that night (thanks to a ride from Travis) instead of getting food out with some or most of the cast, like I’ve been doing more and more lately. It isn’t a matter of avoiding the house or anything; it’s just how life gets during a show. Especially this show. But today I got a text from my mother during school: Never see you these days. Dinner, just us? xo

  Like I could turn that down, life-consuming show or not.

  “Hey,” my mother greets me when I walk in. She’s curled up on the sofa, sans laptop for once. “Dinner ideas?”

  “Um, whatever’s fine with me.” I regret saying it immediately. Reece Malcolm does not like whatever answers. “Sushi?”

  “Not sushi,” she says. “Mexican?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “Just tired. And ready for dinner.” She sits up and slips her feet into her Converse. “How was rehearsal?”

  “It was pretty good,” I say as we walk to her car. “I feel like we’re almost there, which is good because tech week starts next week, and we open the week after that. And mostly it’s only this one song that’s still an actual problem, everything else just isn’t perfect yet. But I think it will be.”

  “So is New City crazy?” she asks, once we’re heading down Ventura. “Your rehearsal schedule’s fairly unbelievable to me.”

  “No, I’ve had longer hours before,” I say. “Though we’ll be rehearsing this weekend and next, too, just so you know, now that opening’s so soon. We need a lot of time to get everything perfe
ct.”

  “I suppose it’s how you prepare for your goals in life, but I can’t imagine I would have given up this much of my time when I was your age.”

  “You didn’t write all the time?” I ask, even though we’re still not totally on comfortable terms about her books or anything. I can’t imagine either one of us ever bringing up the dedication.

  “Well, yeah,” she says. “But I was home at my desk.”

  “But, like, if it’s the thing that matters most to you, it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.”

  “So how’s everything?” my mother asks once we’re seated on the patio at Mexicali (it’s always way too loud inside to talk), munching on chips and salsa. (Theirs isn’t too spicy for me.)

  “Everything?”

  “You know.” She gives me a look like I’m pretty stupid. “School, the show, the boys, whatever else.”

  To be fair, I guess that was obvious and I am being pretty stupid. “Boys are nonexistent, really. School’s fine, I’m keeping up with my grades and everything.”

  “Of course you are,” she says. “Brad and I were saying we sort of feel the need to mock you for it—”

  “Good grades?”

  “Your overachieving nature.” She shrugs. “But we were the same way.”

  “Probably especially Brad,” I say. “He’s so OCD about doing everything perfect. I mean, in a good way, but still.”

  “Trust me, you don’t have to convince me of that.” She unzips her purse and takes something out of it. “Anyway. I wanted to do something for you, since you’ve impressed me pretty tremendously with managing everything lately.”

  “It’s really nothing,” I say, though I do hold out my hand.

  She places a key ring in my open palm. It’s the nicest one I’ve ever seen—who knew key chains could be fancy?—a square of luxe red leather, kind of like my favorite flats. “I thought about putting a copy of my key on it for you, but I was afraid you’d think I was giving you a BMW—I’m not. But I am teaching you to drive as soon as the show’s through, and you will get your own car as soon as you’re ready.”

  “Oh my God.” I stare at the empty ring, until she hands me a copy of her key, and then I get out my old key chain to move my house key over, too. “You don’t have to get me a car, though.”

  “Honestly, don’t think it’s an entirely altruistic move. Brad won’t have to drive you in the mornings, and I won’t feel guilty when I can’t pick you up after school. It works out for all of us.”

  “A cheap car,” I say, even though I’m not sure there’s any such thing. “Okay? Nothing really nice or anything.”

  She laughs. “Nothing nice, sure.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Really.”

  “So I wanted to—” she starts as a waiter arrives with our sodas and to take our food order. We get our usuals, enchiladas for her and the chile relleno for me, both orders to be split in half and shared. I still can’t predict what she’ll say or do, but it’s nice we’ve gotten into this routine with food. Maybe it’s silly that it makes me feel more connected with her, but in this tiny way it does.

  After the waiter leaves, and I’m about to ask my mother to continue saying whatever she was about to say, which I figure can’t be too terrible considering that it followed up the key chain-giving, Lissa walks by down the sidewalk. And despite the weirdness post-me-and-Elijah, I call out her name and Lissa turns around, and we end up talking until the food shows up.

  And so it isn’t until I’m at the house later, sliding my old choir room key onto the key chain, that I remember my mother wanted to talk to me about something. I’m tired enough to tell myself it isn’t a big deal, and that sleep is way more important. So I tuck the key chain into my purse, get into bed, and let it go.

  Tech Week is suddenly just there, which is how it always goes. It’s hard to remember a time before rehearsals are your whole life, but at the same time it goes so fast. Now there are costumes and props and lighting cues. Boxes of programs are stacked in the lobby (though of course it’s bad luck to look at them before we open).

  Sai can finally get through “Franklin Shepard, Inc.” with no huge flubs. There are still usually a couple of minor ones, and I worry about opening night. Okay, this isn’t Broadway, but it’s New City, and the standards are high. Aaron heard from Liz Geier (who plays Frank’s first wife, Beth) that she heard from Mr. Deans that there are actual talent scouts from UCLA’s and USC’s drama departments attending, though that seems unlikely to me. This is musical theatre, not football or anything colleges take seriously.

  I know Sai is worried. Okay, to be fair, he calls me almost every night, and he says it a lot. Man, Dev, I’m worried. I’m the only one who’s still screwing up. But I’d know anyway from the look on his face whenever it happens, from the way he paces when he isn’t onstage, from the sheet music he’s rarely seen without. I think it’s better to mess up a little and still be one of, if not the most talented person in the show, who just happened to get the trickiest song.

  But I never say that on the phone, and I never say he’ll be fine, either. I don’t think it’s fair to tell people anything like that. Maybe they won’t be fine. Maybe flubbing one lyric is something they’ll never get over, if it happens during an actual performance. Maybe rehearsals are bad enough. On the phone I just let him talk. I mean—about that. I talk, too; I don’t just sit there and let him ramble (even though that probably would be acceptable, considering that Sai talks a lot). Just. On that subject, he can talk it out. I listen. It’s our system.

  Probably it means nothing that he calls me every night. I’m sure he’d call Nicole if she were in the show too and would know what he’s talking about. That’s something about theatre, how it’s its own world. A couple months ago there were a few subjects I could talk about on a regular basis, but now it’s pretty much The Show. What would it be like if Elijah was still sort-of-my-boyfriend? Talking nonstop about Tech Week and costume fittings and weird-but-not-entirely-bad choices by other actors (Brian’s not-exactly-accurate New York accent comes to mind a lot) would probably be super annoying.

  “Awesome costume,” Sai says to me as we’re waiting around backstage while they work out the kinks on some lighting thing. Unfortunately, my costume for the last song in the show, “Our Time,” is this dopey pair of pajamas, while Aaron gets to look all hot-guy-in-an-Army-uniform and Sai looks all retro suave in jeans and a vintage Columbia University sweatshirt. Not fair, Mr. Deans.

  “Shut up.” I elbow him in a way I totally stole from my mother. Also an excuse to touch him, if just a little, and if my freaking elbow even counts. (I’ll take what I can get.)

  “It’s not that bad,” Aaron says. It probably sounds dumb, considering we’re in the show, Nation, and Honors Choir together, and have a billion scenes together, but I still like that Aaron talks to me. I mean, he’s a senior, and worthy of the Aaron Finley Sexuality Conundrum. I’m definitely not into him or anything, but I can still recognize he is a tall, hot, talented guy.

  “Yeah, on the pajamas scale they’re awesome,” Sai says, messing with his hair even though I’ve overheard Mr. Deans on multiple occasions telling him that pompadours are not appropriate for Charley. Technically I don’t think Sai’s hair qualifies as a pompadour, but firstly it makes me laugh gleefully to remember (I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling inappropriately) and secondly, pompadour or not, Charley would definitely have normal hair that doesn’t draw attention to himself.

  “Hey, guys.” Mr. Deans appears out of thin air like a magician or something. If magicians wear sweater vests and Adidas. “We’re still having some tech issues; think I’m gonna call this an early night”—I don’t mention that we only have one song and the curtain call left to rehearse anyway—“so you can change and take off.”

  “You guys want to do something?” Aaron asks.

  “I should get home,” Sai says. “Lot of homework to get caught up on. You want a ride, Dev? Or you want to go out with everyone els
e?”

  “It’s not everyone else, it’s whoever I can round up,” Aaron says. “But we’ll find you a ride if you need, Devan.”

  I shrug, because I like rides home with Sai, but I like being included, too. “I guess I’ll stay.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Sai says, squeezing my hand before taking off. It’s a friendly gesture, I’m sure. Right? Friends can touch hands.

  I start to head to the girls’ dressing room to change out of my costume.

  “You guys are lucky you’re both so good,” Aaron says. “I figured it would suck doing a show where the other two leads are a couple.”

  “We’re not a couple,” I say, so quickly we’re sort of talking at the same time. “Who told you that? It’s totally not true.”

  “Whoa, Devan.” He holds up his hands. “I just figured. Calm down.”

  “Good luck with that,” Mira says, walking up to us. “Devan’s never calm about anything. Anyway, I overheard you guys making plans. Lissa’s at Dupar’s with Elijah, and he has to take off but she was going to hang out for a while. Since I’m free and everything. If you guys want to come, and invite everyone . . . ”

  Aaron agrees, and even though Mira still makes me a little nervous—and I know I’ll feel weird seeing Lissa and Elijah together out of school—I agree to go, too. So there I am, as soon as I’m changed back into my normal clothes, squished into the backseat of Aaron’s car with Mira and Brian (Travis claims the front seat). When we get to Dupar’s, which is a diner I’ve actually been to with my mother more times than I can count, Elijah is still there with Lissa, but they’re saving a giant booth for the few carloads of people from the show. Somehow I end up sitting next to Elijah, because by the time I realize it’s happening, it would look rude to move, so I just sit down and glance at him. Hoping to convey I would sit somewhere else if I could.

  “How’s the show?” he asks, which is a fair question, because we try our best not to talk about it at lunch too often, since Lissa didn’t get a role at all and Travis is still probably pissed about his chorus-ness.