by Amy Spalding
“It’s really good,” I say. “We’re close to being there, I think. You’d probably think it’s totally nerdy, or I’d tell you to come see it—”
“Of course I’m coming to see it,” he says. “You guys are all in it. Shows may not be my thing—I’m never going to be in Nation or sing in a musical—but it’s not like I look down on them.”
“How’s Killington Hill?” I ask.
He makes a sound that’s sort of like guh. “Don’t ask. I think we’re breaking up.”
“Sorry. That sucks.”
“I thought you had to leave,” Mira says to Elijah from across the table. It’s always nice when her attitude is focused somewhere else than on me.
“I was just going to,” he says. “See you guys.”
“Where’s Pompadour?” Mira asks, which is I guess what she’s retired Aladdin for in reference to Sai. “Adding volumizer?”
Everyone laughs (including me), which makes me feel bad.
“He had homework,” I say, to make up for it.
“If he doesn’t figure out his part soon, I’m going to freak,” Travis says. “It’s so not fair he got that role. You know Deans must have regrets.”
“It’s not that bad,” Mira says. Shockingly. “He’s really good besides that.”
“But that is like the main song for him,” Travis says. Which I don’t think is true. Sondheim doesn’t write shows that center around big numbers or anything. They’re way more complex than that. “He screws that up—”
“He won’t,” I find myself saying. “He’s working really hard—he’ll get it. And half the stuff he messes up, unless you’re some geek who’s got the whole thing committed to memory already—”
“Like all of us?” Mira asks, laughing.
“Well, yeah! But you wouldn’t know otherwise. No one’s parents are going to.”
“Unless he makes the face,” Travis says, and does an amazing impression of Sai’s crestfallen expression. I won’t lie—I laugh at its accuracy. “He needs to get a handle on it better.”
That much is definitely true. And no one’s laughing now.
Chapter Twenty
Things I know about Reece Malcolm:
37. She’s tremendously impressed by me.
I’ve always wanted a ritual for opening nights, but considering I moved around so much and therefore rarely opened a show with the same group of people at the same place, it was hard nailing one down. Also I’m not very superstitious.
It’s a good thing, too, because it—whatever that ritual might be—would be completely derailed on this opening night. I’m sitting outside of the boys’ bathroom while, of all people, Travis throws up. (Obviously I bite back that he doesn’t even have a big role.)
“I can get Mr. Deans,” I call when it seems like there’s a break in the puking. “Or maybe the school nurse is still here? Also maybe—”
“Devvie, I’m fine,” he calls back, though there’s definitely more puking following that assertion.
Sai walks past me and pats my shoulder. “I can take over vomit duty, Dev.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m ready to go.” He glances back and watches me for a long moment. “You nervous at all?”
There are a lot of reasons to be nervous about opening night, like that my mother is in the audience (for the first time of anything I’ve ever performed, not counting three songs with the Nation); Kate freaking Logan is in the audience; and what if Liz isn’t crazy and there are musical theatre talent scouts? If Sai messes up, Travis will never shut up about it, and also Sai could end up totally devastated.
“I’m fine,” is what I say, though.
“You’re interesting, Dev,” he says. “I’ve seen a lot freak you out. But this? Nothing.”
“I want to do this my whole life,” I say. “I just can’t let it.”
“Makes sense,” he says. “Sometimes you’re bizarrely reasonable, you know.”
“That’s my goal.” Wait, am I flirting? With a totally attached boy out of my league while my friend pukes a few feet away? “Devan Malcolm: alto, bizarrely reasonable.”
“And seriously talented,” he says with a smile, squeezing my shoulder. Shoulder-squeezing doesn’t sound hot but his hand feels very right on me. “Don’t forget that one.”
And then he disappears into the bathroom while I have what feels like a heart attack but most likely is just a normal reaction to the nicest thing ever said to me.
(Or at least the nicest thing ever said to me by the hottest person to ever speak to me.)
Travis’s throwing up has quelled by five minutes to curtain, and his complexion changes from ghostly pale to fairly normal as we gather around Mr. Deans. Mr. Deans has something to say to all of us, which is amazing with a cast of thirty people. Mine is to take my time, which reminds me of how Kate made sure I really feel each moment in songs, so it’s good advice. He tells Sai to give himself a break, which is exactly what I would have said, too.
The orchestra blasts out the first notes of the overture, and I glance around the circle of us gathered here. I have a lot of favorite things about theatre, but this is definitely one of the best of them. The moments before the curtain rises are always electric, but standing backstage when it’s your show, even more so. If I could capture what it feels like right now and keep it handy, life could never get too bad again.
Show mode kicks in, and all of a sudden I’m onstage with the entire cast, belting out the first number like my life depends on it. I guess in a way it does. Later on I’ll be aware of everyone important in the audience, of how far we’ve come since our first rehearsal, of how much I’ll miss this once it’s over, but right now none of it matters. Maybe that’s why someone like me connected so immediately to theatre. It’s the only time in my whole life I can get completely caught up in a moment.
But maybe I’ll get better at that.
The one time I come out of the moment is during “Franklin Shepard, Inc.” I stand stage left with Jasmine Murray, who plays Gussie, and hold my breath to see how Sai gets through. (Honestly I’ll bet all of us are holding our breaths.) The bad news is that it’s not perfect, but the good news is that it’s close, and the kind of slips only we would notice. At least he holds back from making that horrified face.
Afterward we have a couple of seconds where we’re waiting to enter the next scene, and I squeeze his hand without thinking about it. (Maybe the Live In the Moment thing is a little dangerous?) But he grins at me like we’re on the same page.
“I didn’t screw it up,” he tells me once the curtain goes down after we close out the first act with “Now You Know” (totally my biggest moment in the show). “And that was awesome, Dev. Man, something happens when there’s a crowd out there.”
“It’s always better,” I say. “And I’m really proud of you.” It feels so geeky out of my mouth, but I am. He’s come way further than anyone else.
“Thanks, Dev.” He kisses my cheek, which I am not not not expecting. It happens too quickly to fully enjoy it. “See you at places.”
I rush into the girls’ dressing room and change out of the boring navy dress that unfortunately is my costume for “Now You Know,” and into the yellow dress that’s way more flattering and more my style for the beginning of Act II. Mr. Deans told us the costumes are more about establishing the backward-moving timeline than anything else, which makes sense, but it’s tough being obsessed with style and then getting forced into boring, unflattering clothes.
“You sounded so great,” Mira says, making her way over to me. “Is it scary? Closing the act like that?”
“I know it should be, but . . . ” I grin and shrug. “It’s totally not. Just amazing. You were great, too. You actually got laughs during ‘Franklin Shepard, Inc.,’ which is usually totally impossible because Sai’s part’s so flaily and scene-stealing.”
“Yeah, that was my goal,” she says. “If I could get attention off of him even once, I figured I did my job.”
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I still feel like thinking about it too much might jinx it, but I wonder if maybe we could end up actual friends. Who knows why I even want to—Mira can be so terrifying. But that’s the weird thing about L.A. Almost everyone who matters is terrifying somehow.
The second act is pretty much seamless, with no missed lines or lighting cues or lyrics. Every time I’m waiting in the wings, Mr. Deans is chewing his fingernails and sweating like it isn’t the most air-conditioned backstage I’ve ever been in. I want to say something about how well it’s going or how it’s seriously a nearly perfect show and also maybe how lucky I feel to land at this school with a teacher who completely gets it. But I’ll say something later. Right now it seems kinder to let him keep chewing.
“Our Time” is the last song, and for some reason I think it’s the hardest. Not, like, musically, but even though I love this show maybe more than any other, it’s a super cheesy song, and sometimes during rehearsals we sounded so so so fake and lame that either Aaron or I would laugh, and the other would follow, and soon even Sai—who takes everything more seriously than we do—would fall apart, too. We’ve gotten better and haven’t done that in ages, but I still find myself searching desperately for the right emotions, so I don’t sound too innocent and unrealistic. And I still don’t think I’m as good as I could have been, but tonight I feel myself hit a bunch of right notes, musically and emotionally.
So many people are so good at so many things. Right now I’m lucky we’re supposed to smile during the curtain call, because I’m so happy this is the thing I’m good at.
Backstage, Mr. Deans congratulates us before rushing into the lobby, which I guess I’m not expecting, but I tell myself I can live without more praise and head to the dressing room to change. Mira is somehow already in jeans and a Spring Awakening T-shirt and heading out.
“Good show,” she calls.
“You, too.” Normally I would have taken my time changing, stepped aside for all the people who were rushing out to see their parents or whoever else. Dad came to some of my shows, of course, but he didn’t seem to grasp any of the rituals. Like, I never got flowers from him. And I guess he never knew what to say. “Good job” was what usually came out, which sounds nice, but we both knew he couldn’t understand why this meant so much to me and I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t.
But tonight is something new. There were so many people in that auditorium (sold-out crowd!) and, amazingly, four of them were here just for me.
So I do what lots of kids do. I run right into the hallway in costume.
I spot my mother and Brad as soon as I walk out, and for once I’m not nervous. I’m just glad they’re here.
“Holy shit,” my mother greets me. “You are fucking incredible.”
“You can’t talk like that in a school,” Brad says, which makes my mother and me laugh really hard.
“Seriously.” She hugs me really really really tightly. “A-ma-zing. I’d say I was proud but that doesn’t even begin to sum it up.”
“Thank you,” I say, but into her hair because she’s still holding on. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Devan!” Kate dashes around the corner, followed by Vaughn, who’s carrying a huge bouquet of bright flowers. “Sorry we weren’t here when you came out, sweetie, but the flowers looked dangerously dry, so we were searching for a water fountain.”
“Oh my God, thank you,” I say, as Vaughn hands them to me and kisses my cheek. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.”
“You were absolutely amazing.” Kate crushes me in a forceful hug. “I’m so impressed with you. Though now that I know this is what you’re capable of, I’m pushing you much harder whenever we work together.”
“C’mon, Katie, let her enjoy it,” Vaughn says. “Great show, kid.”
My head is buzzing from the attention and the compliments and the sweet scent of the flowers. I could totally get used to this.
“Are we going out?” Kate asks. “If you guys don’t mind driving over the hill, there’s a great little—”
“I think we’re sticking closer to home,” my mother says. “It’s late and Devan has school as early as always tomorrow.”
“Hint taken.” Kate hugs me again. “Call me when you’ve got free time, sweetie. We’ll grab dinner and chat.”
Once Kate and Vaughn have left, my mother apologizes. “They’re just not always good at making things about other people. Or at least keeping them that way.”
“And who wants to drive over the hill just for food?” Brad asks.
“Well, sometimes it’s worth it.” My mother laughs and slings her arm around Brad’s waist. “Oh—give her the thing.”
“Yes.” Brad digs around in his pocket and takes out a key. “Your mother is demanding I get a new car—”
“It’s a long story,” my mother says. “And I wouldn’t say demanding.”
“But, as it were, we thought you might like the old one.” He hands the key over to me. “I’m sorry it isn’t red and more fashionable.”
“Oh my God.” I stare at the key. “Seriously?”
“Like, totally seriously.” My mother grins at me. “You said cheap. This one’s basically free. So I hope we’re all happy with this solution.”
“Thank you so much.” I tuck the key into the pocket of my pajama pants so I can put it on my red key chain later. “It’s seriously okay? I mean, I can’t even drive yet.”
“We’ll make sure you learn,” Brad says. “Well, I will. And, yes, we’re both fine with this. You’ve earned it, with all of your hard work in school and this show.”
I don’t know how to tell them how much it matters to me that they even noticed.
“Oh, hey.” Sai exits backstage into the hallway. “Figured everyone would have taken off already.”
I recognize his technique. It’s too crappy to find yourself in the midst of everyone getting hugged and congratulated when no one would be doing the same for you. Waiting it out is really the best option.
“Excellent show, Sai,” Brad tells him.
“Thanks, man,” he says. “Dev’s awesome, though, right?”
“Totally awesome,” my mother says with a smile. “And you didn’t suck.”
“Good to hear. Dev, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“We’re getting Mexican,” my mother says. “If you want to join us.”
Sai nods. “If you guys are okay with that.”
“We’re okay with that,” my mother says. “Devan, go with him and we’ll meet at Mexicali.”
“I’ll mind your flowers.” Brad swoops them out of my arms and gives me no choice but to run backstage and change before leaving with Sai.
Not that it’s a problem.
“Your parents are awesome,” he says as we walk out to his Audi. “So it’s good? That you met them recently and all?”
I shrug, because it is, mostly, but sometimes it creeps into my worries that it might be like I’m looking at one tiny beautiful part of a painting, and when the rest is revealed I’ll realize it wasn’t at all what I thought. But also it’s still weird taking compliments where my mother is concerned. And it feels mean being so happy when Sai has none of it.
But our super late dinner is great, crowded around a table on the chilly patio, talking about our favorite moments from the show (both as written and as performed tonight), and laughing so much, and knowing we’re staying out way too late, and feeling secure, suddenly, about my place here. Not just L.A., but everything else, too: theatre and school and maybe even this.
My mother and Brad walk into the kitchen as soon as we get back to the house to unload the dishwasher and get the coffeemaker ready for the next morning and whatever else grownups do in the kitchen at night. I, on the other hand, am being weird and staring at my mother’s bag, because there’s something I caught out of the corner of my eye earlier while Brad and Sai were quoting Shakespearean sonnets (nerds). I heard the rustle of my mother reaching into her purse, saw her open a pill bottle and
pop one into her mouth. Which I guess isn’t that odd? Except that it is.
And even though I know my investigation is basically over—since my Reece Malcolm List was about figuring out who she is, so that I could solve how she could have left me—I can’t deny I have a weird feeling right now. Reece Malcolm still has secrets.
So I take a big chance, because I rarely snoop when she’s home. But how else will I get a chance to look in her purse? She never leaves the house without it. I reach in, and my hand closes right around the prescription bottle. I feel dumb immediately, because there are a lot of things people take that aren’t big deals. Right? What am I going to add to the list, Reece Malcolm is on a mild dose of antibiotics?
And, okay, actually. These are just vitamins. Except—
Oh my God.
There’s a word preceding vitamins. A word I never never never expected to be used in conjunction with Reece Malcolm again. I’m so sure it’s a mistake that I read it four times, but it reads the same each and every one of those times.
And I know some people take this kind of vitamin to make their hair or nails better, but this is Reece Malcolm. Reece Malcolm wears the same pair of Chuck Taylors almost every day and sometimes—I’m pretty sure—has the same barely brushed ponytail from the day before.
I shove the bottle back into her bag, walk away from it like I haven’t been riffling through its contents. Which is hard because I’m shaking like I did the day I found out I was coming here—maybe worse, because at least back in September I didn’t feel like I was expected to act normal. November Devan has a higher set of expectations upon her.
“Hey!” My mother walks into the room with a goofy smile on her face. Reece Malcolm doesn’t do goofy. Sixty seconds ago I would have found it adorable, but now I wonder if it’s because of the pills, of what the pills mean, of this huge huge huge thing she hasn’t told me. “You should probably head to bed.”
