by Acito, Marc
O'er the la-hand of the freeeeee . . .
The crowd cheers for the note, just like they do at Yankee Stadium.
. . . and the home of the braaaaave!
After the ceremony I weave my way through the crowd, accepting compliments from well-wishers and promising to stay in touch with people I could care less about and vice versa, when I find myself face-to-face—or face-to-chest actually—with a big tank of a guy in a too-tight suit. He's got a Cro-Magnon brow, which he wipes with a damp handkerchief, and a broad fleshy Italian face. He looks like Jabba the Hut wearing Armani.
“Hey,” he says, shaking my hand, “that was some good singin'.” His hand is the size of a catcher's mitt.
“Thanks,” I say. This being New Jersey, I don't think much of it (there's no shortage of sweaty, Cro-Magnon-browed tank men in too-tight suits here) and I try to move on, but he throws a massive arm around my shoulder. It feels like a concrete pipe just landed on my neck.
“Come wid me,” he says. “There's someone who wants to talk to yuz.” His grip is too firm to be considered friendly and I'm immediately suspicious. He practically lifts me off my feet as he leads me away from the crowd.
I try to turn my head to catch someone's, anyone's, attention, but Jabba continues to steamroll me toward the parking lot. “Where are we going?” I say into his damp armpit, which smells like my third-grade lunch box. He quickens the pace and his breathing becomes more labored from the strain of dragging me along.
“Hurry up,” he says.
I see that we're headed for a black stretch limousine parked at the far end of the parking lot, and it's in that moment I realize it: I'm done for. The yearbook should have said “Most Likely to Die an Agonizing Mob-Related Death.” It's not enough I'm sorry for everything I've done, that I go to Mass every week and pray for forgiveness. No, I'm going to pay for my sins with my young, meaningless life.
The back window of the limo rolls down and I'm certain there's a gun with a silencer on the other side. Obviously Dagmar got in touch with Sinatra's people and, at this very moment, is probably in the backseat with her new boyfriend, a Mafia boss in a silver suit with oily hair pulled back in a ponytail. Promising Young Actor Shot at Graduation! Film at Eleven.
I shake free of Jabba. There's no point in struggling. It's over. My heart's beating so fast I'll probably drop dead of a heart attack right now anyway. When they make the movie of my life, there'll be a big close-up on a man's hand in the car window, the diamond in his pinky ring gleaming as he beckons me closer to the car. Oh God, it's going to be the wire around the neck. No, please, not the wire around the neck. I close my eyes and lean toward the window. Hail Mary, full of grace . . . its fleece was white as snow. Oh dear Lord, I promise if you let me live I'll learn the goddamn rosary.
“So you finally did it, huh, kid?” a voice says.
I know that voice. I know it like I know my own, as a matter of fact. I open my eyes and, be still my beating heart, there he is.
Frank Sinatra.
I must be dead already. I'm dead and I've gone to heaven and it turns out I was right all along: Frank Sinatra is God.
“Mr. Sinatra,” I hear myself say, “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to . . .”
“Don't sweat it, kid,” he says, dismissing the thought with a wave of his diamond-studded hand. “You got balls. I like that.”
“Thanks.”
“It's me who should be thanking you. Without you, my cousin's grandkid wouldn't be going to Juilliard.” He smiles and it feels like the earth just moved one step closer to the sun. He has the bluest eyes.
“You let me know if there's anything I can do for you,” he says. “Us guys from Hoboken gotta stick together.” He glances at his Rolex. “Now I gotta split. Sammy's waitin' for me in Atlantic City and he always panics when I'm late.” He motions to Jabba that it's time to go and I stand back to watch the limousine slowly slide away, like a ship drifting out to sea.
The gods are definitely on my side. Or at least Frank Sinatra is, and that's close enough for me.
The fact is, I shouldn't even be graduating, and not just because of the underage drinking, reckless driving, illegal drug use (on federal property), unlocking and entering, embezzlement, fraud, forgery, blackmail, and grand theft Buddha. No, I shouldn't be graduating because I never handed in my Portrait of the Artist paper.
There was just too much going on, what with suing my father and all, but finally, at long last, here it is. Thanks for being so patient, Mr. Lucas. Turns out I did need a lot more than twenty-five pages. It ain't James Joyce, but I worked with what I had. It's not my fault I'm from New Jersey.
This is how I paid for college. This is how I misspent my youth.
acknowledgments
It takes a suburb to raise a writer and I was fortunate to have dozens of catchers in the rye who made certain I got out of adolescence alive.
So, thank you to all of my friends, teachers, and surrogate parents from high school, most particularly Amanda Burns and Mary Susan Clarke.
To my mother and friend, Megan Garcia; my talented brother, Neal; and, most of all, my amazing dad, Chase Acito, the best father a guy could ever hope for: thank you for not being like the Zannis.
Thank you to Dame Sinclair and Cool Neighbor Brooke for reading the manuscript; to Chuck Palahniuk for recommending it; to my manager, Frederick (of Hollywood) Levy, for opening doors; and, especially, to my agent, Edward Hibbert, for shepherding this story with such insight and intelligence.
Special thanks go to my eagle-eyed editor at Broadway Books, Gerry Howard; and his able assistant, Rakesh Satyal; Mike Jones of Bloomsbury Publishing; my British co-agent, Patrick Walsh; producer Laura Ziskin and her VP Leslie Morgan; and Shannon Gaulding of Columbia Pictures. Both the IRS and I thank you for putting me in a new tax bracket.
Beyond all else, my everlasting gratitude goes to my beloved partner, Floyd Sklaver, for his tender devotion to me and this book. I wish everyone could be as lucky in love as I am.
Finally, thank you, my dear reader, for getting this far. Be sure to tell all your friends.
about the author
Hailed as the “gay Dave Barry,” Marc Acito is a syndicated humorist whose column, “The Gospel According to Marc,” appears in nineteen newspapers, including the Chicago Free Press and Outword–Los Angeles. After being kicked out of one of the finest drama schools in the country, he went on to sing roles with major opera companies, including the Seattle Opera. He lives in Portland, Oregon.
His website is www.MarcAcito.com.
HOW I PAID FOR COLLEGE. Copyright © 2004 by Marc Acito. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“A Piece of Sky,” by Michel Legrand, Alan and Marilyn Bergman © 1983 by Emanuel Music, Threesome Music, and F Sharp Productions Ltd. All Rights Administered by EMI April Music Inc. (Publishing) and Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc. (Print). All Rights Reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014.
“Corner of the Sky,” by Stephen Schwartz © 1971 (Renewed) by Stephen Schwartz. All Rights Administered by Jobete Music Co., Inc. and EMI Mills Music, Inc. Print Rights on Behalf of EMI Mills Music, Inc. Administered Worldwide by Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014.
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Chapter opening illustration by Rex Bonomelli
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Acito, Marc, 1966–
How I paid for college : a novel of sex, theft, friendship & musical theater / Marc Acito.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Teenage boys—Fiction. 2. Acting—Study and teaching—Fiction. 3. College and school drama—Fiction. 4. High school students—Fiction. 5. Amateur theater—Fiction. 6. Fund raising—Fiction. 7. New Jersey—Fiction. 8. Friendship—Fiction. 9. Tuition—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.C53H69 2004
813'.6—dc22
2003069742
eISBN 0-7679-1960-2
v1.0
