“Water polo,” she says. “Not soccer.”
“Oh, Jesus. Of course. Water polo. Yeah, nothing says punk rock like water polo.”
She grabs my arm and looks at my watch. “One minute,” she says.
“You look better when your hair is pulled back,” I tell her in a rush.
“Really?”
“Yeah, otherwise you look kinda like a puppy.”
“You look better when you stand up straight,” she says.
“Time!” I say.
“Okay,” she says. “It’s a shame we can’t do that more often.”
“Which part?” I ask smiling. She stands up.
“I should get home. Stupid midnight weekend curfew.”
“Yeah,” I say. I pull out my phone. “I’ll call Tiny and tell him we’re headed out.”
“I’ll just take a cab.”
“I’ll just call—”
But she’s already standing on the edge of the sidewalk, the toes of her Chucks off the curb, her hand raised. A cab pulls over. She hugs me quickly—the hug all fingertips and shoulder blades—and is gone without another word.
I’ve never been alone in the city this late, and it’s deserted. I call Tiny. He doesn’t answer. I get the voice mail. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Tiny Cooper, writer, producer, and star of the new musical Tiny Dancer: The Tiny Cooper Story. I’m sorry, but it appears something more fabulous than your phone call is happening right now. When fabulous levels fall a bit, I’ll get back to you. BEEP.”
“Tiny, the next time that you try to set me up with a girl with a secret boyfriend can you at least inform me that she has a secret boyfriend? Also, if you don’t call me back within five minutes, I’m going to assume you found a way back to Evanston. Furthermore, you are an asshat. That is all.”
There are cabs on Michigan Avenue and a steady flow of traffic, but once I get onto a side street, Huron, it’s quiet. I walk past a church and then up State Street toward Frenchy’s. I can tell from three blocks away that Tiny and Will aren’t there anymore, but I still walk all the way to the storefront. I look up and down the street but see no one, and anyway, Tiny never shuts up, so I would hear him if he were nearby.
I fish through my coat pocket’s detritus for my keys, then pull them out. The keys are wrapped in the note that Jane wrote me, the note from the Locker Houdini.
I’m walking down the street toward the car when I see a black plastic bag on the sidewalk, fluttering in the wind. Mano a Mano. I leave it, thinking I’ve probably just made someone’s tomorrow.
For the first time in a long time, I drive with no music. I’m not happy—not happy about Jane and Mr. Randall Water Polo Doucheface IV, not happy about Tiny abandoning me without so much as a phone call, not happy about my insufficiently fake fake ID—but in the dark on Lake Shore with the car eating up all the sound, there’s something about the numbness in my lips after having kissed her that I want to keep and hold onto, something in it that seems pure, that seems like the singular truth.
I get home four minutes before curfew, and my parents are on the couch, Mom’s feet in Dad’s lap. Dad mutes the TV and says, “How was it?”
“Pretty good,” I say.
“Did they play ‘Annus Miribalis?’” Mom asks, because I liked it so much I played it for her. I figure she’s asking partly to seem hip and partly to make sure I went to the concert. She’ll probably check the set list later. I didn’t go to the concert, of course, but I know they played the song.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. It was good.” I stare at them for a second, and then say, “Okay, I’m gonna go to bed.”
“Why don’t you watch some TV with us?” Dad asks.
“I’m tired,” I say flatly, and turn to go.
But I don’t go to bed. I go to my room and get online and start reading about e. e. cummings.
The next morning I get a ride to school early with Mom. In the hallways, I pass poster after poster for Tiny Dancer.
AUDITIONS TODAY NINTH PERIOD IN THE THEATER. PREPARE TO SING. PREPARE TO DANCE. PREPARE TO BE FABULOUS.
IN CASE YOU FAILED TO SEE THE PREVIOUS POSTER, AUDITIONS ARE TODAY.
SING & DANCE & CELEBRATE TOLERANCE IN THE MOST IMPORTANT MUSICAL OF OUR TIME.
I jog through the halls and then go upstairs to Jane’s locker and carefully slip the note I wrote last night through the vent:
To: The Locker Houdini
From: Will Grayson
Re: An Expert in the Field of Good Boyfriends?
Dear Jane,
Just so you know: e. e. cummings cheated on both of his wives. With prostitutes.
Yours,
Will Grayson
chapter ten
tiny cooper.
tiny cooper.
tiny cooper.
i am saying his name over and over in my head.
tiny cooper.
tiny cooper.
it’s a ridiculous name, and the whole thing is ridiculous, and i couldn’t stop it if i tried.
tiny cooper.
if i say it enough times, maybe it will be okay that isaac doesn’t exist.
it starts that night. in front of frenchy’s. i am still in shock. i can’t tell whether it’s post-traumatic stress or post-stress trauma. whatever it is, a good part of my life has just been erased, and i have no desire to fill in the new blank. leave it empty, i say. just let me die.
tiny, though, won’t let me. he’s playing the i’ve-had-it-worse game, which never works, because either the person says something that’s not worse at all (‘he wasn’t a natural blond’) or they say something that’s so much worse that you feel like all your feelings are being completely negated. (‘well, i once had a guy stand me up for a date . . . and it ended up that he’d been eaten by a lion! his last word was my name!’)
still, he’s trying to help. and i guess i should take some when i need some.
for his part, o.w.g. is also trying to help. there’s a girl hovering in the background, and i have no doubt it’s the (in)famous jane. at first, o.w.g.’s attempt at help is even lamer than tiny’s.
o.w.g.: i know it sucks, but in a way, it’s good.
this is about as inspirational as a movie of hitler making out with his girlfriend and having a good time. it runs afoul of what i call the birdshit rule. you know, how people say it’s good luck if a bird shits on you? and people believe it! i just want to grab them and say, ‘dude, don’t you realize this whole superstition was made up because no one could think of anything else good to say to a person who’d just been shit upon?’ and people do that all the time - and not with something as temporary as birdshit, either. you lost your job? great opportunity! failed at life? there’s only one way to go - up! dumped by a boyfriend who never existed? i know it sucks, but in a way, it’s good!
i’m about to strip o.w.g. of his right to be a will grayson, but then he goes on.
o.w.g.: love and truth being tied together, i mean. they make each other possible, you know?
i don’t know what hits me more - the fact that some stranger would listen to me, or the fact that he is, technically, absolutely correct.
the other will grayson heads off, leaving me with my new refrigerator-size companion, who’s looking at me with such sincerity that i want to slap him.
me: you don’t have to stay. really.
tiny: what, and leave you here to mope?
me: this is so far beyond moping. this is out-and-out despair.
tiny: awwww.
and then he hugs me. imagine being hugged by a sofa. that’s what it feels like.
me (choking): i’m choking.
tiny (patting my hair): there, there.
me: dude, you’re not helping.
i push him away. he looks hurt.
tiny: you just duded me!
me: i’m sorry. it’s just, i -
tiny: i’m only trying to help!
this is why i should carry around extra pills. i think we could both use a double dose right
now.
me (again): i’m sorry.
he looks at me then. and it’s weird, because i mean, he’s really looking at me. it makes me completely uncomfortable.
me: what?
tiny: do you want to hear a song from tiny dancer: the tiny cooper story?
me: excuse me?
tiny: it’s a musical i’m working on. it’s based on my life. i think one of the songs might help right now.
we are on a street corner in front of a porn shop. there are people passing by. chicagoans - you can’t be less musical than chicagoans. i am in a completely demolished state. my mind is having a heart attack. the last thing i need is for the fat lady to sing. but do i protest? do i decide to live the rest of my life within the subway system, feeding off the rats? no. i just nod dumbly, because he wants to sing this song so badly that i’d feel like a jerk to say no.
with a dip of his head, tiny starts to hum a little to himself. once he’s gotten the tune, he closes his eyes, opens his arms, and sings:
i thought you’ d make my dreams come true
but it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you
i thought this time it would all be new
but it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you
i pictured all the things we’ d do
but it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you
and now i feel my heart is through
but it isn’t true, it isn’t true
i may be big-boned and afraid
but my faith in love won’t be mislaid!
though i’ve been completely knocked off course
i’m not getting off my faithful horse!
it wasn’t you, it’s true
but there’s more to life than you
i thought you were a boy with a view,
you stuck-up, selfish, addled shrew
you may have kicked me till i was blue
but from that experience i grew
it’s true, fuck you
there are better guys to woo
it won’t be you, comprende vous?
it will never be you.
tiny doesn’t just sing these words - he belts them. it’s like a parade coming out of his mouth. i have no doubt the words travel over lake michigan to most of canada and on to the north pole. the farmers of saskatchewan are crying. santa is turning to mrs. claus and saying ‘what the fuck is that?’ i am completely mortified, but then tiny opens his eyes and looks at me with such obvious caring that i have no idea what to do. no one’s tried to give me something like this in ages. except for isaac, and he doesn’t exist. whatever you might say about tiny, he definitely exists.
he asks me if i want to walk. once again, i nod dumbly. it’s not like i have anything better to do.
me: who are you?
tiny: tiny cooper!
me: you can’t really be named tiny.
tiny: no. that’s irony.
me: oh.
tiny (tsking): no need to ‘oh’ me. i’m fine with it. i’m big-boned.
me: dude, it isn’t just your bones.
tiny: just means there’s more of me to love!
me: but that requires so much more effort.
tiny: darling, i’m worth it.
the sick thing is, i have to admit there’s something a little bit attractive about him. i don’t get it. it’s like, you know how sometimes you see a really sexy baby? wait, that sounds fucked up. that’s not what i mean. but it’s like, even though he’s as big as a house (and i’m not talking about a poor person’s house, either), he’s got super-smooth skin and really green eyes and everything is in, like, proportion. so i’m not feeling the repulsion i would expect to feel toward someone three times my size. i want to tell him i should be out killing some people now, not taking a stroll with him. but he takes a little of the murder off my mind. it’s not like it won’t be there later.
as we walk over to millennium park, tiny tells me all about tiny dancer and how hard he’s struggled to write, act, direct, produce, choreograph, costume-design, lighting-design, set-design, and attain funding for it. basically, he’s out of his mind, and since i’m trying really hard to get out of my mind, too, i attempt to follow. like with maura (fucking witch ass bitch mussolini al-qaeda darth vader non-entity), i don’t have to say a word myself, which is fine.
when we get to the park, tiny makes a great-big beeline to the bean. somehow i’m not surprised.
the bean is this really stupid sculpture that they did for millennium park - i guess at the millennium - which originally had another name, but everyone started calling it the bean and the name stuck. it’s basically this big reflective metal bean that you can walk under and see yourself all distorted. i mean, i’ve been here before on school trips, but i’ve never been here with someone as huge as tiny before. usually it’s hard at first to locate yourself in the reflection, but this time i know i’m the wavy twig standing next to the big blob of humanity. tiny giggles when he sees himself like that. a genuine, tee-heehee giggle. i hate it when girls do that shit, because it’s always so fake. but with tiny it isn’t fake at all. it’s like he’s being tickled by life.
after tiny has tried ballerina pose, swing-batter-batter pose, pump-up-the-jam pose, and top-of-the-mountain-sound-of-music pose in the reflection of the bean, he walks us to a bench overlooking lake shore drive. i think he’ll be all sweaty because, let’s face it, most fat people get sweaty just from lifting the twinkie to their mouth. but tiny is just too fabulous to sweat.
tiny: so tell tiny your problems.
i can’t answer, because the way he says it, it’s like you could substitute the word ‘mama’ for the word ‘tiny’ and the sentence would still sound the same.
me: can tiny talk normal?
tiny (in his best anderson cooper voice): yes, he can. but it’s not nearly as fun when he does it.
me: you just sound so gay.
tiny: um . . . there’s a reason for that?
me: yeah, but. i dunno. i don’t like gay people.
tiny: but surely you must like yourself?
holy shit, i want to be from this boy’s planet. is he serious? i look at him and see that, yes, he is.
me: why should i like myself? nobody else does.
tiny: i do.
me: you don’t know me at all.
tiny: but i want to.
it’s so stupid, because all of a sudden i’m screaming
me: shut up! just shut up!
and he looks so hurt, so i have to say
me: no, ha, it’s not you. okay? you’re nice. i’m not. i’m not nice, okay? stop it!
because now he doesn’t look hurt; he looks sad. sad for me. he sees me. christ.
me: this is so stupid.
it’s like he knows that if he touches me, i will probably lose it on him and start hitting him and start crying and never want to see him again. so instead he just sits there as i put my head in my hands, as if i’m literally trying to hold my head together. and the thing is, he doesn’t need to touch me, because with someone like tiny cooper, if he’s next to you, you know it. all he has to do is stay, and you know he’s there.
me: shit shit shit shit shit shit shit
here’s the sick, twisted thing: part of me thinks i deserve this. that maybe if i wasn’t such an asshole, isaac would have been real. if i wasn’t such a lame excuse for a person, something right might happen to me. it’s not fair, because i didn’t ask for dad to leave, and i didn’t ask to be depressed, and i didn’t ask for us to have no money, and i didn’t ask to want to fuck boys, and i didn’t ask to be so stupid, and i didn’t ask to have no real friends, and i didn’t ask to have half the shit that comes out of my mouth come out of my mouth. all i wanted was one fucking break, one idiotic good thing, and that was clearly too much to ask for, too much to want.
i don’t understand why this boy who writes musicals about himself is sitting with me. am i that pathetic? does he get a merit badge for picking up the pieces of a wrecked human being?
i let go of m
y head. it’s not helping. when i surface, i look at tiny, and it’s strange all over again. he’s not just watching me - he’s still seeing me. his eyes are practically gleaming.
John Green & David Levithan Page 12
