Jack & Louisa: Act 1

by Andrew Keenan-Bolger

  I dashed out of the room and headed to my locker. I peeked inside my brown paper lunch bag—edamame, hummus, carrots sticks, and a fruit leather. Guess mom had discovered the Whole Foods. While I appreciated her effort, a peanut-butter sandwich might have been a little less eye-catching.

  Lunch was ordinarily my favorite time of the school day. It was the chance to hang with friends, recap our favorite TV shows, and discuss weekend plans. However, the thought of having to discuss my reason for moving here was enough to wish for five more hours of math. I pushed open the cafeteria doors to the smells of pizza and apple juice. I walked slowly, scanning for a table to sit at. I caught sight of some boys from my class laughing and spooning Jell-O into their mouths. Nope, Tanner was at that table. I walked toward another one, where a group of girls were talking loudly and sipping from juice boxes. Nope, that might send the wrong message. Finally I saw an empty table near the garbage cans, away from the mass of students. Bingo. I reached for a chair when—

  “Jack,” a voice called from behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it belonged to.

  “Hi, Louisa,” I mumbled.

  “Do you want to sit with me and my friends?” she said, pointing over to a table of kids from my class.

  “Um, I was just gonna sit here.”

  “Okay, suit yourself.” She frowned. “Wait,” she piped up. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I said, taking a seat.

  “So, what was with that introduction in homeroom? You should have told them the real reason you were in New York.”

  “Oh, that thing I told you last week about being on Broadway?” I grunted. “Yeah, let’s forget you ever heard me say that.”

  She scrunched her eyebrows.

  “Look, being the new kid is hard enough when you’re normal,” I continued. “For now, I just need to try to blend in.”

  “Are you kidding?” she said, dropping her lunch bag on the table. “You actually have something going for you. Do you know how boring our lives seem compared to yours? I bet everyone would be psyched if they knew the truth.”

  “Oh sure!” I snapped. “Because you gave me the warmest of welcomes.”

  Louisa bit her lower lip. “Look,” she said. “I’m sorry for the way I acted last week. I guess I was just in shock or jealous or something. I mean, you have to admit your story was a little crazy, and I’m used to being the only one around here who really cares about theater. Like, other kids do the school plays and stuff, but they wouldn’t know a Tony Award from Tony Hawk. So suddenly I’m standing on the sidewalk, and you’re busting out Tony-winning choreography, and I’m just supposed to be all, ‘Oh cool. Well, I’m Lou!’”

  “Actually, Poppins was only nominated that year. Spring Awakening won for choreography.” I couldn’t help correcting her.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, seeming pretty sure of herself.

  “Yeah. Poppins won for best choreography when it was still in London, but Bill T. Jones won it over here for that angsty, modern stuff in Spring Awakening.”

  “Exactly!” she shrieked. “Which proves my point. You’re an MTN! I’m an MTN. Let’s just put last week behind us and be friends.”

  “MTN?” I squinted. “Excuse me?”

  “Musical Theater Nerd. My friends at Camp Curtain Up came up with it.” She smirked.

  “Listen,” I whispered. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m not a Musical Theater anything. You saw how Tanner and those boys acted when they found out I was from New York. What do you think they’d do if they found out I took ballet every week?”

  “My friend Jenny takes ballet!” Louisa chimed in.

  “Good for her,” I replied. “I don’t do that anymore. For now I just need to keep quiet, go to class, remember where my locker is, and try not to get stuffed in one, okay?”

  She uncrossed her arms. “Okay. Look, if you want me to keep your secret, that’s cool, I will. But that doesn’t mean you have to act like I don’t exist.”

  I slumped deeper into my chair.

  “You know, for someone who had the greatest job in the world—entertaining people and making them feel happy—you’re kind of a downer,” she bristled. “No offense.”

  I knew she was right. I’d spent the past two months sulking around like some kind of Eeyore. It wasn’t her fault I got fired and my parents moved me away from New York.

  “Sorry,” I said finally. “It’s not that I don’t want to be your friend. It’s just you keep talking about how great musicals are, and . . . I guess what I mean to say is”—I felt my throat tightening—“they’re not always that fun and magical.”

  She looked at me, confused. Her eyes searched my face, as if hoping an appropriate response was printed somewhere on my forehead.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, picking her lunch off the table. “When you get sick of trying to be like every other lame boy in this school, you know where I live.” She turned to go. “And I may have that Sondheim documentary saved on my DVR, just sayin’—”

  “JELLLLL-OOOOO BOMB!” a voice cried out.

  I turned my head to the sound of wicked laughter erupting from a nearby table. There was Tanner, armed with a bent plastic spoon, and his troop of bros slapping each other’s backs. I trailed their jeers to a smallish-looking boy, sitting by himself and glumly wiping red Jell-O off the front of his shirt.

  “Thanks for the invite,” I mumbled sarcastically to Louisa. “See ya later.” I stood up and walked toward the garbage cans, passing Tanner reloading his spoon slingshot, the boy with the Jell-O stain, and a stocky man in a blue tracksuit wheeling a television to the front of the room. I walked to the wall where a dozen sheets of paper, bearing pencil-scrawled names I had never seen, had been taped up. I scanned the lists of activities until I found the one I was looking for. I could feel a set of eyes watching me as I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pencil. I glanced back for a second at Louisa then turned and neatly printed my name, “Jack Goodrich.” Soccer tryouts would be next Friday at four o’clock.

  –LOUISA–

  Thump. Thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump-thump. Another thing about the universe: It has a wicked sense of humor. Here it was, my first Saturday morning since school started, and not only was I up at 8:30 a.m.—8:30 a.m.!—but the reason I was up was Jack Goodrich. Jack was kicking a soccer ball against his garage door, over and over and over again. It didn’t matter that he lived two houses down from us. The unfortunate position of my bedroom window made it seem as though he was kicking the ball inside my room. Tha-thump. I lay in bed waiting for one of his parents—heck, anyone—to tell him to stop—that maybe he should pursue a quieter hobby, like chess, or scuba diving. That he was disturbing the neighbors—one neighbor in particular. But I was not to be satisfied; no one said a word. Apparently I was the only one in our subdivision who liked to sleep in on weekends.

  Truthfully, I was less troubled about not getting my ten hours of uninterrupted slumber than I was about Jack’s behavior during the past week. While I no longer felt as if I needed to avoid him (thankfully, since we had the same class schedule), I also felt like I couldn’t really talk to him (since he had chosen to deny everything about himself). Our cafeteria conversation on the first day of school was the last exchange we’d had, punctuated in not-so-subtle fashion by his signing up for soccer-team tryouts.

  After that, I’d spent the rest of the week watching him impressively dodge questions from our other classmates. Tanner asked him what kind of music he listened to, and he said Green Day and Duncan Sheik. I knew that was code for American Idiot (a musical adapted from Green Day’s concept album) and Spring Awakening (score by Duncan Sheik), but obviously Tanner wasn’t going to make that connection. All he’d said was “Green Day? That’s so old school.” Jack had replied, “I guess,” then sighed with what I perceived to be relief as Tanner turned his attention to h
assling Isabelle Montstream for Sour Patch Kids.

  Of course I couldn’t observe Jack without Jenny noticing.

  She had happily mistaken my Jack-fixation for love, and proceeded to have a little too much fun teasing me about my “new crush.”

  “‘I mean, he is cute, but that is completely different from me thinking he’s cute,’” she’d whispered to me during science class on Wednesday, quoting what I’d said weeks earlier in the privacy of her bedroom.

  “Shhh!” I’d hissed.

  “She’s a small-town girl; he’s from the big city,” she cooed breathlessly. “Will they overcome their differences and find true love in each other’s arms?”

  Jenny liked to turn unremarkable moments into commercials for made-for-TV movies. Most of the time, they made me laugh. When they were about my love life, they made me squirm.

  “Gross! Stop it!”

  Admittedly, I had been staring at Jack a little too long, but it had nothing to do with love. I knew there was more to his story than he was letting on, thanks to a productive Google search I’d made the night before: “Jack Goodrich Broadway.” While the links I’d clicked on didn’t fill in all the details, I’d unearthed enough information about him to suspect that being the new kid wasn’t the only thing making his transition into Shaker Heights difficult. But because he had practically begged me not to talk about his life in New York, I didn’t know how to approach him.

  Whatever. Jack’s unrelenting soccer practice at eight thirty on a Saturday morning made me feel a lot less curious, and certainly less sympathetic toward him. That stupid soccer ball! And its repetitive thump-thump-tha-thump against his garage door! I rolled over in bed and reached for my iPod then scrolled until I found “Forget About the Boy” from Thoroughly Modern Millie and channeled my frustration through the lyrics:

  “Pull the plug,

  Ain’t he the one

  Who pulled the rug?”

  I must have been singing along louder than I thought because all of a sudden I heard my mom calling from downstairs.

  “Lou? Are you up?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Wow. It’s early for you,” she called, stating the obvious.

  “I know.”

  “Well, come down to the kitchen when you’re up up. There’s something I think you should see.”

  • • •

  Dad was sitting at the kitchen counter holding the Arts section of Sun Press as I shuffled in, a small smile curling the edges of his mouth. Mom had a similar look as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “What should I see?” I asked.

  Dad handed me the Arts section, folded back on itself to reveal a story about the expansion of a local pottery studio, movie times, an advertisement for ballroom dancing classes . . . and an announcement for the Shaker Heights Community Players production of Into the Woods. I looked at my parents.

  “I thought . . . I thought they were doing Chess,” I stammered.

  “Looks like there’s been a change of plans,” Mom said, sipping her coffee. I looked back at the newspaper ad in disbelief. Auditions were going to be held on September fifteenth. Six days from now. Rehearsals would start September twentieth. Opening night: November first. I think I stopped breathing for a few seconds.

  “You okay, Lou?” my dad asked.

  I took a gulp of air.

  “Do you think I have a chance?” I whispered.

  “Why not?” Mom said, reaching into the pantry for a box of pancake mix. “I’m sure you know that part better than anyone in town.”

  “But Little Red is usually played by a grown-up,” I said, suddenly doubtful.

  “So go prove to them that she can be played by a real kid,” urged Dad. “Leave Cinderella and Rapunzel and the rest of the parts to the adults.”

  “Doug, I’m so proud of you!” Mom gushed. “You’ve been paying attention!”

  “Well, Hannah, when one is forced to listen to Into the Woods as much as I am, one can’t help but retain—”

  “Still, honey, I’m impressed . . .”

  “Glad I can still impress you after all these years . . .”

  Their words overlapped and fell away as I pictured myself in a cape and holding a basket, skipping across a stage and delivering lines with a perfect blend of pluckiness and sarcasm.

  I felt tingly. Here was a chance—a real chance at living a dream. A calendar of the week leading up to Friday’s audition began to map itself out in my mind. Today would be all about familiarizing myself with Little Red’s songs (like I didn’t know them by heart, but still—I wasn’t going to take anything for granted). Tomorrow I would try to squeeze in an appointment with my voice teacher, Maureen, who would help me identify the right places in the music to breathe, as well as the best way to support my sound while also making sure my diction was sharp.

  According to the newspaper ad, the audition sides were already posted on the Players’ website, so on Monday I would start working on Little Red’s scenes with Jenny, who always liked to help me prepare. She had terrible stage fright when it came to speaking in front of people, but alone with me, she was a real ham. I could already hear her reading the part of the Wolf. Tuesday through Thursday would be a repeat of Saturday through Monday. I was an unstoppable force; the role would be mine. Total Into the Woods immersion would begin in three . . . two . . .

  THA-THUMP! I was snapped out of my concentration. Had that stupid soccer ball gotten heavier?

  And suddenly, just as clearly as I’d pictured myself wearing a red cape, I now pictured Jack—my Broadway-star-in-hiding-neighbor Jack—holding magic beans, growing a beanstalk, and singing about giants in the sky. Ugh. He would be perfect as Jack, their shared name a mere coincidence. But destiny was being challenged by a soccer ball. And I was instantly annoyed.

  “Why the frown?” Mom asked, once again reminding me that I had the worst poker face.

  Why the frown? Tha-THUMP. That’s why.

  “Uh . . . Nothing. This is great. I’m going to practice all weekend.” I grabbed the Arts section, turned from the kitchen counter, and started marching down the hallway toward the front door, a conversation forming in my head.

  “Should I just put the Into the Woods soundtrack on a loop?” Dad joked.

  “It’s a cast recording, and yes,” I said, sliding on my flip-flops and opening the door.

  “Where are you going? I’m making magic get-the-part pancakes!” Mom called after me.

  “I’ll be back in a couple minutes. I just have to talk to Jack.”

  “Who’s Jack?”

  “Our neighbor!” I called over my shoulder. As I stepped off our front stoop, I heard Mom say to Dad, slightly bewildered, “I didn’t realize she’d met him.” It was probably time to fill them in. Right now, however, I had something that demanded immediate attention.

  • • •

  Jack’s hair was plastered to his forehead; he was a sweaty mess. From his driveway, he saw me approaching, and rather than pick up the soccer ball and say hello, he kicked it into the garage door extra hard, as if to make a point. Tha-thump.

  I waved the newspaper in the air.

  “Did you see this?” I called to him, my flip-flops sliding on the wet grass. This neighborhood was fanatical about their sprinklers.

  Jack squinted at me. “What is it?”

  His delivery of the question was so casual that I was instantly suspicious.

  “Are you pretending not to know, or do you really not know?” What had gotten into me? I was feeling so feisty.

  As I stepped onto his driveway, Jack finally stopped the soccer ball with his foot and sighed, exasperated. “Into the Woods?”

  “Ha-ha!” I exclaimed. “I knew you’d seen it.”

  “So what? It’s not like I’m going to audition for it.”

  Jack rolled the soc
cer ball over the top of his foot and flicked it toward his chest, bumping it back into his hands. Unimpressed, I continued my campaign.

  “C’mon, why not? You don’t want to play Jack? It’s an amazing role!”

  Jack’s nostrils flared, defiant.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You know you’d get the part. Once they see Broadway on your résumé, you probably won’t even have to audition.” (That last part wasn’t true, but I was certain he’d get cast—Amy Judd had grown out her hair and gained about fifteen pounds since playing Winthrop last year.)

  “I don’t care,” Jack said.

  “Tell me you don’t want to sing ‘Giants in the Sky.’”

  At the mention of the song, I thought I saw a hint of interest flicker across Jack’s face, but then he scrunched up his mouth and inhaled sharply through his nose.

  “I don’t want to sing ‘Giants in the Sky.’”

  “It’s a really great song.”

  Jack dropped the soccer ball, stopped it with his foot, and looked me squarely in the eye.

  “Louisa, nothing you say is going to change my mind. I have no interest in auditioning for Into the Woods.”

  I stared back at him, equally stubborn.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. I had never been so courageous in a conversation.

  “What do you mean, you don’t believe me?” Jack said, smirking. “You hardly know me.”

  Without thinking, I blurted out, “I know you were supposed to play the lead in The Big Apple. You should be rehearsing for it in New York right now.”

  Tha-thump. You would have thought I’d kicked the soccer ball directly into Jack’s chest. His face went pale. I sensed immediately that I had said a terrible thing.

  “Sorry,” I murmured. I had not meant to be hurtful. Unsure of what to say next, I looked down at the driveway, as if I might find the right words written across its surface. All I saw was an expanse of licorice-black asphalt glaring angrily in the hot sun.