I choke out an apology, and my face is burning. Martin’s still standing there. I seriously can’t get away fast enough. I walk up the steps to the stage.
Ms. Albright is sitting next to Taylor on one of the platforms, pointing at something in Taylor’s script. Downstage, the girl who plays Nancy is giving a piggyback ride to the guy who plays Bill Sikes. And offstage left, this sophomore girl named Laura sits on top of a stack of chairs, crying into her sleeve, and I guess Mila Odom is comforting her.
“You don’t even know that,” Mila says. “Seriously, look at me. Look at me.”
Laura looks up at her.
“It’s the freaking Tumblr, okay. Half that shit is made up.”
Laura’s voice is broken and sniffly. “But there’s . . . a little . . . bit of . . . truth . . . to . . . every—”
“That’s seriously bullshit,” says Mila. “You need to just talk to him.” And then she sees me standing there listening and shoots me the stink-eye.
So here’s the thing: Simon means “the one who hears” and Spier means “the one who watches.” Which means I was basically destined to be nosy.
Cal and two of the senior girls are sitting outside the dressing room with their backs to the wall and their legs stretched out in front of them. He looks up at me and smiles. He has a really nice, easy smile. You can tell it’s the kind that looks cute in pictures. I still feel a little unpleasant about the whole Abby and Martin conversation, but I think I may be on my way to feeling better.
“Hey,” I say. The girls sort of smile at me. Sasha and Brianna are both Fagin’s boys like me. It’s funny. I’m literally the only one of Fagin’s boys played by an actual guy. I guess it’s because girls are smaller or look younger or something. I don’t even know. But it’s slightly awesome, because it means I’m the tallest person onstage during those scenes. Which doesn’t happen all that often, to be honest.
“What’s up, Simon?” Cal says.
“Oh, well. Nothing. Hey, are we supposed to be doing anything right now?” And as soon as I ask it, I start blushing, because the way I phrased it totally makes it sound like I’m propositioning him. Hey, Cal. Are we supposed to be making out right now? Are we supposed to be having mind-blowing sex in the dressing room right now?
But maybe I’m just paranoid, because Cal doesn’t seem to read anything into it. “Nah, I think Ms. Albright is just finishing some stuff up, and then she’ll tell us what to do.”
“Works for me,” I say. And then I notice their legs. Sasha’s leg overlaps with Cal’s just the tiniest bit, almost at the ankle. So, who the hell knows what that means.
I think I’m ready for this shitty day to be over.
Of course, it’s pouring down rain when Ms. Albright lets us out, and I soak a big butt-shaped wet spot into the upholstery of my car. I can barely dry off my glasses because my clothes are so wet. And I don’t remember to put my headlights on until I’m already halfway home, which means I’m honestly lucky I didn’t get arrested by now.
As I make the right into my neighborhood, I see Leah’s car stopped at the light, waiting to make a left. So, I guess she’s leaving Nick’s house. I wave to her, but it’s raining so hard that it’s pointless. The wipers arc back and forth, and there’s this kind of tightness in my chest. It shouldn’t bother me when Nick and Leah hang out without me. It just feels like I’m on the outside somehow.
Not all the time. Just sometimes.
But yeah. I feel irrelevant. I hate that.
12
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Dec 2 at 5:02 PM
SUBJECT: I should be . . .
. . . writing an essay for English class. I’d rather write to you. I’m in my room, and I have a window right next to my desk. It’s so sunny out, and it looks like it should be really warm outside. I feel like I’m dreaming.
So, Jacques, I have to confess that I’ve been curious about your email address for a long time. I finally broke down and consulted the Mighty Googler, and now I see that it’s a lyric from an Elliott Smith song. I’ve actually heard of him, but I had never heard his music, so I downloaded “Waltz #2.” I hope that doesn’t freak you out. I really like it. It surprised me, because it’s a really sad song, and that’s not what I would expect coming from you. But I’ve listened to it a few times now, and the funny thing is, it really does remind me of you somehow. It’s not the lyrics or even the overall mood of the song. It’s something intangible. I think I can imagine you lying on a carpet somewhere listening to it, eating Oreos, and maybe writing in a journal.
I also have to confess that I’ve been looking extra carefully at people’s T-shirts at school to see if someone might be wearing an Elliott Smith shirt. I know it’s a long shot. I also know it’s really unfair, because I shouldn’t be trying to figure out your identity when I don’t give you any good clues about my own.
Here’s something. My dad’s driving in from Savannah this weekend, and we’re doing the traditional Hotel Hanukkah. It will be just him and me, and I’m sure we’ll hit all the awkward highlights. We’ll do the non-lighting of the menorah (because we won’t want to set off the smoke detectors). And then I’ll give him something underwhelming like Aurora coffee and a bunch of my English essays (he’s an English teacher, so he likes getting those). And then he’ll have me open eight presents in a row, which just drives home the fact that I won’t see him again until New Year’s.
And the thing is, I’m actually considering doubling down on the awkward factor and turning this mess into a coming out thing. Maybe I should capitalize that: Coming Out Thing. Am I crazy?
—Blue
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Dec 2 at 9:13 PM
SUBJECT: Re: I should be . . .
Blue,
Okay, first things first—how did I not know you were Jewish? I guess this is you giving me a clue, right? Should I be looking in the halls for guys in yarmulkes? Yes, I looked up how to spell that. And your people are very creative, phonetically speaking. Anyway, I hope the HH goes well, and by the way, Aurora coffee is totally not underwhelming. In fact, I’ll probably steal your idea, because dads freaking love coffee. And my dad will especially go for it, because of the Little Five Points factor. My dad has this hilarious idea that he’s a hipster.
So, most importantly, Blue: the Coming Out Thing. Wow. I mean, you’re not crazy. I think you’re awesome. Are you worried about how he’ll react? And are you going to tell your mom, too?
Okay, I am also very impressed that you Googled your way to Elliott Smith, who was quite possibly the greatest songwriter since Lennon and McCartney. And then everything you said about the song reminding you of me is just so flattering and amazing that I don’t even know what to say. I’m speechless, Blue.
I’ll say this: you are dead right about the Oreos and the carpet, but wrong about the journal. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a journal is probably you.
Now you should go download “Oh Well, Okay” and “Between the Bars.” I’m just saying.
So, I hate to say it, but it’s probably a waste of your time to try to figure out who I am by looking at the bands on people’s T-shirts. I almost never wear band T-shirts, even though I kind of wish I did. I think, for me, listening to music is a very solitary thing. Or maybe that’s just something people say when they’re too lame to go to live shows. Either way, I am basically glued to my iPod, but I haven’t really seen anyone live, and then I end up feeling like wearing a band’s shirt without going to their show would be kind of like cheating. Does that make sense? For some reason, the whole thought of ordering some band’s shirt online makes me feel weirdly embarrassed. Like maybe the musician wouldn’t respect it. I don’t know.