My phone buzzes. Text from Monkey’s Asshole: hey maybe another Waffle House thing soon?
I ignore it.
I hate feeling so distant from Nick and Leah. It’s not like keeping a normal crush a secret, because we never talk about our crushes anyway, and it works out fine. Even Leah’s crush on Nick. I see it, and I’m sure Nick sees it, but there’s this unspoken agreement that we never talk about it.
I don’t know why the gay thing isn’t like that. I don’t know why keeping it from them makes me feel like I’m living a secret life.
My phone starts vibrating, and it’s my dad calling. Which probably means dinner is on the table.
I hate that I feel so relieved.
I really am going to tell Nick and Leah eventually.
I spend the first Saturday of Christmas break at school. Everyone sits in a circle on the stage in pajamas, eating donut holes and drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Except I’m next to Abby at the edge of the stage. My feet dangle over the orchestra pit, and her legs are in my lap.
My fingers are sticky with powdered sugar. I feel so far away. I stare at the bricks. Some of the bricks on the back wall of the auditorium are a darker shade, almost brown, and they form this double helix design. It’s just so random. But so weirdly deliberate.
Double helixes are interesting. Deoxyribonucleic acid. I’ll think about that.
Trying not to think about something is like playing freaking Whac-a-Mole. Every time you push one thought down, another one nudges its way to the surface.
I guess there are two moles. One is the fact that I’ve hung out with Nick and Leah after rehearsal three days this week, which means three chances to tell them about the gay thing, and three times wussing out. And then there’s Blue, with his perfect grammar, who has no freaking clue how many times I proofread every email I send to him. Blue, who is so guarded and yet so surprisingly flirtatious sometimes. Who thinks about sex, and thinks about it with me.
But, you know: double helixes. Twisty, loopy, double helixes.
Martin walks in through the doors in the back of the auditorium. He’s wearing a long, old-fashioned nightgown and curlers.
“Oh. Wow. He really—okay.” Abby nods, grinning up at Martin, who does a pirouette and immediately gets tangled in his nightgown. But he catches himself on the armrest of a chair, and gives this triumphant smile. That’s Martin. Everything’s part of the show with him.
Ms. Albright joins the circle onstage and calls us to order. Abby and I scoot in closer to the group. I end up next to Martin, and flash him a smile. He punches my arm lightly but keeps his eyes locked forward, like a T-ball dad. A T-ball dad who dresses like my grandma.
“So, here’s the plan, pajama gang,” says Ms. Albright. “We’re going to fine-tune the musical numbers this morning. Big ensemble numbers first, and then we’ll split into smaller groups. We break for pizza at noon, and after that, we run through the whole caboodle.”
Over her shoulder, I see Cal sitting on a platform, writing something in the margin of his script.
“Any questions?” she asks.
“For those of us who are already off book, should we still carry our scripts to take notes?” asks Taylor. Just making sure we know she’s memorized her lines.
“This morning, yes. This afternoon, no. We’ll go through the notes after we’re done. I’d like to run both acts once without stopping. Obviously, it will be messy, and that’s okay.” She yawns. “All right, so. Let’s take five, and then we’ll jump into ‘Food, Glorious Food.’”
I pull myself up, and before I can talk myself out of it, I walk over and sit beside Cal on his platform. I nudge him in the knee.
“Nice polka dots,” I say.
He smiles. “Nice Labradors.”
I mean, he’s cute, so I’ll let it slide, but the dogs on my pants are clearly golden retrievers.
I sneak a look at his script. “What are you drawing?”
“Oh, this? I don’t know,” he says. He pushes his bangs back and blushes, and good God, he’s adorable.
“I didn’t know you could draw.”
“Sort of.” He shrugs and tilts the binder toward me.
He has this style of drawing that’s all movement and sharp angles and bold pencil lines. It’s not bad. Leah’s drawings are better. But it hardly matters at all, because the important thing is that Cal’s drawing is of a superhero.
I mean, a superhero. My heart almost squeezes to a stop. Blue loves superheroes.
Blue.
I slide an inch closer, so our legs are touching, just barely.
I’m not sure if he notices.
I don’t know why I’m so brave today.
I’m 99.9 percent sure that Cal is Blue. But there’s that fraction of a percent chance that he’s not. For some reason, I can’t seem to come out and ask him.
So, instead, I ask, “How’s the coffee?”
“Pretty good, Simon. Pretty good.”
I look up and realize that Abby is watching me with great interest. I flash her the stink-eye, and she looks away, but she has this tiny knowing smile that just kills me.
Ms. Albright sends a bunch of us to the music room and puts Cal in charge. All things considered, it’s a perfect situation.
To get there, we have to walk all the way past the math and science classrooms and down the back stairway. Everything is dark and spooky and awesome on a Saturday. The school is totally empty. The music room is tucked into its own alcove at the end of the hall downstairs. I used to do choir, so I’ve spent some time here. It hasn’t changed. I get the impression that it hasn’t changed in about twenty years.
There are three rows of chairs on built-in platforms that edge around the sides of the classroom in a split hexagon shape. In the center of the room is a big wooden upright piano. There’s a laminated sign taped to the front reminding us to have outstanding posture. Cal sits on the edge of the piano bench, stretching his arm back behind his head.
“So. Um, maybe we could start with ‘Consider Yourself’ or ‘Pick a Pocket or Two,’” he says, shuffling his foot against the leg of the piano bench. He looks so lost. Martin attempts to transfer one of his curlers onto Abby’s ponytail, and Abby stabs him in the gut with a wooden drumstick, and a couple of people have taken out the guitars and started plucking out random pop songs.
No one is really listening to Cal except me. Well, and Taylor.
“Do you want us to clear away these music stands?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. That would be awesome,” he says. “Thanks, y’all.”
There’s a piece of paper on one of the stands that catches my eye—neon orange, with the words “SET LIST” written in black Sharpie. Underneath that is a list of songs—classic, awesome songs, like “Somebody to Love” and “Billie Jean.”
“What’s that?” asks Taylor. I shrug, handing it to her.
“I don’t think this is supposed to be here,” she says, throwing it away. Of course she doesn’t. Taylor is the enemy of everything awesome.
Cal has Ms. Albright’s laptop, which has piano recordings of the accompaniment to all the songs. Everyone’s a pretty good sport about running through everything once, and it’s not a total disaster. As much as I hate to admit it, Taylor probably has the best voice out of anyone in the school other than Nick, and Abby is such a good dancer that she can seriously carry the whole ensemble. And anything Martin touches is strange and absurd and hilarious. Especially when he’s wearing a nightie.