Also, the air smells like fast food and feet. Cinderblock bricks give the space an overall vibe of a low-security, highly theatrical prison. Also, why is everything painted black, when this is a “green room”? I don’t know any of the rules.
“You want another soda?” Kieth asks. I’m slurping mine down double time, in lieu of that small talk thing I hate.
“I don’t know what a soda is,” I say, “but another pop, sure.” I’m obsessed with regional dialect differences. Kieth is from Delaware. He calls gum bands “rubber bands.” He calls pop “soda.”
And he calls me Matt—not Matty, like he always does—when he tells me I’m “doing great, Matt,” as if I’ve never been to a party. But the longer I stand here—the only introvert, bopping terribly to this music (I cannot dance; people always think I’m kidding when they see me try)—the more I realize he’s not going to introduce me to anyone. And it bugs me.
All summer long, we’ve kept our relationship secret—a Romeo and Romeo situation, so we wouldn’t get in trouble with our bosses. At first it seems clandestine, sexy even, the way we’d meet in the last bathroom stall, beneath the Monster Maze, to fumble around. To laugh when we couldn’t undo our button fly jean shorts fast enough. But now—the way I’m hanging out here like a ghost who nobody’s noticing … the way it’s hitting me that Kieth and I barely got together, ever, outside of work—I am struck by the fact that Romeo and Juliet ends pretty tragically.
(It was on my summer reading list last year.)
“Yo, everyone!” shouts a girl in hoop earrings and fake eyelashes. She motions to cut the playlist, and then she holds her fist against her lips and attempts a weak doot-do-do-doooo trumpet call.
Kieth shushes his cast.
“It’s time for the summer-end awards!” the girl announces, producing a thick stack of colorful papers from behind her back.
There are cheers.
Oh, gosh. I hunt for more ice to add to my drink, to give myself something to do.
“So, we all voted,” she continues from on top of this ratty brown sofa. “And the very first award, and some would argue most important—for Most Likely to Get to Broadway First, obvi—goes to…”
“Wait!” hollers the one straight guy (according to Kieth). “Let’s do a drumroll!” And so they do, this entire team of performers smacking their thighs in unison, a thundering sound that makes a lightbulb flicker.
I stand, dumbstruck, trying to think of this as free social research. As if I’ve discovered an Inca tribe whose chief form of communication is being louder than necessary.
“In a unanimous vote, Most Likely to Get to Broadway First goes to … Erica!”
Erica, I guess, launches into what can only be described as a dance routine, twirling across the scuffed-up floor, nearly knocking over a strange, out-of-place vacuum cleaner, and grasping her printed out MOST LIKELY sign as if it’s a scholarship to Juilliard.
I and I alone clap, not realizing that a speech from Erica is implied, and thus I should shut up and trust my introvert instincts to never get involved, ever.
“When I first arrived at the park this summer…” Erica begins—and, within moments, she is crying. In fact, everyone sort of is, except for me and Kieth. Instead, he puts his hand on my nonexistent butt and leans over. “You’re being a good sport,” he says, and I reply, “I am.” And when he squeezes my nonexistent butt cheek, presto: If I had to choose a superpower right now it would be to stop time forever.
Screw invisibility.
Erica yammers on for approximately a thousand years (at one point, without irony, she thanks both “God and freedom”), and then we’re on to goofier awards, the lunch hour disappearing in front of me, my stomach rumbling at the smell and sight of a stack of forbidden pizzas that nobody seems to be touching.
And I bet none of them are even lactose intolerant.
Somehow a walkie-talkie-wielding girl in a ripped black T-shirt appears among us. She’s the only person wearing less makeup than either me or Kieth. “Ten minutes till the next show, gang,” she announces, “so let’s wrap this sobfest up.”
On cue, Kieth presents her with the Best Snarky Stage Manager award, pulled from his book bag. I guess he’s part of the … awards committee? It’s like, how much about Kieth do I still not know?
When this walkie-talkie chick is asked to give remarks, she says, “They don’t pay me enough to babysit you all, but I love yinz, and you better keep in touch with me or I’ll kill you.” She gets a little weepy herself, and then the metal stage door slams shut behind her, and we’re already down to the last two awards as the spotty air conditioner putters itself back on with a clank.
And really, should I be surprised? Kieth is voted Flirtiest Guy. When it’s his turn to give a speech, he says, “Okay, okay, sue me. I like to make eyes,” and he unzips his book bag and fishes for something inside. “But only one guy this summer stole my heart…”
He looks right at me. I debate if this is the moment to step forward and make myself known or to step backward and give Kieth the spotlight. And so I do nothing at all.
Have I mentioned I dropped out of the debate club at school because I’m such a slow debater?
“But, uh, names,” Kieth says, stammering and dropping his bookbag to the floor, “will be withheld to protect the guilty.”
Everyone kind of awws, but then we’re right on to The Flirtiest Girl award—another category that Erica sweeps.
I’d look outside to scan for those storm clouds, but the green room doesn’t have windows.
The thing is, Kieth knows I hate being the center of attention—but he could have said my name, you know? I am aware that my feelings are contradictory, but sue me. Historically, I am always the final person named for stuff. I mean, my last name starts with a friggin’ V. I am neither short nor tall. I am remarkably unremarkable at sports, at the arts, at academics. I am a Matt-of-all-trades, a walking 3.2 GPA. But today, during this stupid backstage celebration, I had one last chance at being declared. This summer, anyway.
“Nice award,” I manage to say, when Kieth bounds over and helps himself to my last sip of pop.
“Stupid award,” he says, and he goes to kiss my cheek just as I sneeze.
After I’ve recovered (because it became a series of four sneezes; aren’t I irresistible?), Kieth cups my hip and pulls me in and goes, “Did you forget to take your allergy meds again, young man?” Like he’s my mom or something.
Except, I did forget them. And I love that he’s worried about me. It is so nice to be worried about. It is maybe the best thing about being in a relationship: that you can share the heavy load of being alive.
“My allergy meds make me jittery,” I say, looking away and concentrating all my energy into not sneezing on him. “I’ll survive.”
A bell rings and the overhead lights flash on-off, on-off, on. The air buzzes for a second—that fluorescent lamp sound—and it’s time for the cast to get back into their wigs and prep for their next show. Party’s over.
Pizza’s untouched.
I grab a handful of Pringles and refill my pop, but they’re out of ice. I’m hunting for the metaphor when Kieth says, “You know I flirt with everyone, right?” He’s leading me to the stage door now, and I guess he can tell it isn’t just my allergies that are acting up. “Boys, girls. It’s not personal.”