How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater (25 page)

Yeah, I know that makes me a whore. So what?

“That's it?” Natie says.

“Yup.”

He sighs. “All right, $10,000 minus $916 leaves . . . let's see . . . $9,084 to go.”

“Oh God, I'll never make it.”

“Get your head off the table, people eat there,” he says. “Let's look at number two: scholarships. Any progress there?”

It's not like I haven't tried, but apparently Al isn't the only one who thinks becoming an actor is a waste of money. It seems to me scholarship committees are way too concerned about who's poor rather than who's talented. “I won't be eligible for financial aid for three whole years,” I say. “By then I'll be ancient.”

“You're right,” Natie says, “but don't panic. We have other options. Number three: theft.”

I've never seriously considered the idea, but that was before I got into Juilliard, before John fucking Gielgud decided to teach for one year only, before I discovered that my life-long aversion to work was well-founded.

I tug on my beard like Mr. Lucas does. “What would I have to do?” I ask.

Natie smiles his lippy, no-tooth smile. “I was hoping you'd ask.” He reaches into his briefcase to pull out another document. “I worked on this in typing when I should have been doing ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.' Take a look. It's simple, but inspired.”

I study the page carefully. “Couldn't we go to jail for this?” I ask.

“Actually, just you. I've made sure there's no way to connect me to the crime.”

“That's a relief,” I say.

The doorbell rings and Natie scurries to get it. “Don't worry so much,” he shouts. “With good behavior you'd be out in three years. At least then you'll be eligible for financial aid.”

Yeah, assuming Juilliard accepts convicted felons.

From the hallway I hear a voice gravel, “Hello, darling,” which means either Tallulah Bankhead has risen from the dead or Ziba's here.

I get up to see her and she greets me by thrusting a brownie wrapped in a napkin at me. “Congratulations,” she monotones, “you've received a Brownie Award.”

“A Brownie Award?”

“You've heard of the Emmys and the Tonys. Well these are the Brownies. We're giving them as rewards for meritorious behavior.”

“Who's we?”

“Oh, Kelly,” she says, failing to sound nonchalant, “and Doug.”

I glance over her shoulder and see the Wagon Ho blowing smoke at the curb.

“Read the napkin,” Ziba says.

The napkin reads, “For saying goddamned fucking asswipe shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad and still getting into Juilliard.” Natie earns a Brownie Point, too, for having lowered the movable stage last week while the Wallingford Symphony was performing at the high school. Right in the middle of
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
the entire front section of the orchestra slowly disappeared, like an ocean liner sinking into the sea. Natie's napkin reads, “For the most moving performance by a stagehand.”

“Listen, darlings, I've got to fly,” Ziba says, giving us both the European two-cheek-kiss thing. “We've still got to deliver the Ralph Waldo Emerson ‘society whips me with its displeasure' award for non-conformity.”

“Who to?” I ask.

“That sophomore girl who shaved her head.”

“You don't mean the one who's got leukemia, do you?”

“Oh, is that why?” Ziba says, frowning. “Well,” she says, flipping her scarf over her shoulder, “it's still a marvelous look for her.” Then she pivots like a runway model and strides back to the car. I can't help but notice that the windows are fogged up.

I have no one to blame but myself, but the thought of Kelly and Doug together really pisses me off.

“So waddya say?” Natie asks, licking chocolate off his fingers.

“About what?”

“Reagan's economic policy. My proposal, stupe!”

I lean my head against the front door. “I don't know, Natie, I'm not sure I want to risk going to prison.”

“Just think what it'll do for your acting if you do,” he says. “Besides, do you really want to work at Chicken Lickin' for the next three years of your life?”

I tear off a piece of brownie and chew on the prospect of working in the Mall That Time Forgot while everyone I know goes off to college.

“I'm in,” I say.

W
hile Natie makes the necessary
preparations I convince Ziba to try out for Mixed Choir (or the Mixed-Up Choir, as we like to call it) so she can come with us to Washington, D.C., for the big choral competition in March. I tag along to her audition for moral support.

“What would you like to sing, dear?” asks the perpetually cheerful Miss Tinker, as she pulls out a stack of Broadway vocal selections.

“I'm going to sing
Je ne regrette rien,”
Ziba says, as if she were announcing it in a nightclub.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Tinker says, “I'm afraid I don't have the music for that one.”

“That's all right. I don't need it,” Ziba says and then, leaning against the piano and tilting her head up like she's Marlene Dietrich searching for her key light, she begins to make a sound that can only be described as a braying cow with a head cold.

“N-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-on rien de rien . . .”

Miss Tinker valiantly tries to maintain her Romper Room–lady smile for encouragement, but she obviously doesn't know what to make of this strange girl. I must say, though, that what Ziba lacks in vocal talent she sure makes up for in commitment. It's a very dogmatic interpretation, kind of how you'd imagine Mussolini would sing.

“That was very . . . original,” Miss Tinker says when Ziba finishes, “though I'm not sure you're really old enough to sing about regret, dear.”

“That's what you think,” Ziba mutters.

Miss Tinker tells her that unfortunately there's no room in the soprano or alto sections, but Ziba informs her she'd much rather sing with the boys anyway. Unorthodox as it may be, even Miss Tinker has to admit that we could always use tenors.

Natie keeps a watchful eye
across the street to see when Al and Dagmar go out together. The first step in his supposedly simple plan requires us breaking and entering into my old house to get at Al's financial records. Of course, it's actually unlocking and entering, which, as we've discussed before, isn't a crime, as far as we know.

When Natie finally calls I'm alone at Kathleen's without a car; Kelly's been taking the Wagon Ho even though she hates to drive, just to spite me. I go out to the garage to see if I can find a bicycle.

Now it's a funny thing about people with old money. They seem to take pride in having old stuff, even if that stuff is old crap. So, unlike the garages at my house or Natie's, which are spacious, well-lit, two-car deals, Kathleen's garage is more like an abandoned garden shed where you'd expect to find a key hidden under a flower pot in an Agatha Christie mystery. No one even parks in it. After struggling to open the antique door and then bumping my head on a kayak hanging from the ceiling, I scrounge around in the dark until I find a creaky old bike that looks like it was last used when Miss Gulch tried to bring Toto to the sheriff. It's a humiliating mode of transport, but it's all I've got. I make my way slowly on the icy streets, almost getting run off the road by a couple of assholes in a TransAm who roll down their window to mock me for riding a bike that has a wicker basket with plastic appliqué daisies on it.

I arrive at Natie's both sweaty and freezing. I ring the bell and hear Fran scream, “SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR!”

Natie answers it. He's dressed in black pants, black turtleneck, and a black woolly cap. He looks less like a burglar than a big charcoal briquette. “Jeez, what took you so long?” he says.

“You know, if you actually bothered to get your license you could have picked me up,” I gasp.

Natie shrugs. “Some of us are meant to drive, others are meant to be driven.” He glances at Miss Gulch's bike. “Hide that thing behind the hedge, will ya'? You're lowering the property values.”

Then he turns and shouts, “HEY MA, EDWARD AND I ARE GOING TO BREAK INTO HIS HOUSE NOW.”

“WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?” Fran screams from the other room.

This is why I couldn't have lived here.

“WE'RE GOING TO EMBEZZLE SOME MONEY FROM HIS DAD TO PAY FOR EDWARD'S COLLEGE,” Natie shouts.

From another part of the house I hear Stan Nudelman shout, “WHAT ARE YOU BOYS UP TO?”

“THEY'RE GOING TO BREAK INTO EDWARD'S HOUSE TO EMBEZZLE MONEY FROM AL TO PAY FOR EDWARD'S COLLEGE,” Fran shouts.

Stan laughs. “YOU KIDS,” he says.

As far as Fran and Stan Nudelman are concerned Natie can do no wrong, which is why he possesses so much self-confidence despite the fact that he's a total cheesehead. Over time Natie has discovered that rather than lie to his parents about his various nefarious schemes, he might as well tell the truth because they refuse to believe he's capable of doing such things anyway. Which is how we find ourselves slinking across the street to Al's house with Fran and Stan's blessing.

It's only been a month since I left,
but the house feels foreign and strange to me, as if I've never lived in it at all, which, of course, is exactly what Dagmar wanted. Natie and I creep down the hallway to Al's study, our feet echoing on the carpetless floors. I suppose the creeping isn't really necessary, but it just seems like the thing to do. We skulk into Al's office and Natie holds the flashlight while I open the drawers of the desk, hunting for checkbooks. There are files marked “Insurance,” “Investments,” “Receipts,” and “Taxes,” among others, but the actual bankbooks are nowhere to be found. I start to wish I had paid more attention during those boring-ass business dinners.

“I thought you said you knew where all this stuff was kept,” Natie whispers.

“I thought I did,” I whisper back.

“Well, it's not there now,” he hisses.

“Why are we whispering? Nobody's here.”

“Right,” says Natie. “Okay, let's think. If you were Al, what would you do?”

What would I do if I were Al? Get a better haircut, for starters. C'mon, Edward, think, think. I try to imagine I've been cast in the role of my father and it's my job to figure out his motivation, but I can't even conceive of how my father thinks. If I were Al, I'd want to be, well, more like me: an artist, not a businessman. Now if it were Dagmar's checkbook, that would be a different story . . .

That's when I remember my evil stepmonster's secret bank account. “C'mon,” I say, and lead Natie back down the hall and into Dagmar's studio.

The walls are lined with contact sheets and works in progress—photos of toxic waste sites, canneries, and a Dumpster behind a Dairy Queen—and I find myself thinking how strange it is that such a compulsively neat woman would photograph such filthy places. Mixed in are some exceedingly silly fashion shots of Dagmar from her days as a model.

“What are we doing in here?” Natie asks, peering at a picture of a dead squirrel.

“You remember the account that Doug said Dagmar was using to siphon off Al's money?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if this were your room, and you didn't want Al to find something, where would you hide it?”

Natie doesn't even need to think about it. “The closet inside the closet!” he says.

“That's using your Nudelman.”

Back when Natie and I were kids we sawed a hole inside my closet so we'd have a secret place to hide things like firecrackers and matches. (Natie used to be something of a pyro, although they never proved a thing when that gazebo in the park burned down.) As I got older I used it to stash porn and the occasional bag of weed.

We push a table out of the way and slide open the closet door. There, hidden behind some rolls of background paper, we see the jagged hole we created ten years ago. I reach in, convinced as always that I'm going to get bitten by a rat, but instead feel something shaped exactly like a bankbook. I pull it out and wave it in the air, nearly knocking over a light stand in the process.

“Wunderbar!”
I cry.

Natie grabs the book, flips it open to the ledger, and points his flashlight. “There's $12,320 in this account,” he says. “Jeez, Al really is a shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad.”

John fucking Gielgud, here I come.

I hold the flashlight while Natie carefully removes a check from the back of the book, explaining to me that this way Dagmar won't notice the check is missing until after it's too late. “And it's not like she can go tell Al about it because she stole it from him in the first place. It's the perfect crime.”