How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater (29 page)

“Oh, baby doll, that's for God to decide, not me.”

I guess the mother of a priest is bound to give you an answer like that.

“Are you going to tell on me?”

Aunt Glo straightens my collar. “Who am I going to tell? Your father? That man oughta be ashamed of himself, not supporting a talented boy like you.” She sighs and shakes her head. “With Italians, you're not considered a man until you can beat up your father. It's stupid, but there you have it. I thank the blessed Virgin my Benny is dead, God rest his soul, so my precious Angelo didn't have to go through something like this. He's just like you, my Angelo, sensitive.” She takes my face in her pudgy hands. “But you listen to me. Two wrongs don't make a right—never have, never will. Eventually you're gonna hafta make your peace with God.”

I nod. “But in the meantime, do you think He'd mind if I went to Juilliard?”

Aunt Glo squeezes both my cheeks. “All's I know, baby doll, is that when you're onstage singing, you're a pure expression of God's grace. And I can't believe that God doesn't want that, no matter what.”

I hug her for a really long time and she rubs my back just like my mother used to.

“How am I ever going to make this up to you?” I say.

She takes my hand in hers. “I'll think of somethin',” she says.

A week later
I get a phone call from Paula. “You'll
never
fucking believe it!” she shouts over the street noise. “Just listen to what's on Page Six of the
New York Post.

“Ol' Blue Eyes is at it again. Sources at the Juilliard School of Drama say that the Chairman of the Board himself is the anonymous donor for a full-tuition scholarship. Sinatra didn't have any comments on the report, but the crooner is well known for his generosity. The only question remains, ‘Why the secrecy, Frank?'

“I called the financial aid office and they said it's for a promising young Italian-American actor who, get this, was born in
Hoboken
! Isn't that fucking
amazing
? It's like it was made for you!”

I give a convincing performance of fucking amazement. I am, after all, one of the Best Young Actors in America.

“You've got to call them right now,” she says. “Oh, Edward, didn't I say something like this would happen? I knew it, I just
knew
it. Let me give you the number . . .”

I know the number (by heart, as a matter of fact) but I pretend to write it down, then do a little happy dance around the living room before calling.

“Hi, my name is Edward Zanni,” I say, trying to sound as much like myself as I can. “I'm an incoming freshman in the acting program and I'd like to inquire about the Sinatra scholarship mentioned in today's
Post.”

“The origin of the scholarship is a completely unsubstantiated rumor,” says the voice on the other end of the line, which I recognize as being the gray-haired woman behind the counter. “The
Post
never should have run that item.”

“Oh,” I say, sounding disappointed. “I was just interested because I was born in Hoboken and . . .”

“Could you hold for a moment please?”

I'm on hold for just a couple of seconds when a deep voice comes on, saying, “This is Laurel Watkins. How can I help you?”

O
f course Laurel Watkins
doesn't come right out and say the scholarship is mine (she needs to confirm this, that, and the other thing, blah, blah, blah), but it's obvious Natie's scheme is going to work. I mean, what could go wrong?

Unshackled at last from the tyranny of Al Zanni, I feel ready for some magic and mischief in my life and the Mixed-Up Choir's trip to Washington, D.C., provides the perfect opportunity. When they make the movie of my life, this trip will definitely have to be another of those montage sequences filled with madcap adolescent high jinks; y'know, like blackmailing the son of a U.S. senator.

Maybe I'd better explain that one.

First you'll see us rehearsing the “Hallelujah Chorus” in preparation for the big choir competition held every year in D.C. There's Miss Tinker trying to be all serious classical-music conductor-y, alternately closing her eyes in great reverence, waving her arms with ecclesiastical vigor, and otherwise looking like Sally Field battling multiple personality disorder in
Sybil.

Then there's Kelly with the sopranos, her pink skin shiny, her eyes alive and bright—how she loves to sing—her lips curled to form the perfect pear-shaped tones Miss Tinker desires.

Cut to Doug directly across the room in the baritone section, his dimples deep and long as he smiles his satyr's grin, the veins in his neck pulsing as he belts out his part—how he loves to sing—his eyes riveted on Kelly's perfect pear-shaped mouth.

Cut to the tenors, where Ziba stands a head taller than most of the guys and two heads taller than Natie, her creamy cocoa face tilted slightly upward like a statue of an Egyptian goddess, her expression totally blasé as if she were singing “Hand me my lighter, darling” instead of “For the lord God omnipotent reigneth.”

Close-up on Natie, his doughy face spread in a cheerful grin as he changes the words to “For the lord God
impotent
reigneth.”

Then there I am, thinking there's nothing funny about impotency.

Then you'll see us in the Nudelman's kitchen busily making marijuana brownies, giggling like Keebler elves gone bad, and planning our mission to get stoned at every monument in our nation's capital.

And there we are: eating brownies at the Lincoln Memorial, at the Jefferson Memorial, at the Washington Monument—the music of the “Hallelujah Chorus” growing higher and higher as we do, too.

Then we're at the White House, where square-jawed young-Republican types hand out buttons that say
JUST SAY NO
and Ziba pulls a lipstick out of her purse to change hers to
JUST SAY NO NUKES.
One of the Secret Service guys seems to think it's funny so we give him the Brownie Award for Coolest Federal Employee.

Next you'll see Natie in our hotel bathroom, setting up the bar with the assurance of a professional as he mixes powdered lemonade with grain alcohol because grain alcohol has neither smell nor taste, and as such can't be detected by the chaperones.

Cut to the members of the Mixed-Up Choir lined up for the privilege of shelling out three bucks a pop for this swill. Demand is so great that when we run out of grain alcohol, Natie simply fills up the empty bottles in the tub, then sits back and watches everybody get bombed on tap water and powdered lemonade mix.

Then you'll see us the next day in competition, wearing our blue choir blazers, the boys with our striped ties in the school colors, the girls in blouses with Peter Pan collars, all of us looking alert and awake through sheer adrenaline as we belt out, “And He shall reign forever and eh-heh-ver,” except Natie, of course, who sings, “And pee shall rain . . .” Sure, it's unprofessional to perform while you're high, but once you've learned the tenor part in the “Hallelujah Chorus” you know it for life. It's just that kind of song.

We lose the competition anyway. Stoned or not, we don't stand a chance against a clapping, swaying, call-and-response gospel choir from Newark. We shuffle dejectedly onto the bus, the chaperones applauding us in that rah-rah, way-to-go way grown-ups do when they want to buck up your esteem even when everybody knows for a fact that you sucked. Ziba, who treats all mandatory activities like they're optional, slips away to meet up with an old boyfriend, the aforementioned U.S. senator's son. Kelly and Doug retreat to her room and put up the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign while the rest of us descend on the hotel pool, where Natie and I oversee the altos in a synchronized swimming routine.

When they make the movie of my life, the montage will end with the final notes of the “Hallelujah Chorus”:
Halleeeeee-luuuuu-jaaaah!

Afterward, Natie and I do a little exploring, taking in the view of the city from the hotel roof and swiping a name tag we find in the hotel laundry that says
HI, MY NAME IS JES
ú
S.
When we get back, I'm surprised to find Doug waiting for us.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“Sure.”

He glances at Natie. “Alone.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Natie says. “Ziba said she'd bring Jordan Craig back here to meet me.”

Jordan Craig is the son of Senator Jordan Craig Sr., the dishonorable gentleman from one of the square states, I can't remember which. Senator Craig is well known for his support of Reagan's missile defense policy and for sleeping with women who are not his wife. Since it's Natie's fondest wish to either become a politician or to own one someday, he's very excited at the prospect of meeting Jordan Jr., who is a student at Georgetown.

I offer to show Doug the roof, which you get to by climbing a ladder and opening one of those porthole-type doors. We walk to the edge and look over because that's what people do when they're on the roofs of buildings. In the distance, the Washington Monument juts skyward.

“So what did you want to talk about?” I ask.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Not particularly.”

He frowns. “I'm serious, man. You can't tell anyone.”

“Okay, okay. What is it?”

He hoists himself up on the ledge and dangles his legs over the side. He sighs. “We can't do it,” he says.

“Can't do what? Who are you talking about?”

“Me and Kelly. We can't do it.”

“You mean you haven't . . .”

“We've tried. But I get it in like halfway and she's all, ‘Take it out, take it out, it hurts, it hurts.'” Doug slams his hands on the ledge. “It's not fair, man! Every chick I've been with takes one look at the cockasaurus and they, like, totally freak out.”

Maybe it's me, but I find it impossible to muster any sympathy for someone who complains that their penis is too big.

Doug looks down at his crotch, frowning like he's angry at it. “No one's even been able to suck it without totally gagging,” he whines. “I swear, if I don't at least get a blow job soon, I'm gonna fuckin' explode.”

Cue the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

Of course Doug is reluctant, but eventually I wear down his resistance by telling him he doesn't have to touch me and if he just closes his eyes then, well, a mouth's a mouth, right? I even go so far as to sing a little of Aldonza the whore's song from
Man of La Mancha:

“One pair of arms is like another . . .”

I admit it's a bit much, but I'm determined to work any angle I can. To be honest, the thought of going down on Doug without any reciprocation makes me feel kind of sleazy and desperate, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Besides, what are friends for?

After much discussion of the merits of only a guy knowing what feels good to another guy, I finally find myself on my knees ready to be of service. I reach for the button on Doug's jeans. He stops me.

“Let me do it,” he says.

He unzips his pants and pulls his boxers down to his thighs and there in front of me is Ol' Faithful, ready to blow. I glance upward to make sure Doug has his eyes closed, then move my hands up his firm, taut legs in as gentle and feminine a manner as I can, the hair on his thighs going all static-y as I do. I lean in, open my mouth, and am about to lick the love lollipop for the very first time when I hear a voice behind me.

“Edward?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Doug lunges away from me, yanking his pants back up, while I wheel around to see who has interrupted us and, in all likelihood, ruined my life forever.

From across the roof I can just see his little cheesehead peeking out from the porthole like Kilroy.

“You guys gotta come right away,” Natie says.

We were about to, goddamnit.

A
s we dash down the hallway,
we see Ziba pacing outside our room, wiggling her fingers like she wished she had a cigarette in them.

“He won't leave,” she says.

“Who?” asks Doug.

I open the door and there on the bed, watching some sports thing on TV, is Jordan Craig Jr.

One glance at the bloated, bleary-eyed slab in front of us immediately confirms to me that the senator's son is just another frat boy majoring in beer bongs and gang bangs. Natie must be really disappointed. In a voice that sounds just like belching, Jordan says, “Who the fuck are you?”