My Life: The Musical (16 page)

Mark got very sober-looking all at once. “Blackmail is not going to work, so don’t even go there, bro.”

“Why not?”

“Because you do not have the guts to turn me in. Because it would break your mother’s heart. Because she is a lawyer and it could jeopardize her job to have me dragged through the courts.” He crumpled the Doritos bag for emphasis. “Because she has enough to deal with, coping with—well,
you
know.”

Mark started to “la-la-la” to the tune of “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” Philip was as livid as he’d ever been in his life. On cue, Emily started to sob, endearingly, convincingly, and Mark’s nasty bravado melted into a puddle.

“Why is she crying? What’s the matter? What’d I say?” he asked Philip, panicky.

“She’s crying because you’re a jerk.” Philip threw a sock ball at Mark’s head. “It’s her grandmother we’re talking about, get it?”

“Okay, okay now, little girl!” Mark wandered around his chaotically messy side of the bedroom he and Philip shared, looking for tissues, and finally grabbed a roll of paper towels that was lying on top of the dresser. “Don’t get all weepy and shit, please.” He tore off sheets of paper towels and frantically offered them to Emily. “I was just giving Phil a hard time, okay? It’s a brother thing. Better? Better now?”

If my life were a musical,
Emily thought with satisfaction,
in this scene the role of me would be played by Judy Garland
. She imagined those big, limpid eyes, the quivering lower lip, the voice that throbbed with vulnerability. “Please, Auntie Em,”—she sobbed, deeply in character—“don’t let them take Toto—”

“Awww, don’t look at me that way!” Mark begged. “I’ll lend you the freakin’ money! Two conditions only.”

“What are they?” said Philip, crossing his arms.

“One, no more crying.” Mark pointed at Emily, who regained her composure instantly. “Two: you have to introduce me to
her
.” He gestured at the wall above Philip’s desk.

Philip turned away, mortified, but Emily looked up to see what Mark was talking about. It was Stephanie Dawson’s picture, torn out of an
Aurora
souvenir program and autographed in fat black marker.

“Stephanie!” she exclaimed.

Mark let out a low wolf whistle. “Ever since you put her picture up, the redheaded vixen has been haunting my dreams, dude.”

“Why do you want to meet her?” asked Philip.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Because she’s hot, that’s why! Seriously, Phil, this is the kind of thing I’m talking about—”

“She probably has a boyfriend.” Philip cut him off. He was not interested in hearing the rest of what Mark might have to say, especially in front of Emily.

Mark waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “All hot girls have boyfriends. You can’t let that kind of thing stand in your way.”

Philip stood up. Emily half expected him to refuse this out-rageous demand, tell Mark to find his own dates, declare his secret love for Stephanie—something dramatic, anyway. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll send Ian an e-mail right now and set it up.”

As Philip left the room, Emily was flooded with the most awful feeling.
All hot girls have boyfriends.
Was that true? She certainly didn’t have a boyfriend. She had Philip, but that was hardly the same thing, was it?

“You know, maybe you should keep away from Stephanie,” she said to Mark.

Mark chuckled and sat down on his rumpled twin bed. “Jealous, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll still be single when you’re old enough for me. I’m not really into commitment, you know!” He giggled hilariously.

Emily willed herself not to blush. “No, the thing is, I think Philip likes her.”

“Nah,” Mark said. “He doesn’t. He doesn’t like girls.”

“How do you know that?” Emily tried to hide the intensity of her curiosity.

“ ’Cause if he did, why wouldn’t he like you?” Mark said, leaning back on his pillows. “You’re a babe. All this ‘we’re just friends’ stuff—kinda whiffs of BS, don’tcha think?”

Thoughts of this nature had occurred to Emily before, but not in so many words.

“I’m a babe?” she asked.

“
Hella
babe.” Mark nodded. “A soulful, raven-haired beauty. You call me when you’re a senior, ’kay?” Mark grinned at her. He was kind of charming, if you ignored the fried brain cells and the Doritos stuck to his teeth.

“Filthy sneakers on the bed, that is so gross,” Philip said, reentering the room. He pushed Mark’s feet to the ground. “Ian was online. He says Stephanie is coming to see his show at LaGuardia tomorrow afternoon. If we go, you can meet her then.”

“Awesome,” Mark said, grinning like a chimp. “Dude! I’m gonna go see a musical!”

17

“ANYONE CAN WHISTLE”

Anyone Can Whistle

1964. Music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim,
book by Arthur Laurents

The Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts was one block west of Lincoln Center, home of the Metropolitan Opera, New York City Opera, New York City Ballet, the Juilliard School—in other words, it was a neighborhood Mark didn’t know very well. Much to Philip’s embarrassment, Mark was gawking and pointing like a tourist.

“I totally want to meet this sexy granny of yours,” Mark said as they waited for the light to change at Sixty-fifth and Amsterdam. “The story about the boyfriend going blind and the Winnebago is so bogus, it’s like something out of a freakin’ musical, heh heh.”

Emily ignored the “sexy granny” comment; she’d never told anyone about the Victoria’s Secret stash in Grandma Rose’s underwear drawer and she wasn’t about to start now. But Mark’s comment perfectly echoed her own thinking.

It’s the senior-citizen version of
Aurora, she thought as Philip yanked her out of the path of the Amsterdam Avenue bus. The secret escape, the forbidden romance, the illicitly acquired money—it was all there, except for the singing and the ponchos. (Emily had given Grandma Rose the cash that morning before she left for school. “You’re such a good granddaughter,” Grandma Rose had said. “We have a few loose ends to tie up before we leave town, so remember, mum’s the word!”)

And now we’re setting Mark up with Stephanie.
Emily was filled with wonder as the three of them walked into the vast, sleek lobby of LaGuardia. If events kept following the plot of
Aurora,
soon the strumpet with a heart of gold would transform the bad boy into a hero.

That made her laugh.
Stephanie will never go for that,
she thought.
I can’t wait to see her put Mark in his place.

“So you’re Phil’s brother!” Stephanie cooed. “God, what a good-looking family!”

The auditorium at LaGuardia was Broadway worthy—bigger even than the Rialto, and what it lacked in gilded historic charm it more than made up for in high-tech amenities, with its computerized light grid and state-of-the-art sound systems.

Emily’s tummy had given a lurch when she saw Stephanie sitting in one of the back rows, gaily accepting the worship of starry-eyed students who remembered her from her years here at LaGuardia. Stephanie Dawson—a living, breathing piece of
Aurora
DNA. She’d already done the show once today, and she’d be performing it again tonight. After that there would only be four performances left. Then three. Then two. Then—

“Oh my!” said Mark, grinning and taking Stephanie’s hand. “You are so foxy, that picture doesn’t do you justice! Whoever your boyfriend is, he is
so
not good enough for you!”

Without her stage makeup on, Stephanie’s skin was pale and lightly freckled, and she blushed deeply. “Wait, I’ll get him on the phone and you can tell him yourself!” she giggled.

Seeing Stephanie flirting with Mark made Philip feel strangely empty. It was so natural, the way Mark flirted back.
They’re the same age,
he told himself.
That’s what’s different.

“That’s some set,” Philip said, to distract himself. He was puzzled by the cavernous multilevel structure onstage. It was made of plywood and papier-mâché and gallons of thick paint, but if you squinted and imagined the lights hitting it just so, it was—what was it?

“Pure
hell
! That’s what this show is!” Ian bounded up the aisle, in costume, near tears. It was so utterly not done for an actor to be in the house before curtain that Philip and Emily knew at once something must be horribly wrong.

“Dude,” said Mark. “You look like a tree.”

“I am a tree,” Ian said. “I’m Pier della Vigna.”

“This is Ian,” Philip muttered. “This is my brother, Mark.”

Mark shook one of Ian’s branches. “You gotta pay attention, Phil,” Mark scolded. “The man just said his name was Pierre.”

“I’m
playing
Pier della Vigna. From Dante’s
Inferno
. I’m one of the violent, a suicide, condemned to spend eternity as a tree.” Ian threw up his hands in despair. “Or at least I was. The show’s been canceled!”

“Oh my God! Why?” Emily cried in horror. First
Aurora,
now Ian’s show—was it a trend? Were musicals a dying species?

“The director is a lunatic, that’s why!” said Ian, furious. “Mister Smeeeeeeeve! He brought in a new twenty-page opening number, today! And when we couldn’t learn it in ten minutes he walked out and canceled the performance. ‘It would be a disservice to the author to show the material in this wretched state!’ he said. The show is horrible, so it’s no great loss. I mean, please—
Inferno! The Musical
? But I’m so sorry, I can’t believe you guys came into the city for nothing.”

“Not nothing, tree-man!” said Mark. “Otherwise I would not have met this spectacular lady. Shall we dine?”

Stephanie looked at her watch. “It’s only five-thirty. I have two hours before I have to be at the theatre. And I
am
hungry!” She batted those enormous green eyes at Mark.

Philip and Emily shrugged. What else was there to do?

“I’ll go peel off my bark,” said Ian.

Stephanie didn’t want to eat anything too heavy (because she had a show), or too light (because she had a show), or too dairy-based or spicy or gas-inducing (show and show and show), so after ruling out all the fabulous Ethiopian, Chinese, Italian, Indian, and Mexican restaurants in the neighborhood, the five of them ended up at a diner.

Much to Emily’s dismay, all Stephanie wanted to talk about was
Aurora,
and Mark kept egging her on. It was irresistible and excruciating to listen to.

“Now that we’re closing, everybody is just
so
into it, you know?” Stephanie said, picking at her iceberg lettuce. “The audience goes wild. It’s a privilege to be part of it.”

“Indeed,” said Mark. “But if the audience loves it so much, why is it closing? As a businessman myself, I’m curious.”

Emily couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “The One Sure Thing in Show Business, that’s why.”

Ian tore at his napkin and everyone was silent, until Stephanie piped up. “Still, you have to admit: Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick—that’s pretty amazing, right? I can’t wait for their
Antigone
!”

“Matthew Broderick?” Mark was clueless. “Who’s he?”

“Brighton Beach Memoirs,”
said Ian helpfully.

“How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying,”
said Philip.

“The Producers,”
said Stephanie. “Look, here’s a picture.” Like all actors, she had a copy of
Backstage
in her bag, and the Lanerick Rep was the cover story.

Mark stared at the photo. “He looks like Ferris Bueller,” he said. “Only old.”

“He
is
Ferris Bueller. I mean, he
was
Ferris Bueller,” Philip said, flustered. “He
played
Ferris Bueller.”

“Awesome,” said Mark. “That movie rocks. And who’s the other guy?”

“Nathan Lane,” the rest of them answered in unison.

Mark looked blank.

“He was in
The Producers,
” said Emily.

“He was in
Mouse Hunt,
” said Stephanie.

“He was in
The Birdcage,
” said Ian. “Wearing a dress,” he added devilishly.

“He starred in revivals of
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
and
The Frogs
. Two early Sondheim works,” said Philip. “And he’s done several Terrence McNally plays.”

Mark looked at them like they were all crazy. “Guys, you’re saying this dude is the cheese. The One Sure Thing. But I have never heard of even one piece of crap that he’s been in. Are you sure he’s, like, famous?”

Ian sighed. “On Broadway, Lane and Broderick are huge stars. The biggest. You just have to accept it.”

“Like Bernadette Peters,” Stephanie added. A collective “oooh” of adoration emanated from Ian, Philip, and Emily. Stephanie waited for them to finish before she continued. “She’s a goddess onstage in New York, but you hardly ever see her in a movie, or on TV. Unless it’s the Tony Awards broadcast.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Mark said. “It’s dumb.”

Ian shrugged. “It’s Broadway.”

When Emily excused herself to use the restroom, Stephanie followed in hot pursuit. Emily noticed that she didn’t have to pee, but she did want to chat.

“You know what I am
loving
about this guy Mark?” Stephanie said as she fluffed her hair in the mirror while Emily washed her hands. “There is not one gay bone in that man’s body, that’s what I’m loving about Mark. What a relief! Not that I don’t love Ian. I love, I love, I
adore
Ian. My best buddy. Like you and Philip!”

“Uh-huh,” said Emily.

“But when you meet someone new and you make plans to get together and you think it might be a date, so you ‘work your assets’ a little bit”—Stephanie giggled, as if Emily would know what she meant—“it’s
such
a bummer! After five minutes you’re sitting there and you’re thinking, whoa, I put on my push-up bra and shaved my legs and all for nothing, you know?”