My Life: The Musical (17 page)

“Five minutes? How can you tell?” Emily didn’t own a push-up bra, but she was nevertheless intrigued by Stephanie’s theory.

“Honey,” laughed Stephanie. “Forget all the ‘gaydar’ clichés. Plenty of straight guys are fussy about their looks and go to Off-Broadway plays, and plenty of gay guys are slobs and work for the city. The difference is”—and she paused for a moment to blot her crimson lipstick—“a straight guy will be
attracted
to you. And he’ll let you know.”

“But what if you’re not sure?” asked Emily. All she had with her was some Chapstick.

“If you’re not sure,” Stephanie said, “then neither is he.”

It was time for Stephanie to go to the theatre. Mark was having a hard time wrapping his head around the idea that the same person he had just watched eat a baked potato and salad was now going to perform on a Broadway stage. To his horror, Philip thought he recognized the beginnings of a stage-struck gleam in his brother’s eye.

“And I was really looking forward to seeing a musical today, too!” Mark said, gazing at Stephanie like a lost puppy. “Can I come see yours?”

Stephanie pouted, which was one of her more charming expressions. “Believe me, there isn’t a single ticket to be had. If there were I would have gotten some for my pals, here.” She threw her arm around Philip’s shoulders. “But really? You like musicals? Lots of guys don’t.”

“Sure I do!” Mark enthused. “But no sweat about the tickets. I’ll go catch a movie and take you out for a drink later, after you get off work, okay?”

Stephanie kicked Emily meaningfully under the table.
See?
her kick said, clear as a bell.
Straight guy! What’d I tell ya?

Mark peeled off a few bills from the fat roll in his pocket and tucked them in Philip’s shirt pocket. “You better get home, though, young man. School tomorrow and all that. Make sure you finish your homework.” He glanced at Stephanie, who was completely buying the caring-big-brother routine. Apparently she didn’t notice Philip’s gritted teeth. “If you get hungry, order yourself some pizza.”

Aurora
was closing. . . . No tickets left . . . ten thousand shows could never be enough. . . .

Seeing Stephanie head off to the Rialto Theatre for the fifth-from-last performance of Aurora—it was too much for Emily. As the eastbound train carried her and Philip homeward once more, Emily steeped uselessly in her anger, like a tea bag left in the cup long after the water has gone cold and murky.

Stephanie had
Aurora
,
Emily fumed, her thoughts relentless as the
chug-chug
of the train.
Stephanie had a boyfriend
and
a date. Stephanie was an urban sophisticate who wore red lipstick and understood the male mind.
Could anxious, unadorned Emily Pearl from the suburbs ever metamorphose into such a confident and attractive creature? No. It was simply unimaginable.

Emily’s gut ached and her skin felt hot. She decided she must be in mourning for
Aurora.
She’d taken Intro to Psych last semester, so she knew about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. These were called the Kübler-Ross stages, named after the woman who identified them.

The second stage was anger. Maybe that’s what Emily was feeling. At the moment, she wanted to growl at everyone she saw.

“Do you feel angry?” Emily said to Philip, somewhat out of context. But surely he was in mourning for the show as well, and would understand how she felt.

“Yeah,” he said. “In fact, I’m planning to kill Mark the next time I see him. Why? Do I look angry?”

“No,” said Emily. “I was just thinking about the Keebler Elves. And how one of the stages is anger, and that I’ve been really short-tempered lately, like I just wanted to fight with someone.”

Philip frowned. “Cookies make you angry?”

“Kübler-Ross!” Emily buried her head in her hands, her dark hair falling over them like a curtain. “I hate when I do that!”

“Do what?” Philip was getting more lost by the minute. Girls could be very confusing, that was the truth. He’d been thinking about girls a bit extra lately, ever since Mark had said what he’d said to their mother. Not that Philip hadn’t thought about girls before, of course he had; half the people he knew were girls, after all—

“Saying something different than what I was planning to say,” explained Emily. “It’s like my brain is putting words in my mouth.”

“Listen, Em,” Philip said. “I’ve been thinking, and I was wondering if you wanted to be my girlfriend.”

Emily stared at him, speechless.

Obviously Emily’s brain-mouth problem was contagious. Philip had not planned to say anything remotely like that. He’d been planning to ask her what she’d thought of the
Anyone Can Whistle
cast recording he’d lent her. A young Angela Lansbury and some obscure Sondheim songs; it was a particular favorite of his.

“Angela Lansbury!” he sputtered. The truth was, Mark’s taunts had set him wondering—why
wasn’t
Emily his girlfriend? They spent all their free time together. They had stuff in common. She didn’t, as far as he knew, like anyone else. And she was a perfectly presentable person—nice-looking, intelligent, a little offbeat by most people’s standards but so was Philip, and she had a good heart.

It made perfect sense, except for the fact that they’d been best friends for almost three years and the idea of romance had never even come up. Why was that?

Emily was still staring at him. “Wow,” she said. “Wow. Where did—When did you—I’m not sure what to say.”

Philip wasn’t sure, either, so he took a pen out of his backpack and started to doodle on his arm.

“You don’t have to answer,” he mumbled, not able to look at her. “I don’t know why I said that, I shouldn’t have. Forget it, okay?”

“Okay,” said Emily. Did he want her to be his girlfriend or not? And could she even picture Philip as her boyfriend? Philip was so sweet, so not like other boys—but could she imagine them holding hands, kissing, going to the prom? She could easily imagine them going to
Aurora,
but that was never going to happen again.
Never, never, never.
She felt the tears well up.

“Hey,” Philip said, panicky. “Hey! Don’t get upset. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. Let’s not talk about it, okay, just forget what I said.”

“Okay,” Emily said again. She’d never been so confused, but luckily they were almost home.

18

“THE OLDEST ESTABLISHED PERMANENT FLOATING CRAP GAME IN NEW YORK”

Guys and Dolls

1950. Music and lyrics by Frank Loesser,
book by Abe Burrows and Jo Swerling

Thursday. Four performances left.

It was very late when Mark got back to D-West. Philip was already in bed, sleeping, but that didn’t prevent Mark from starting a conversation the moment he entered the room.

“Stephanie Dawson, now,
that’s
a woman,” he said, flicking on the bedroom light. Philip groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. “Did you know she’s a dancer? And what a head for business! Dude, I want in on this Lanerick Rep thing!”

Philip didn’t answer, so Mark punched him in the leg. “I’m serious. I’m in for five grand. You bring the money to the guy’s office tomorrow, got that? Steph told me his name. Davy Davidson, Frankie Frankenfart, some wacko name like that.”

“Stevie Stephenson.” Philip mumbled. “School tomorrow. Go see him yourself.”

“I can’t, you idiot. Look at me!” Mark shook his mane of frizzy hair. “Do I look like a man of the theatuh?”

Philip opened one bleary eye. “You look like Cheech. Or Chong. One of those guys.”

“Exactly! A professional like Frankenfart wants to do business with his own kind. You’re going.”

“Why should I?” said Philip.

“Five thousand dollars,” said Mark. “Four for me, one for you. The one is a loan. When the investment pays off you can use the profit to make good on the sexy granny loan. I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse. Capish?”

Philip didn’t capish, really, but he was still half asleep. He grunted and tried to hide under the covers. “You owe me money, dancing boy!” Mark yelled in his ear. “How else are you and your cute little nongirlfriend planning to pay me back?”

This was a fair question, and it was one for which Philip did not yet have an answer.

“Steph told me she always had this fantasy about having a boyfriend who’s a producer, huh. How hot is that?” Mark kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed. “Did you know that Nathan Lane was the voice of the meerkat in
Lion King
? Steph told me. He’s awesome.”

“He’s the One Sure Thing, all right,” said Philip. Going to Stephenson’s office would be a huge pain, but even more excruciating was listening to Mark try to dish about theatre. Philip looked at his clock radio. It was almost two a.m.

“Love that meerkat,” mumbled Mark as he drifted off. “Cute as a button, man.”

Philip didn’t see Emily until study hall, when they met in the library as usual. His horrible faux pas of the previous day made him afraid Emily might want to explore this boyfriend-girlfriend concept further, or talk about “the relationship”—didn’t girls always want to do that?—but he needn’t have worried. Emily was so grossed out by the notion of investing Mark’s money in the Lanerick Rep that that was all she wanted to discuss.

“No!” cried Emily, after Philip had explained the plan. “That would be like—something!” She struggled to remember the phrase. “Like giving comfort to the enemy! That’s what Grandma Rose calls it in
Fiddler
when one of Tevye’s daughters falls in love with a Russian soldier.”

Philip didn’t quite see the connection. He shrugged. “Everyone seems to think it’s a sure thing. If we can make back the money we borrowed from Mark, wouldn’t that be worth it?”

“What if the Lanerick Rep is a bust, though?” Emily asked. “Then we’d owe Mark a thousand dollars more than we do now.”

It was a risk, but Philip had no idea how to calculate the odds. They needed advice, the kind of advice that could only come from a threatre-savvy person with an inside track. They might try Morris, but they didn’t know how to get in touch with Morris other than to wander Times Square looking for him.

There was someone else they could ask, though. And two of the library computers were available.

AURORAROX
: yoo-hoo

BwayPhil
: Anybody home?

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Phil & Roxie, where’ve you guys been lately?

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: I was worried, thought maybe you did something dumb out of desperation.

BwayPhil
: We’re okay.

AURORAROX
: not really, though

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: That hothead Marlena had to go and spill the beans—did you get any tix by some miracle?

AURORAROX
: no

AURORAROX
: all gone by the time we got there

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Ah, too bad. Wish I could help ya but—well, too bad.

AURORAROX
: i thought you hated Aurora

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Oh, I do, but now that it’s terminal I can afford to get sentimental.

BwayPhil
: Listen, we have a question for you, do you mind?

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Depends what it is, but fire away.

BwayPhil
: It’s about the Lanerick Rep.

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Can you believe that John Simon? “Like printing (expletive) money.” In the Times they publish this filth!

BwayPhil
: Is it, though?

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Is it what?

BwayPhil
: A surefire hit? Because a friend of ours has a small amount of money to invest and we were wondering what you thought—

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: I’m shocked, shocked! The body of Aurora is not even cold and listen to you!

AURORAROX
: please

AURORAROX
: “our friend” is desperate

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: I think your friend should collect baseball cards is what I think. What people pay for memorabilia, it’s unbelievable.

AURORAROX
: hypothetically, though

AURORAROX
: what would a person make?

AURORAROX
: if they invested money in this Lanerick Rep