My Life: The Musical (18 page)

AURORAROX
: and it does as well as everyone says?

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: It’s all a crap game, of course. But you are relentless and pushy, Rox, and I like that, so I will answer. Hypothetically, then—I’d say a person would make ten times the money. That’s conservative.

BwayPhil
: Ten times? That’s a 1000% return—that’s crazy.

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: You know what they say, kid:

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: You can’t make a living in the theatre—

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: but you can make a killing.

Philip looked at his watch. “If we leave now we can make the twelve-thirty-seven train and be at Stephenson’s office by two.” He looked at Emily with growing excitement. “Ten times the money, Emily. That makes one thousand into ten thousand—more than we borrowed from Mark!”

“Okay,” Emily said. She wasn’t sure about this, but if Philip and SAVEME thought it was the right thing to do . . .

BwayPhil
: Okay, thanks, that’s all we needed to know—

AURORAROX
: thanks saveme!!!!!!!

“Emily Pearl! Just the person I was looking for!”

Emily whipped her head around in terror. Why would Mr. Henderson be looking for her? It could only be bad news.

“Uh, hello, Mr. Henderson,” she mumbled. “What’s up?”

“I have a theatrical emergency to deal with, and I need your help.” He was acting smug, as usual, but also seemed genuinely nervous. “You are aware, I’m sure, that the drama club production of
Fiddler on the Roof,
of which I am the director, opens this weekend?”

Like I care,
Emily thought. Philip had adroitly pulled an interactive Spanish quiz up on the screen and was conjugating away.

“The roles of Tevye’s five daughters are being played by some of your classmates: Michelle, Cindy, Chantal, Lorelei, and Beth. But Lorelei twisted her ankle badly during cheerleading practice this morning.” Mr. Henderson made a face. “I’m short one of Tevye’s daughters.”

Emily dared not imagine what he was going to suggest. “Isn’t four daughters enough?” she said.

“One would think,” he sighed. “But
Fiddler
requires five. Lorelei might be well enough to do the show on Saturday. She might not. We need an understudy.” He extended a hand to Emily. “Congratulations, Emily. You’re on!”

“Me!” cried Emily. “Why me?

“Because I figured you were the only girl in the school who knew all the music already, am I right?” Chagrined, Emily nodded. “Besides, you desperately need some extra credit.”

“Do I have to?” she whimpered.

“Only if you want to pass English. Rehearsal is today after school.” He smiled. “Welcome to the theatre, Emily.”

“ ‘Welcome to the Theatre.’ ” Philip turned around and stared at Mr. Henderson. “
Applause,
1970. Music by Charles Strouse, lyrics by Lee Adams, book by Betty Comden and Adolph Green. Based on the film
All About Eve
.”

“Oh, dear.” Mr. Henderson seemed amused. “Not another one. Just promise me you won’t pursue it professionally; it’s a penniless life of heartbreak and disappointment. You know what they say: you can’t make a living in the theatre—”

“But you can make a killing.” Emily and Philip said it together, wide-eyed.

“Precisely. I’ll see you at rehearsal, Emily.”

With that, Mr. Henderson made his exit.

19

“HOW ARE THINGS IN GLOCCA MORRA?”

Finian’s Rainbow

1947. Music by Burton Lane, lyrics by E. Y. Harburg,
book by E. Y. Harburg and Fred Saidy

And so, however improbably, thanks to a clumsy cheerleader, Emily spent the afternoon learning the choreography for “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from
Fiddler,
and Philip ended up traveling to Stevie Stephenson’s Manhattan office alone.

After Mr. Henderson left, Emily had sputtered and ranted about how she was now convinced Mr. Henderson was SAVE-MEFROMAURORA—her own English teacher! What were the odds? Philip thought it was probably a coincidence that Mr. Henderson had used the same expression as SAVEME, but he had a train to catch and no time to debate the issue. Impulsively, he’d leaned over and kissed Emily goodbye, on the cheek. Then he left the library without looking back, just in case she was wiping it off.

It was true Philip didn’t have much in the way of sexual experience and that his best friend was a girl whom, until today, he’d never even attempted to kiss. But that didn’t mean he was gay, did it, and what the hell business was it of Mark’s anyway? And why did Mark have to get their mother involved? Now poor Mrs. Nebbling would devote all her legal and costume-making skills to securing Philip’s right to marry another boy and designing outlandish outfits for him to wear in the Greenwich Village Halloween parade. Didn’t the woman have enough to deal with? No question: Mark was dead meat.

This line of thinking kept Philip occupied during his trip on the Long Island Rail Road, his duck-and-dodge through the crowds of Penn Station to the street, his long-legged speed walk up Eighth Avenue and around the corner of Forty-fourth Street to the Sardi’s building, which housed Stevie Stephenson’s office. He could walk much faster when Emily wasn’t trotting along next to him trying to keep up, and it felt good to exert himself.

It had been easy to find Stephenson’s office address on the Internet. Philip pressed the elevator button and waited. He patted his coat pocket, which drooped with the weight of five thousand dollars in cash. An offer, certainly, that even a man of Stephenson’s extravagant means couldn’t refuse.

Nobody was around when Emily got home after rehearsal. It was a relief in a way, because it meant Emily didn’t have to make happy chitchat about her Eleanor Roosevelt High School drama club debut. In
Fiddler,
no less! Emily had had no trouble learning the part, but it was pretty hilarious watching Mr. Henderson dance around like a starry-eyed teenage girl as he taught her the steps.

Her parents would be home soon, though. Emily wondered when Grandma Rose and Stan would make their getaway. The Winnebago had been purchased and insured, the tank filled with gas, and the rig inconspicuously parked in front of Birchwood Gardens D-West (this had been Mark’s idea—you had to give him credit for knowing how to hide things in plain sight), but Grandma Rose remained mum on the timing of their departure.

“If you don’t know, the Cossacks can’t torture it out of you,” she’d said to Emily, patting her cheek. “Not that you wouldn’t try not to tell. But parents have ways. So how do you like my Stan, huh? What a cutie!”

All hot grandmas have boyfriends. Even if their granddaughters don’t
. Emily felt a tinge of bitterness as she grabbed a bag of Chex Party Mix and brought it with her to her room. She wasn’t supposed to eat in there, but at the moment all she wanted to do was lie in bed with a forbidden snack and listen to the
Aurora
CD. She especially wanted to hear Marlena Ortiz sing the heartbreaking second-act reprise of “Never Be Enough,” which always made Emily cry.

What a confusing day,
she thought.
Mr. Henderson either is or isn’t SAVEME and Philip either does or doesn’t want to be my boyfriend and I’ve been kidnapped by a high school musical that opens in two days—but I might or might not be going on, depending on Lorelei’s stupid ankle. . . .

The only thing that seemed certain was that
Aurora
was closing, and Emily would never, ever see it again.

If you’re going to cry anyway, better to have a sad song to do it to
. Emily popped the CD in her stereo and stretched out on the bed.

Miss O’Malley’s voice had a gentle Irish lilt, but she still sounded very firm on the phone.

“No, dear, I’m terribly sorry. All the house seats are spoken for. That’s right, have a good day now.”

“Mr. Stephenson’s office—oh, hello, Mr. Mayor. I wish I could help you, love, but Stevie’s already promised them all . . .”

“Hello, Stephenson Productions. Ah, Mr. Trump! The flowers you sent were too much now, darlin’. Yes, I know how you love the show, and if I had a single ticket left I’d give it to you for sure. . . .”

While she was talking, she cocked one eyebrow at Philip and gestured for him to have a seat. The reception area of Stephenson’s office was clubby and rich-looking, with leather sofas and dark wood paneling. The only whiff of theatre about the place was the copy of
Variety
lying on one of the coffee tables, peeking out from underneath the day’s
Wall Street Journal
.

“Dearie me! Tell the prince I’m much obliged, but I can’t possibly entertain his proposal—he’s got quite enough wives already. No, no house seats for him, either, so sorry, Mr. Trump. Cheers!”

She hung up the phone and turned to Philip. “Can you believe the cheek?” she said. “That lot could’ve bought out the whole theatre any night of the week for the past three years. Now that there’s not so much as a barstool left to sell, they call looking for a handout. Even if I had a ticket I’d say no, but I don’t, of course.” She eyed him suspiciously. “That’s not why you’re here, is it, dear?”

“No! I know. It’s completely sold out,” Philip said quickly. This may have been the first time in his life he felt in the same boat as Donald Trump.

“ ’Tis,” she said, adding another packet of sugar to her tea. “Why are you here, then? Selling chocolates for school, is it?”

“I would like to speak to Mr. Stephenson,” Philip said, trying to sound businesslike. “It’s a financial matter.”

“Aren’t they all, darlin’, aren’t they all,” she clucked, punching buttons on her phone. “Hello, Mr. Stephenson’s office—ah, not you again! Now listen, you barrel of monkeys, I just turned down the crown prince of Arabia, what makes you think I’ll say yes to you? Hang on, then.” She pressed another button. “Mr. Stephenson, Nathan Lane is on line one.” Miss O’Malley turned to Philip with a sigh. “It’s the funny ones who are saddest in real life, you know.”

Philip didn’t know, and he was sure he didn’t want to. “I have some money to invest,” he said. “Will I be able to see Mr. Stephenson soon?”

“What are you, lad, fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” said Philip.

“Stevie was twelve when he produced his first show, did you know that?” Miss O’Malley sipped her tea. “If you’ve got money to invest, he’ll see you. Office policy. It’s ‘on principle,’ he says, but it’s more of a superstition if you ask me.” She glanced at her phone. “Pardon me—when Mr. Lane’s on the phone I’ve got orders to interrupt after two minutes, otherwise it goes on the whole blessed day.”

Miss O’Malley stood, smoothed her skirt, and walked on a pair of formidably high-heeled pumps to the door of Mr. Stephenson’s office. She rapped sharply, twice, and opened the door a crack.

Philip heard a muffled roar from inside Stephenson’s office. Rage or laughter, he couldn’t tell.

“ ‘Like printing [expletive] money!’ Can you believe that joker! But that’s you, baby, the human printing press. Hang on, Eileen is telling me something—”

“It’s time to leave for your doctor’s appointment, Mr. Stephenson,” she shouted, too loudly.

Stephenson waved the phone in Miss O’Malley’s direction before putting it back to his ear. “Hear that? Gotta run. Love you too. Now start printing!” Stephenson slammed the phone down and wiped his brow. “Comedians! They break your heart.”

“There’s a boy to see you,” Miss O’Malley said. “With money to invest.”

“A boy with money?” Stephenson smiled. “Show him in.”

The CD clicked forward to track fourteen—this was it, Emily’s favorite song. Emily reached for her Chex, but the bag had slid off the bed and onto the floor. It probably had spilled, which made her reluctant to look, so she didn’t. She just burrowed more deeply into the pillows.

In the first act of
Aurora,
“Never Be Enough” was an upbeat song of love triumphant over all. One intermission and several broken hearts later, Aurora was a different woman. Now she knew that all her dreams wouldn’t necessarily come true. Hence, the second-act reprise: a slow, sad version of the happy, peppy song everyone had liked so much in the first act.

How can ballad tempo and a minor key make the same song mean something completely different?
Emily wondered.
And why do you never hear happy reprises of sad songs?

As the music filled her room, Emily closed her eyes and had a kind of waking dream. She was onstage at the Rialto Theatre, singing her heart out, when she looked out at the audience and spotted a pale, crying teenage girl with long dark hair, clutching her program in her lap.

Poor kid,
dream-Emily thought as she strode across the stage in a circle of light. This kind of light was called a follow-spot, because no matter where you went on stage, the spotlight followed you, like a bubble of love.

Poor kid. I’m gonna sing this one for her.
And in her dream, Emily onstage sang her heart out for Emily in the audience, and it was happy and sad at the same time.

I’m having a dream ballet,
thought Emily as she dozed off.
Just like in
Oklahoma. . . .

Philip’s meeting with Stevie Stephenson only lasted a few minutes.

“In the first place,” Stephenson said sternly, once Philip had managed to stammer out his offer, “five thousand dollars is not a real amount of money.”

Philip was bewildered; it seemed like an enormous sum to him. “Okay,” he said, sounding shaky. “How much is?”

“I don’t know!” shouted Stephenson. “But I know it when I see it! And in the second place, do you honestly think I need MORE investors for the Lanerick Rep? This is a COUP! It is the INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFETIME! Only a very, very select few, handpicked by ME, were PERMITTED to put money into this project! And those people will make a FORTUNE. And they will OWE ME FOR LIFE.”