My Life: The Musical (8 page)

“You know what I mean,” said Emily, in a quieter but still insistent voice. “You know
exactly
what I mean. SAVEME.”

“SAVEME? You mean that loudmouthed misanthrope who hangs around the Broadway chat rooms, spewing bile and vitriol?” Morris looked genuinely hurt. “And you think that’s me?”

“My Morris is an idealist,” said Ruthie. “A man of high standards! That’s why I
wuv
him.” Morris blushed, and Ruthie started crooning in his ear: “Never be enough! My love for you will never be enough!”

Emily didn’t know whether to apologize or keep pressing, but she didn’t get the chance to do either because a box office staff member started yelling instructions at the rush line, as if everyone didn’t already know the drill. “Hey,” said Morris. “How come you guys aren’t on the line? You lose your spot?”

“We already have tickets,” said Philip.

“Eighth-row orchestra,” said Emily proudly. “It’s Philip’s birthday. He’s sixteen today.”

Ruthie gave Philip a hug, but Morris turned away, wincing. He gingerly put a little weight on his foot. “Getting worse,” he muttered. “Feels like a three-year run, at least.”

Silly Broadway,
thought Emily fondly, with its Pringles Effect, prophetic toes, and strange, superstitious rituals. Ian had long ago explained to Emily and Philip how you were never supposed to say “good luck” to an actor (it was bad luck; instead you said “break a leg” or “merde”). Even worse was to mention Shakespeare’s
Mac
—well, the Scottish Play, as it was always called, because to say the play’s name was to invoke a mysterious curse that often caused scenery to collapse upon actors, theatres to burn down, or other, often fatal mishaps to befall the production.

Emily’s favorite Broadway tradition was the Gypsy Robe. She’d never seen it, but her understanding was that it was basically a decorated bathrobe, presented by the chorus of one show to that of another show before curtain on opening night. Each show added its own memento to the robe—a flower from the leading lady’s hat, or an autographed patch of fabric from a costume—and awarded it to the gypsy with the most Broadway credits.

Sometimes Emily imagined herself receiving the robe and being crowned Queen of the Gypsies, traipsing from dressing room to dressing room and wishing everyone
merde, merde, merde
. It would be a royal feeling indeed.

For now, though, it was special enough to be downstairs in the orchestra section, instead of up in the balcony where they usually sat. Emily knew the Rialto Theatre like the back of her hand, but she let the usher direct her to her seat. It made her feel like a princess.

“Thank you,” she said to the usher, distinctly, like Audrey Hepburn, as she was handed her
Playbill
. “Thank you
so
much.”

There was much to look at, in those sacred moments before an
Aurora
performance began. The Rialto was an ornate relic from a bygone age, meticulously restored, its cavernous ceiling bedecked with cherubs and angels, gilded harps and carved medallions. What mad genius could imagine such a place? Sometimes Emily and Philip would just sit there gazing upward, wordlessly nudging each other and pointing at some freshly noticed detail.

“Cell phone?” Philip asked.

“Got it,” said Emily. “Happy birthday, Philip.”

“Emily,” he said, full of feeling. “Thank you so much.”

The lights started to dim, and Emily wondered if she might give Philip an impulsive birthday kiss. If Stephanie could do it, why couldn’t she? But before she could decide, the houselights faded to black. A moment later the overture began; as for the kiss—she’d forgotten almost completely about it.

9

“SIXTEEN GOING ON SEVENTEEN”

The Sound of Music

1959. Music by Richard Rodgers,
lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II,
book by Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse

Maybe it was the awesome seats or a whiff of birthday magic, but that performance of
Aurora
was inarguably the best they’d ever seen. The audience was transported: laughing uproariously at the funny parts, gasping with surprise at the plot twists, and melting into tears at the point in the story where Aurora, despite the disapproval of her friends and family and the increasing difficulties posed by her own mysterious illness, sacrifices everything for one last chance at happiness with Enrique, the endearing yet chronically unreliable love of her life.

Enrique was no longer being played by the original performer, but by a big-name teen heartthrob more famous for being the lead singer in a boy band than for any kind of serious acting. Today it didn’t matter who played the part, though, because Marlena Ortiz was on fire. She
was
Aurora, and Aurora was her, and the boy-band star sobbed real tears onstage as Marlena looked tenderly into his eyes and sang:

“Never be enough,
Ten thousand nights would never be enough . . .”

Emily and Philip hugged each other for a long time after the curtain call was done (it seemed to last forever; no one wanted to stop clapping). They hugged and hugged and none of the people waiting to get out of their row minded, because everyone was feeling the same way.

Getting autographs at the stage door had become part of their
Aurora
ritual since the first preview. By now Emily and Philip knew the doorman by name, and the cast members slapped them high fives as they dashed out to their postshow lives.

“Philip! Emily! Darrrrrlings!”

Stephanie exploded from the stage door and sang out their names like a melody. She gave Philip an extraspecial smile.

“The show was unbelievable today, Stephanie,” Emily burbled. Even though she knew Stephanie was an ordinary, flawed, and somewhat potty-mouthed human being in real life, there was something so thrilling about watching her emerge from the theatre after a show. It made Emily feel hyper, nervous, badly dressed—starstruck, though she hated to admit it. “The audience went nuts.”

“I know,” Stephanie said, in a confidential tone. “There was a rumor backstage that some Hollywood people were here to see Marlena. She sure turned on the juice, didn’t she?”

Philip held his pen and
Playbill
out to Stephanie. She laughed and said, “I feel kinda stupid giving you my autograph, since we’re such good friends now.” Stephanie waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Special friends, right, Phil?”

Nobody called Philip “Phil” except his mother and Mark, but when Stephanie said the name it was a whole different thing. Philip blushed and grinned. “It’s his birthday!” Emily explained, elbowing him in the ribs. “We want the whole cast to sign the
Playbill
with today’s date on it.”

“I’ve got everybody but you and Marlena,” said Philip.

“I know,” giggled Stephanie. “We’re always the slowpokes.” She signed her name really big, right on the cover of his
Playbill
. “Whoops! Guess I didn’t leave much room for Marlena. Birthday, huh?” She handed him back his Sharpie. “That explains why you’re looking so very handsome and grown-up today.”

Stephanie stepped close to Philip, who only now realized what was coming his way and was instantly grateful for the breath mint he’d been sucking on during the second act.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Stephanie said. She stretched up on tippy-toe and kissed Philip three times: once on each cheek, and once more, very gently—here Emily got embarrassed and had to look away—on the lips. “I wish I could party with you guys but I have a dinner date before the second show—you know how it is!”

Philip felt like he might be having an out-of-body experience, which was a shame, since this was the most fun his body had had in a while. “Thank you,” he managed to croak. He didn’t dare look at Emily.

“Good night!” Stephanie kept waving to them as she trotted to the curb in her fur-trimmed, high-heeled boots. A taxi was waiting for her. “Make sure he has a good time!” she yelled to Emily.

“I will,” Emily tried to call back, but it didn’t come out loudly enough for anyone to hear. She had a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. Behind her, Marlena Ortiz had just stepped out the stage door. Everyone was screaming and Philip had already turned his attention to getting the star’s autograph on his
Playbill.

If he wants a birthday kiss from Marlena, he can ask for it himself,
Emily thought, in an uncharacteristically snappish way. Usually she would push to the front of the crowd to say hi to Marlena, but this time she stayed where she was.

As she stood there, glowering with a kind of irritation she couldn’t quite name, she saw Morris limping with determination toward Eighth Avenue, like an escaped convict with a ball and chain still shackled to his leg.

“Wait!” Emily yelled, dashing into the street. She was nothing if not impulsive. “Morris, wait up!” Fearlessly dodging traffic, Emily zigzagged between the honking cars until she caught up with him.

“I just wanted to apologize for thinking you were SAVEME,” Emily said, blocking his path and placing her hand on his arm.

Morris waved her away with his gnarled, nicotine-stained fingers. “I don’t lose sleep about what other people think,” he said. “I have my own thoughts to occupy me.”

“I guess it was dumb.” Emily sighed. “I just really wish I knew who he was. He bugs me.”

“Get a life, honey,” Morris said, not unkindly. “Then you’ll forget all about it. Now I gotta go, Ruthie’s working the night shift at her law firm and I’m on my way to Don’t Tell Mama—the pianist starts at five.”

“I was wondering,” Emily said before he could bolt, “if you could give me some advice about this paper I have to write? For school?” Mr. Henderson had given her until Monday for her revised persuasive essay; she still had no clue what to put in it, but one good rant from Morris and she’d have enough material to argue her case before the Supreme Court. “I had this idea that tickets to Broadway shows should be free, you know? But my teacher asked me to figure out how that might work, so I thought I would ask someone with a lot of experience, and I realized you were probably the most knowledgeable person there is when it comes to Broadway.”

“If you think flattery is gonna get me to do your homework for you,” growled Morris, “you are barking up the wrong—”

“Emileeeeeeeeeee!” It was Ian’s familiar tenor, carrying Mermanesquely above the din of Forty-fourth Street. He ran over to them, breathless and upset. “Oh. My. God. I have to tell you something. I think it’s bad but I’m not sure.”

“Whatever you heard—ouch!—why not keep it to yourself, kid?” Morris winced and rubbed his foot.

Ian ignored Morris and spoke urgently to Emily. “I got this e-mail, from my ‘friend.’ The one
sur la plage
. The one who
knows
things.”

“The Actors’ Chapel is on West Forty-eighth!” thundered Morris as he hopped on one foot in agony. “Tell your secrets to the Great Casting Director Upstairs!”

“I don’t know what it means,” said Ian, clutching Emily by the shoulders. “It’s something about
Aurora
and a stop clause—”

“Hey, Em, wait up!” Philip was yelling as he loped across the street waving his
Playbill
. “Marlena wrote that I’m her ‘Number One Fan,’ look—”

Philip saw Ian and Morris and stopped short. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

Everyone was silent.

“Did you say ‘stop clause’?” asked Morris, now very still.

“Yes!” cried Ian. “That doesn’t sound very positive, does it? A go clause, that would be positive. But a stop clause—”

“Shhhhhhh!” Morris yanked himself free of Emily, wheeled around in place, and pounded his fist into his hand. “Listen!” he shouted, before he realized he was shouting. “Come here, children, come here.” The streets were getting packed with people as all the Broadway shows started to let out. Emily, Philip, and Ian had to stand very close to Morris to hear him.

“Where did you hear this nefarious news?” said Morris.

“From—a friend,” Ian said.

“And you believe your friend is telling the truth?” Morris asked sternly. “Not just flinging the crap around, like everybody else in this town?”

“I do,” said Ian, his voice shaking. “I just don’t know what it means.”

Morris glanced left and right, checking for spies. “The stop clause.” His voice sank to a whisper. “The dreaded stop clause.”

Emily opened her mouth to ask a question, but Morris held up his hand.

“I had a feeling,” he moaned. “This damn toe! I almost said something before, but I didn’t want to spoil the show for you, not once I found out it’s the kid’s birthday.”

Philip, whose head was still in the clouds from Marlena’s autograph and Stephanie’s kiss, had no clue what was going on. He laughed. “Didn’t you see the matinee today? It was amazing. Nothing could spoil
Aurora
for us, Morris, don’t be silly.”

Ian squeaked, like a mouse under a cat’s paw. Morris looked first at Ian, then at Philip, then at Emily.

“You guys don’t know what the stop clause is?”

The three of them shook their heads.

“It means,” Morris said, “the show’s closing.”

10

“DON’T TELL MAMA”

Cabaret

1966. Music by John Kander, lyrics by Fred Ebb,
book by Joe Masteroff

As Morris led them around the corner to Don’t Tell Mama, the only thought in Philip’s mind was this: how had he not seen this coming?

What was the point of his spreadsheets, his meticulous crunching of the box office figures, his
Variety
subscription and his performance logs and all the rest of it, if something as momentous and life-altering and beyond all everyday concerns as a Broadway musical—a Tony Award winner, mind you!—could be obliterated by something called
the dreaded stop clause
?