Act 2 (Jack & Louisa) (4 page)

“I’m sorry, Jack, but if you accepted Mrs. Taylor’s offer, you have to—”

“
I’m not going
,” Jack repeated forcefully.

Mrs. Goodrich kept her gaze fixed on Jack, and the air in the room changed in the way air changes when a fight is about to start. I knew it was time for me to disappear.

“I’m going to go call my parents,” I announced. “I haven’t talked to them since we got here.”

“Alright, Lou,” Mrs. Goodrich said quietly. “Why don’t you use the guest bedroom? You can watch the TV in there, too, if you want.”

I grabbed my backpack from one of the hooks
by the door and glanced furtively at Jack, who was now staring angrily at his hands.

“Okay,” I said, and hurried down the hallway. There were too many thoughts in my head, and I didn’t trust any of them. On the one hand, Mrs. Goodrich was right—it didn’t seem polite to accept an offer from the Taylors and then not follow through, no matter how overbearing they were. But on the other hand, I had never been in Jack’s position before; I’d never had something so important—possibly life-changing—taken away from me, so how could I know what that felt like? Even though he’d assured Connor and Imani that he was “totally over the whole thing,” it was now very clear that he was not, and it seemed unfair of me to judge his decision not to see the show. Especially since sometimes, being mad or jealous about something just felt right. And felt deserved. But here was the most confusing part: As bad as I felt for Jack at this moment, the truth was that if he hadn’t been fired from
The Big Apple
in the first place, he never would have moved to Shaker Heights. And I never would have met him. The thing that caused him all that pain basically delivered him to my doorstep.
How could I make sense of that?

As Jack’s and Mrs. Goodrich’s voices began to rise in their heated exchange down the hall, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. Our afternoon had taken its toll. I reached into my backpack for my cell phone and dialed “Home,” anticipating the relief I’d feel once I’d shared all the events of my trip. After three rings, my mom answered.

“Oh my goodness, we’re just about to play Taboo with Uncle Dan and Tina, but tell me quick—are you having a great time?” she asked, and the pure excitement in her voice, plus the sound of someone in the background testing out the Taboo buzzer, made me rethink what I’d planned to say. There would be time enough to tell her everything.

“Yes,” I replied, turning on the television and lying down on the guest bed, “it’s been quite an
adventure.
”

-JACK-

“Then why did you tell them you wanted to go?” my mom said, crossing her arms. “You could have easily told them you already had plans.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. My own mother was actually encouraging me to lie!

“They trapped me!” I shouted. “I wanted to get out of there, and I didn’t know what else to say.”

“They weren’t trying to trap you,” my mom said with a frown. “They were trying to include you. Carol was just saying how much Corey looks up to you. He’s seen your shows and was probably excited to get to perform for you.”

“That’s even worse!” I clenched my jaw, digging
my heels angrily into the carpet. “How is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“He just wants you to like him the way he likes you.”

“Why do I have to like him?!” I blurted out. “If there’s one person in this entire world that I’m allowed to dislike, no questions asked, I think it should be him!”

“Jack! That’s an unkind thing to say!” she said. “Maybe seeing the show will be good for you. Maybe you’ll get some closure and find a lesson in all of this.”

“What lesson?!” I screamed, making her eyebrows rise. “That life sucks, and some younger, cuter, bratty kid is probably going to take your job?”

“Jack!” She hushed me fiercely, gesturing toward the room where Lou was sitting nervously, no doubt.

“I just . . .” I felt my throat tighten. All the thoughts and anger and worries of the day seemed to be piling up like Jenga pieces. I knew all it would take was a nudge in the wrong direction, and I’d be done. “I just don’t want to pretend to be happy in front of all those people.”

As the words left my mouth I knew I’d lost my grip. I turned away from her and dove onto the couch, smushing my face into the armrest. My mom let out a sigh. I listened as her socks slowly brushed across the carpet. I felt the sinking of the couch cushion as she nestled up next to me.

“Ah, Jack.” She exhaled, beginning to scratch my back. “I don’t know what to tell you. Part of me thinks you should honor your commitment, but I also don’t want you to torture yourself.”

We sat in silence for a while, the seconds counted by soft scratches of fingernails against my cotton T-shirt. I pressed my forehead into the brown upholstery, replaying the meeting with Corey and his mom.
If only we’d talked to Connor and Imani longer
, I kept thinking.
If only we’d taken a different subway line home.

“I worry sometimes, Jack. I worry that your dad and I might have made a mistake, letting you work in this adult world while you were still a kid,” my mom said softly. “It’s one of the reasons we moved to Shaker Heights. Losing a job and the feelings that come with that—that’s a lot for a twelve-year-old to deal with.”

Listening to her somehow made me even
sadder. Of course I hated getting fired, but what would my life have been like if I hadn’t had the chance to work on Broadway?

“If you don’t want to see
The Big Apple
, I’ll support you, of course,” my mom said finally. “But I can’t help thinking it might be good for you to see it. To be reminded that it’s just a show and not this big scary thing that’s always following you.”

She smoothed my hair and stood up from the couch.

“Either way, we should let them know before we leave tonight.”

“You do know I would have supported you no matter what,” Lou declared the next day, practically doing bell kicks as we crossed Times Square. “But now that we’re here, I’m really glad you decided to see the show.”

The Palace Theatre was located in the heart of the theater district. Over the years its tenants ranged from
Oklahoma!
to
Beauty and the Beast
to
Legally Blonde
, making it one of the most iconic Broadway houses, always depicted in postcard photos and snow globes.

“We’ll see.” I shrugged, stepping up onto the curb. “If nothing else, I
do
want to see how they do the subway effect at the end of Act One.”

“You gonna be okay, Jack Sprat?” my dad asked, handing us our tickets.

I looked up at the giant signs framing the entrance, quotes from the theater critics proclaiming
“Heart-Racing!” “Eye-Popping!”
and
“Delicious!”
The walls were plastered with production photos, shots of
Corey
crouched on a curb,
Corey
under the Brooklyn Bridge with the actress who played his mom,
Corey
jumping over a subway turnstile. His eyes seemed to be staring directly at me, teasing, as if to say, “Pretty cool, right? Remember when this was
almost
you?”

“I think I’ll be okay,” I said in a shaky voice.

“I told him if it gets too intense, we can totally leave at intermission,” Lou assured my dad. “I’m more than happy to hear the second act when the cast recording comes out next month.”

We’d come this far; I knew I might as well face the music. And no matter what she claimed, Lou would be disappointed if I dragged her out halfway through.

“Well, enjoy the show,” my mom said, kissing
the top of my head. “Text us when you get out.”

As we entered the theater we were greeted by friendly ushers gently herding us past merchandise stands hawking
Big Apple
T-shirts, mugs, and sippy cups. We made our way down the red-and-gold carpet to a pair of seats in row G. On our previous two trips to Broadway shows, Lou and I had made a game of going through the Playbill and pointing out every cast member that I knew. It was an activity that always ended in laughter because, more often than not, I didn’t really
know
them.

Well, I once stood behind her at Schnippers
, I’d say, or
I saw him totally bite it on the stairs at the 42nd
Street subway station.

“Wanna tell me about who came late to rehearsal or had bad breath?” Lou asked encouragingly, clutching her Playbill like a golden ticket.

“Is it okay if I pass?” I said, forcing a smile.

“Of course,” Lou replied. “I’ll just assume that because they’re on Broadway, everyone has a good work ethic and perfect dental hygiene.”

The Big Apple
didn’t begin with an overture like most musicals typically do, rather the single voice of a child.

“One song, one song worth singing . . .”

I shivered in my seat. A pin spot beamed down on Corey dressed as the character of Hudson, looking even tinier and more adorable than he did in person. As he sang, the lighting began to shift. Projections of a passing subway
whoosh
ed past him. Suddenly the orchestra kicked in, and we were transported from the graffiti-scrawled subway tunnels to a bustling Times Square complete with actors riding Citi Bikes, dancers dressed as furry mascots, and even a life-size “Big Apple” double-decker bus.

Although the production looked just as epic as the critics had described, the only thing I could concentrate on was Corey. I watched as he maneuvered his way through staging I remembered learning in those early rehearsals. It all came rushing back to me—dashing stage right to fake-collide with a woman carrying shopping bags, hopping stage left over an imaginary puddle, stealing a hot dog off a street cart upstage. I wondered if Lou was paying as much attention to
Corey and his blocking as I was. I’m sure everyone in the audience was only thinking what a great job he was doing.

As the first act whizzed by, I kept forcing myself to concentrate and enjoy the show, but it got harder and harder to do. I hadn’t realized how many lines I’d memorized until a new one would spring up and startle me. Finally, when a giant set piece that was supposed to be the inside of a subway car tracked onstage, I knew we were close to intermission. The final scene involved Hudson being chased through a train by a pair of police officers. A strip of stage became a treadmill with Corey and the officers running one way while passengers and metal train car doors zipped by in the other direction. As the intermission house lights sprung to life, the audience roared with applause. It pained me to admit, it was one of the best-choreographed sequences I’d ever seen on a Broadway stage.

“How ya doin’, friend?” Lou asked as an elderly couple squeezed past us.

“I’m fine,” I said, ducking my head to avoid being swatted by their rolled-up programs. “It’s cool, right?”

“Definitely,” Lou confided. “Although Connor
did
say the second act kind of drags, so we’ll just have to see.”

Connor was wrong; the second act was even better than the first. I caught Lou stifling laughter, still trying to play the role of the biased, supportive friend. In the final scene where Hudson’s mother runs onstage and hugs him, a tiny whimper escaped from her lips. She covered it immediately by pretending to clear her throat. The curtain fell, and the audience leaped to its feet, an immediate standing ovation. Lou hesitated, but followed my lead as I stood and cheered for the ensemble, strutting from the wings to take their bows.

“That was really good,” I mumbled as we made our way up the aisle, crammed with school groups and patrons clutching soggy Kleenexes.

“It was,” Lou agreed. “Thanks for taking me.”

“Of course,” I said, so many thoughts racing through my head.

We hung a right at the corner, nearing the stage door. A cluster of people had already formed a line against the steel barricades, clutching their glossy Playbills and cell phones. Some were even armed with Sharpies, already uncapped
and waiting for the cast to emerge. Lou stopped suddenly, grabbing my hand.

“Jack,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want to just go home? We can say we had to meet your parents for a dinner reservation or something.”

“No,” I said, speaking over the blaring of car horns and audience chatter. “We should at least say thanks to Corey for getting us the tickets.”

Lou looked at me intently, searching for a signal or something to let her know that I was going to be okay.

“Thanks for being sensitive, though.” I half laughed. “But I’m good now. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Anytime.”

We gave our name to the security guard and were ushered down a narrow staircase, my heart beating faster with every step.

“Well, look who it is!” a voice called from behind us. We turned to find Kip, the
Big Apple
stage manager whose mouth hung open in disbelief. “You’ve gotten so big! You’re like a little man now!”

“Haha, it’s true!” I said, hugging him, deciding not to mention that compared to the rest of the kids in my class, I was still pretty short.

A parade of
hello
s and
congratulations
soon followed. Everyone who rounded the corner said essentially the same thing: “Look at how grown-up you are!” or “In a couple years you should come back and play the Taxi Driver!”

“I’m so proud of you guys,” I kept repeating. “You were incredible!”

The more hands I shook and the more waists I hugged, the more I began to notice what was going on. Panic seemed to flash across my old castmates’ faces as they saw me standing in the greenroom—o
h jeez, I hope this kid is all right.
I tried my best to make the situation less awkward, tried to make everyone more comfortable by bombarding them with compliments, asking them about their spouses, their kids, their pets. I knew it would make everyone feel better if I seemed okay.