My Life: The Musical (21 page)

“No.” Emily remembered the draconian terms of her punishment and sighed. “And I might not be able to for a while.

Philip, listen—a lot of stuff has happened—”Philip hated to interrupt, but time was of the essence. “For me, too. Em, I have a present for you, but I need to give it to you right away. Can I come by your house later?”

“No!” Emily cried. “Please,
do not
come to my house.” No way could she let her parents talk to Philip until she’d had a chance to coach him on his alibi. A fake student ID was one thing, a fake driver’s license was entirely another—what had she been thinking, letting Philip get Mark involved?

Emily lowered her voice to a tiny whisper. “Grandma and Stan got arrested,” she breathed into the phone. “My parents found out about us borrowing the money.”

“What? I can’t hear you. Emily, listen,” Philip said. “I wanted this to be a surprise but it sounds like I better just tell you. You won’t believe this! Yesterday, at the Drama Book Shop—”

“There is absolutely no cell phone use inside the hospital, miss!” The nurse looked like she was about to bite. “It interferes with the cardiac equipment. There are signs everywhere, didn’t you notice?”

Emily put up both her hands, the way caught criminals do to show they’re not carrying any weapons. “I have to hang up, bye,” she said quickly, in the direction of the phone, without taking her eyes off the nurse. She prayed Philip could hear her.

The nurse snatched the phone and shut it off. “I’ll hold that at the nurses’ station until your parents get here,” she said. As she walked away, her white shoes squeaked on the linoleum.
Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak,
fading away as she turned the corner.

If my life were a musical,
thought Emily,
that wouldn’t be the beginning of a song at all. Just the stupid squeaky sound of a nurse’s shoes as she walks away with my cell phone.

22

“WHO AM I?”

Les Misérables

1987. Music by Claude-Michel Schönberg,
French lyrics by Alain Boublil,
English lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer,
book by Alain Boublil

The humiliation! Philip had offered up his first great act of love, or tried to, and Emily had basically hung up on him.

Did she hate him now? Had he ruined their friendship for good? And—insane problem to have!—what should he do with this single, priceless, impossible-to-get ticket for tonight’s third-to-last performance of
Aurora
?

After he got off the phone with Emily he’d skipped the rest of school and taken a walk, up and down all the streets of Rockville Centre, until he got too cold and came home. It was after six o’clock. He had to decide.

Should he use the ticket himself? It was tempting. He missed the show dreadfully. It would be so wonderful to sit there, nestled in the comfort of a red velvet seat, safe in the dark as the familiar music played.

Unfortunately, during at least two numbers in
Aurora
the houselights came up to half and the cast interacted directly with the audience, so Marlena would be bound to see him sitting there. Eighth-row orchestra, right next to the head of RCA.

She’d think he’d lied about Emily just to con the ticket out of her. Would she stop the show and berate him for his deceit?

She’d often interrupted the opening number to yell at latecomers; Marlena was unpredictable that way. Better she see the seat empty than him sitting there.

But come on. To not use the ticket? That would be unbearable.

He took out the ticket and looked at it.

“What’s that?” said Mark, yanking off his headphones. Ever since he’d started dating Stephanie, Mark had been spending less time in front of the PlayStation and more time lying in bed listening to Philip’s cast albums. At the moment he was hooked on
Les Misérables,
which he couldn’t remember how to pronounce no matter how many times Philip told him.

“A ticket,” Philip mumbled.

“Lemme see that,” said Mark, jumping up and snatching the ticket out of Philip’s hands. “Dude, this is for
Aurora
! I thought these were impossible to get.
Aurora, Aurora!
” He sang and pranced around Philip. “Can I come? Seeing Stephanie on stage, that would turn me on
so
much!”

Philip couldn’t believe his brother would carry on like this with their mother typing up her depositions in the next room. “There’s only one,” he said, grabbing the ticket back. “It’s Emily’s, anyway. I gave it to her. I’m just not sure she can use it.”

“Awesome!” Mark punched him on the arm. “You gave it to the soulful vixen! You’re gonna get some lovin’ tonight. If you want it, that is!”

“No,” Philip said. “We’re just friends.” But even he knew how lame that sounded.

“Whoa, dude.” Mark looked at him in disbelief. “You gave a ticket to a sold-out Broadway show to a chick, not so you could make the ultimate moves on her, but because you’re ‘friends’? You gave it to her out of ‘friendship’?”

“Yes.”

“Whoa,” Mark said. “
Whoa.
That is some gay thing to do.”

“What’s going on in here?” Mrs. Nebbling peeked into their bedroom. Boys’ bedrooms tended to be funky, and the Nebbling boys’ room was no exception. Between the gym shoes, the dirty laundry, and the half-eaten snacks that had fallen behind the bookshelves, Mrs. Nebbling would have been wise to don her hazmat suit before entering.

“How does pizza for dinner sound?” Mrs. Nebbling asked. “I’ve got a ton more work to do, so I’m not going to get around to making anything. Unless you boys want to cook?”

Naturally, Mrs. Nebbling thought the boys could cook. Why shouldn’t she? Every time she’d called from Wilmington and asked Mark what they’d had for dinner, he’d made something up. Baked ziti. Steaks. Fried chicken. Sometimes he even mentioned a vegetable.

“Philip will make something,” Mark volunteered. “You people are so good in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Nebbling frowned. “Mark, come on. That’s a stereotype. It’s up to Philip to decide whether or not he likes to cook, or be an astronaut, or, I don’t know, run for Congress—”

“Or just go see lots of Broadway musicals!” crowed Mark.

“Well, we already know he likes to do that.” Mrs. Nebbling smiled. “Mushrooms, pepperoni? What’ll it be?”

It’s up to Philip to decide.
The phrase tightened around Philip’s throat. When had it ever been up to Philip to decide anything? His mother, his father, Mark—they all came and went as they pleased and did whatever they wanted, didn’t they? Philip was the one who was trapped in the chaos they left behind.

He stood up, in a sudden fury. “I am not eating pizza for dinner tonight or ever again,” he said. “I’ve eaten pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner four days a week for months, and that is enough for one lifetime!”

“What are you talking about, dude?” said Mark. “What about that nice steak I made you the other day? With the, what-do-you call-’ems? Carrots?”

Philip yanked open his dresser drawer and rummaged wildly for the fake ID Mark had given him for his birthday. “Steak?” he snarled. “Don’t you mean ‘fake’?” His intention was to shove it in his mother’s face and show her just what kind of liar Mark was, but she was looking at him with such kindness he froze.

“Philip!” Mrs. Nebbling said. “Please! I know this is a stressful time for you. I’ve been reading about how difficult it can be for a boy your age to accept his sexual orientation, even with a supportive family structure—”

“Did you check out that PFLAG reading list I e-mailed you, Mom?” said Mark, all but batting his eyes in innocence.

“Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, yes, that was very thoughtful, Mark. See, Philip? There’s no need to lash out at your brother and me—”

“Would you please
listen
!” said Philip, still clutching the ID in his hand. “I am not
talking
about my sexual orientation! I am talking about what I want for
dinner
! And it is not pizza. It can be hamburgers, Chinese food, cheese and crackers, or a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup, but
not pizza
! Okay?”

“Okay,” said Mrs. Nebbling cautiously. “But don’t you think all this anger is really about the fact that you’re still struggling—”

“And stop with the gay thing!” Philip yelled. “Like whether or not I’m gay is the most important thing about me! It’s not, okay? I’m sixteen years old and I’ve never even
had
sex with anyone, so
who cares
?”

A red-letter day this was turning out to be, but Philip was helpless to stop himself. “You’re my
mother
!” he babbled on, like it needed saying. “You’re the only parent I’ve got who lives on the same
coast
as me! Wouldn’t it be more important to know if I’ve done my homework?” He looked at Mark, who was engrossed in pulling loose threads out of his socks. “Or if I need a ride home from school? Or who my friends are, or where I spend my time when I’m not here?”

Philip realized with horror that there were tears running down his cheeks, but it was too late to turn back. “Or if I’m happy?” he shouted. “Or what I want to be when I grow up? Or whether . . . I even . . . care . . .”

He couldn’t say any more. He grabbed his backpack and bolted out of the room.

“Phil,” cried Mrs. Nebbling. “Where are you going?”

“Aurora Aurora Aurora,”
Philip answered, but it just sounded like sobbing, even to him. He didn’t bother to get his coat—he just needed to leave, now.

“Come back, dude!” yelled Mark as the front door to D-West slammed shut. “You’re gonna miss the pizza!”

This was how it began, and this was how it would end: Philip Nebbling, angry and on the run from what was left of his family, drowning his sorrows in the glossy, make-believe world of Broadway.
Aurora
was an urban story with a fair amount of grit, but even so, when the mean streets of the city are filled with dance numbers, and Aurora’s dying mother can belt a B-natural fortissimo and hold it for sixteen beats until the audience leaps to its feet in appreciation, how bad can things really be?

Philip knew the train schedule like the back of his hand, and the 7:03 was what he needed. It was the last train out of Rockville Centre that would get you into the city in time to make curtain.
Seven-oh-three, seven-oh-three, seven-oh-three
—the chant played in his head like the rumble of train wheels as he walked, even faster than usual to keep warm.

He had no idea what time it was now, but Philip had never missed a train in his life. He was worried that his mother would guess where he was going, though, so he took the back roads and stayed off the most direct routes to the station. She was probably driving up and down those streets right now, looking for him. At least, Philip kind of hoped she was.

Perhaps that was why, when the high, hollow whistle of the train approaching the station shrieked through the cold night air, Philip was still three blocks away.

Like a thoroughbred trained to charge full tilt from the gate at the starter’s pistol, at the sound of the whistle Philip started running as fast as he could, even as his brain realized there was no way, no possible way, he could ever make this train.

“Yes, Mr. Henderson, I understand. No, she’s not sick, but her grandmother is in the hospital and we’ve had some disciplinary issues lately, so her father and I are trying to curtail any unsupervised . . . But
you
will be supervising? I see. Sprained her ankle! That’s too bad. No, Emily didn’t tell us. And when does the show open? . . . Tomorrow! No, she never mentioned the extra credit. I agree, grades are so important in sophomore year, the colleges certainly do pay attention. . . .”

Mrs. Pearl shut her cell phone. “Stuart, we need to drop Emily at school.”

“I thought we were going to the Toyota dealership.” Mr. Pearl was in a sour mood. Grandma Rose was spending one more night in the hospital—for observation, they’d said, but Mr. Pearl was convinced it was because the doctor was too busy playing golf to come by and sign her discharge papers. And the car was now in need of a new headlight.

“We have to drop Emily first. She was supposed to be at rehearsal a half hour ago.” Mrs. Pearl craned her head around to the backseat. “Emily, why didn’t you tell us you were in the drama club show?”

“I’m not. I’m just the understudy,” Emily said. She was angry because Mr. Pearl had threatened to confiscate her phone permanently when the nurse told him what happened, though he didn’t actually do it. “Why do I have to go? I thought I was grounded.”

“If she doesn’t want to do it, I’m all for it,” said Mr. Pearl. He changed lanes and headed for the exit that would bring them to Emily’s school.

“Mr. Henderson said he really, really needs your participation,” Mrs. Pearl said, trying to make peace. “He said he admired your moxie for jumping in at the last minute.”

“I’m not in the mood to be in a musical right now,” Emily grumbled, but inside she was thinking,
Moxie? Roxie? Is this guy SAVEME or not? Why, oh why can’t I talk to Philip?

“Emily,” Mrs. Pearl said sternly. “The show must go on.”

23

“IT’S A HELLUVA FIX WE’RE IN”

Inferno! The Musical

Unproduced. Author unknown.

Aurora Aurora Aurora. Aurora Aurora Aurora.

Philip sat on the curb hugging his knees, with his backpack in front of his face so no one could see the grief that was written there. Hardly anyone was out anyway; the weather was getting worse and the residents of Rockville Centre were safe inside their cars, not walking about in the open air the way Philip always did.

He was shivering. He opened his backpack in the hope that there might be something stuffed in the bottom, a dirty gym shirt or hoodie that he could put on. But all Philip saw was the producing book he’d picked up yesterday at the Drama Book Shop, and the file folder he’d nicked from Miss O’Malley’s desk. The excitement of meeting Marlena and being given the ticket had made him forget all about the stolen folder.