Jack & Louisa: Act 3

by Andrew Keenan-Bolger

  “Ugh, this concept,” Jenny drawled sarcastically. “I’m sorry, Lou, but I am getting so sick of that word.”

  You and everyone else, I thought woefully as I watched her walk to the edge of the stage and hop off, searching the rows of seats for her water bottle. No doubt she wanted to rinse out the bad taste left behind from uttering the word concept. I looked past Jenny to see Belinda, still quietly watching all of us. Was she ever going to say anything?

  More and more cuts were made, stoking the fires of Raj and Radhika’s doubts, Tanner’s observations, Jenny’s frustration, and Belinda’s silence. But all of it paled in comparison to Jack’s final, and most devastating, decision. On Friday, the day before we were set to leave for Ghostlight, he gathered us on the stage after we’d finished our final run-through.

  “All right, guys,” he began, his voice low and gravelly with exhaustion. “I know it’s been an intense couple of weeks, but I really appreciate all of your patience. Thanks for working so hard; I think it’s going to pay off this weekend.”

  I looked around at my castmates’ faces. No one seemed terribly convinced. I wondered if Jack could tell.

  “One last thing, and then I’ll let everyone go home and pack,” he said, then cleared his throat and looked over our heads, toward the Exit sign, “we’re going to cut ‘Soon It’s Gonna Rain.’”

  An excruciating silence followed, during which I felt the eyes of my castmates fixed on me and Sebastian, awaiting a response. Finally, from the edge of the stage came the voice I’d been waiting to hear.

  “You sure you want to do that, Jack?”

  Belinda, leaning against the proscenium arch with her legs crossed in front of her, looked genuinely worried. It was the same expression she’d had in my living room last spring when she thought our production of Guys and Dolls might be over.

  “It’s just,” she added gently, “you did such beautiful work with that number. That’s all.”

  Jack took a deep breath and dug his hands deep into his pockets. Would he be able to hear her comments without getting defensive? Would he be able to see that he was making a huge mistake?

  “Thanks,” Jack said. “It’s just . . . watching it now, I realize . . . if we really do want to keep Matt and Luisa separated until the end, if we’re trying to make the statement that technology keeps us all disconnected . . . even in the pursuit of love . . . then leaving that song in the show just won’t work for the . . .” Not even Jack could bring himself to say concept—it had become too toxic a word. Belinda nodded slowly.

  “Well, if you think it’s for the best,” was all she said.

  The tears that had threatened to spill down my cheeks at first were now displaced by a surge of anger. Not only had my favorite part of the show just been eliminated, but our very experienced faculty advisor had very politely given Jack the perfect opportunity to change his mind, and he hadn’t. I inhaled sharply through my nose, not wanting the rest of my cast to see how upset I’d become. After all, none of us had been spared, had we? We’d all had to sacrifice parts of our performances for the sake of Jack’s vision.

  “Plus,” Jack added halfheartedly, “it keeps our running time well within the limits of the competition rules, so that’s good.”

  “Bet it doesn’t feel good,” Jenny whispered in my ear, squeezing my shoulder as she walked past me toward the lip of the stage, and just like that—the weight of everything that had been changed and taken away from us over the last three weeks was more than I could bear. As I followed Jenny into the audience to get my bag and coat, I knew that I couldn’t leave without saying something to Jack. Not wanting to make a scene, however, I would have to wait until everyone, including Belinda, had left. As soon as the heavy double doors clicked shut behind Esther (always slow), I walked back down the aisle toward the stage, where Jack was thumbing through his script in the front row.

  “I can’t believe you’re cutting that song,” I called out, startling him. He stood and turned to face me, looking both nervous and tired.

  “You know I’m not doing it to be mean, right?” he said, offering a weak smile.

  “No, I know,” I said, “it’s just—”

  “I really think the whole piece will work better without it,” Jack interrupted, feeding me the same line he’d used each time he made a cut.

  “Yeah, but it was one of the best moments in the presentation. Belinda even said so,” I said, trying my best to remain calm.

  “Well sure,” he conceded, “in the old version.”

  My attempt at calm vanished as I snapped back, “In any version.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, silently acknowledging that we had stepped into uncomfortable territory. Finally, Jack broke the tension with a shrug.

  “Well, if I thought that were true, then . . .” He hesitated.

  “Then what?”

  “Then I would have kept it in.”

  I didn’t want to be mad at my friend; I really didn’t. But when Jack said stuff like that, it made me furious. I flashed to the image of my castmates as they exited, all looking worn-out, uncertain, and defeated. The competition wouldn’t officially begin until Saturday, but we were already acting like losers.

  “You know what is true?” I asked, no longer able to contain my anger, “nobody thinks this new version is working.”

  Jack’s face hardened.

  “You mean the version you said we had to do if we wanted to win?”

  Oh I see, I thought, he’s going to try to make all of this my fault.

  “You called me over to your house that night because you were freaking out, remember?” I said, my palms starting to sweat. “I was just trying to help you figure out what to do.”

  “Right, but only because you wanted to make sure we beat Cavendish.”

  “And you told me that wasn’t possible with the show we had! So what was I supposed to say?”

  “I don’t know, but don’t forget that you’re the one who’s been obsessed with winning Ghostlight from the beginning. Changing our show was just as much your idea as it was mine.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to cut ‘Soon It’s Gonna Rain.’”

  “Which is the only reason you’re mad, isn’t it? Because I cut your song?”

  Ouch.

  “No,” I said slowly, “I’m mad because our show doesn’t work anymore. We messed it up.”

  “You mean I messed it up.”

  Maybe that is what I meant. Either way, it didn’t matter. It suddenly occurred to me that assigning blame at this late hour wouldn’t accomplish anything but hurting people’s feelings. I looked down at the floor, feeling slightly ashamed but still angry, too.

  “Whatever,” I said softly. “It’s too late now, anyway.”

  “Awesome,” Jack said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Thanks for your support, Lou.”

  I looked up to see that Jack was regarding me with an expression I’d never seen before: a horrible mix of disappointment and disgust. It was the kind of expression that made me think we might never make up.

  “It’s not just my song. It’s Sebastian’s, too,” was all I said as I turned and walked up the aisle to the exit doors.

  Outside my mom was waiting for me in the car. As soon as I slid into the passenger seat, she started talking a mile a minute.

  “Okay, so all of my stuff is packed for the weekend,” she began, her voice buoyant, “which means I’m at your disposal this evening. If you need anything ironed, let me know. Your father has also volunteered to run out for any last-minute items you might need. And he’s offered to take us out to dinner if you like, as a good-luck send-off. I think he’s a little jealous that he’s not coming with us this weekend.” She turned to me with a grin.

  “So—you guys ready for your big weekend?”

  Not even a little bit, I thought miserably, wishing I shared an ounce of my mom’s enthusiasm. Normally I told my mom everything, but I was feeling so awful about what had just happened with Jack that I couldn
’t bring myself to talk about it.

  “Yeah, mostly nervous, though,” I replied, silently acknowledging that at least half of my response was true. I was definitely nervous.

  “Well, sure,” said Mom. “Even us parents are nervous.”

  As she proceeded to tell me about the phone conversations she’d had with the other parent chaperones that day, I heard my own phone buzzing from inside my backpack. I pulled it out only to discover that Jack and I had missed about a dozen text messages from Teddy and Kaylee, who were unable to contain their excitement about our imminent reunion. My stomach began to ache as I scrolled through the most recent texts.

  TEDDY: GOODRICH?? BENNING?? WHERE R U GUYS??

  KAYLEE: LAST TIME I CHECKED THIS THREAD WAS CALLED THE “FOUR MUSKETEERS”?!

  TEDDY: HAVE YOU CRACKED UNDER THE PRESSURE?

  KAYLEE: R U GUYS TOO “FANTASTICK” TO TALK TO US ANYMORE?

  TEDDY: SERIOUSLY, SHOULD WE BE WORRIED?

  KAYLEE: HELLOOOO?

  TEDDY: ???????

  KAYLEE: ??????????

  Jack

  I’VE ALWAYS HATED THE BUS. The sticky floor and grease-smeared glass, the dull gray pleather and the way your body is hurled out of its seat every time you hit a pothole. Maybe it comes from being raised in the city, where the easiest way to get around was an underground train that ran twenty-four hours a day, but I’ve learned to avoid buses at all costs. On those rare occasions when we did have to take the M60 bus to LaGuardia Airport, it was only a matter of time before the stop-start-stop-start bus route turned me as green as a traffic light.

  The bus to Columbus was no exception—but this time, I couldn’t blame my queasiness on speed bumps, a broken air conditioner, or a cranky driver named Larry.

  The stench of dread hung in our yellow SHMS school bus like a rotten egg. Ever since our big overhaul of The Fantasticks, everyone in the cast seemed to be on edge.

  Our parents and chaperones chatted casually up front, while the cast occupied the back of the bus, stewing over my hasty production choices. Raj and Radhika ran through their lines hurriedly, still confused about whether their production assistants were supposed to be speaking in Shakespearean accents. Jenny glowered in a row by herself with earbuds on full volume, exasperated about having her choreography changed yet again. Worst of all, Lou, the person who helped me come up with the concept in the first place, had barricaded herself in the last row and had been giving me the silent treatment since the previous afternoon. So much for spending the two-and-a-half-hour trip singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”—the entire bus was a chorus of silence.

  It might have been for the best. After our fight the night before, I couldn’t imagine what Lou and I would even say to each other. At this point, the only one talking to me was a taunting voice in my head, whispering menacing thoughts with greater and greater frequency: You’ve made a mistake. You’re in over your head. You ran out of time.

  Of course, it wasn’t (only) the presentation that was giving me anxiety. I knew that once we arrived at the Marriott in Columbus, I’d be greeted by a certain someone—a someone I was excited to see, of course, but as each minute passed, the pressure to make our meeting perfect was making me feel like a shaken can of soda, ready to burst.

  Maybe it was the dream that had me so shaken up. The night before we’d departed for Columbus, I dreamt the worst nightmare I’d had since I was in the third grade and had a recurring night terror that Sutton Foster had me blacklisted from the industry after I spilled cranberry juice on her dress at the Tonys. In last night’s dream, I was alone on a pitch-black stage, the hot glow of a single stage light beaming down on me. Out of nowhere, a group of faceless kids, all in prep-school uniforms, emerged from the darkness. The house lights came up all at once, and the seats of the cavernous theater were filled into the mezzanine with other faceless kids in blazers and neckties, each of them pointing a single, accusatory finger.

  Then, in the front row of the theater, a single figure snapped into focus. It was Teddy, but also not Teddy—instead of his ever-present crooked smile, his face was plastered with a cruel, unfamiliar grimace. Not-Teddy walked up to the stage, his dark brown loafers sinking into the thick, floral carpet with every step. He started laughing, and it grew louder and louder as the rest of the theater joined him. The last thing I saw before I woke up, panting like I’d run a marathon and my sheets drenched with sweat, was Not-Teddy throwing his head back and howling like a maniac.

  “Tough gig, huh?” Belinda’s voice startled me back to the real world. “You doin’ all right, darlin’? You look a little green,” she said, squeezing into my row.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, making room for her. “I just don’t like buses. They make me a little carsick.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, looking down at her hands, flexing and curling her ringed fingers before turning back to me. “You know, I remember the first time I ever directed anything. It was a production of Annie at my friend’s dance studio in Paramus, New Jersey. I thought it would be so easy, just stick all those kids in the right places and tell them to sing, but nooo. Everyone’s got questions. Everyone’s got opinions. And no matter what, you can’t please them all.”

  She sighed. “It’s a lonely business, Jack, and it’s sure not always easy. And mind you, these were ten-year-olds.”

  “Huh.” I blinked.

  “It seems like your cast is a little bit”—Belinda squinted her eyes—“on edge right now.”

  “Understatement of the century.” I slumped into my seat.

  “Jack, they’re upset because they’re scared, is all,” Belinda continued. “But I want you to know that I’m not upset with you in the least.”

  “You’re not?” I said, looking up to her.

  “Of course not!” She laughed. “I think what you’re doing is brave. Now, have I been a little concerned that you maybe bit off more than you can chew?” She raised an eyebrow. “I think the answer is: probably, but I admire your spunk.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the bus engine filling the emptiness of conversation.

  “So, what did you end up doing?” I said, finally. “With those ten-year-olds?”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Same thing directors always do: Go with your gut and hope for the best.”

  I looked out the window. As a passing town whooshed by in a blur of gray cement and fall foliage, Belinda’s words replayed in my head like lyrics to a song. Go with your gut and hope for the best. I wasn’t sure if they were meant to be encouraging. If my gut was any indication of how our performance would be received, right now we were headed straight for the crapper.

  “Now, on another note,” she said. “Try taking your thumb and pointer finger and pressing the area on your palm like this,” she said, pinching the fleshy bit of skin on her opposite hand. “When I did the bus-and-truck of Will Rogers Follies, I used to get carsick all the time and this always helped!”

  The lobby of the Marriott looked like one of those postapocalyptic movies where hundreds of bewildered people gathered in a public place to take shelter. But instead of hiding from an asteroid or hordes of flesh-eating zombies, the crowds were exchanging hotel keys and handing out welcome packets. Everywhere I looked, kids were rolling suitcases or piling into elevators or splashing around near the fountain. While our parents gathered at the check-in desk, sorting out room assignments and meal vouchers, I stood alone, going over the latest texts on my phone for the sixth time.

  LOU: WE’VE ARRIVED! WHEN CAN WE MEET UP?

  KAYLEE: WE’RE ABOUT TO ROLL UP. DON’T MAKE ANY NEW BEST FRIENDS WITHOUT ME!

  TEDDY: UNPACKING NOW. SEE YOU IN A FEW!

  An entire 42nd Street–size ensemble of butterflies was performing a quick change in my stomach. It wouldn’t be long before I’d see Teddy. In a matter of minutes, I’d hear his voice again, and marvel at the way he overemphasized his t’s, and smell his shirt as he leaned in for a hug, smelling like clean laundry and lib
rary books. But these warm thoughts were snuffed out by that voice looming in my head.

  But, Jack . . . what if he doesn’t feel the same way about you?

  “We’re on the fourth floor,” my mom said, walking over to our group and handing out key cards to the chaperones. “Also, Jack, they said you need to check in at the ballroom to go over technical stuff with the stage manager.”

  “Oh.” I slumped, my thoughts returning to the unsettling world of The Fantasticks.

  “Would you like Belinda or me to come with you?” my mom asked.

  I looked over to Lou. Normally, this would be just the type of errand she’d volunteer to accompany me on, but the cloudy look on her face told me that this time I was on my own.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, turning back to my mom and the rest of the cast. “You guys can start unpacking. It should only take a minute.”

  I handed off my suitcase and slowly made my way to the enormous ballroom in the back of the hotel, dodging groups of MTNs shaking hands and pushing racks of costumes and singing three-part harmonies to “The Schulyer Sisters” from Hamilton. As I entered the room, I got the strange feeling that I’d been here before. The uniformed kids, the floral carpeting . . . it was just like my nightmare.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Through the sea of clipboards and lanyards, I saw them—students in identical maroon blazers, crisp khakis, and navy blue ties with canary-yellow stripes. Standing in a circle at the center of the ballroom, they were joking around with one another in a self-assured way that made it obvious they knew more than a few eyes were on them.

  All at once, the laughter and roughhousing seemed to halt. At the center of the group, surrounded by kids who looked like they’d stepped out of a Brooks Brothers advertisement, I spotted him. His jacket was slung casually over his shoulder, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing off his tanned arms. His eyes seemed brighter than I’d remembered, his hair shinier and his teeth whiter. As I scrambled to run my fingers through my hair and smooth out the wrinkles on my T-shirt, Teddy turned his head, scanning the room like he knew someone was watching.