“Sorry,” he said, “I got really nauseous for some reason.”
“Do you want me to get your mom?”
“No, it’s okay,” he said, smiling weakly. “I’m just a little shaky, but I’m fine.” He paused, then asked, “You wanna come in?”
I stepped into the room, immediately noticing Jack’s notebook open on his bed, filled with all his ideas and drawings.
“Still working?”
“Just reviewing some stuff,” Jack said sheepishly. “Don’t worry—I’m not gonna make any more cuts.” Jack shuffled sock-footed over to the bed and closed the notebook.
Watching him, I was suddenly overcome with nervousness; how in the world was I going to start this conversation?
“Um.”
Jack turned to me, his face pale and expectant.
“Yeah?”
I stood next to the desk, running my index finger along the edge of the leather-bound room service menu.
“So,” I began, “I’m pretty sure that Juniper girl isn’t Teddy’s girlfriend.”
I hoped Jack’s face would offer a sign of relief, or even better, somehow let me know with just an expression that he understood what I was really talking about, but he quickly looked down at the floor.
“Okay,” was all he said in response.
“He was really worried about you when you ran off,” I said, now fiddling with the laminated card that asked you to reuse your towels. It was seemingly impossible to get through this without props.
“I’ll text him and Kaylee, tell them I’m okay,” Jack said, digging in his back pocket for his phone.
“Jack—” I took a step toward him.
“Let’s forget about yesterday,” he interrupted, letting his phone drop on the bed. “I didn’t mean what I said about you only being mad ’cause it was your song. I was just—”
“And I didn’t mean that we messed up our show,” I rushed to add. “I think I was just feeling anxious . . .”
“Yeah, I hear that,” Jack said, going a little green.
“But, Jack—” I began, then stopped short, all the words getting caught in my throat.
“What?”
There was no way Jack could know what I was about to say; perhaps an ambush was unavoidable. I cleared my throat and continued, “I think I know part of the reason why this whole Ghostlight thing has been so stressful for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . .”
As I hesitated, fearful of saying the wrong thing, Jack eyed me suspiciously. I knew I needed to say something, and soon; otherwise Jack might write me off as a complete lunatic. But what I finally blurted out didn’t even come close to the eight hundred other things I’d considered saying.
“I like Tanner, okay?”
Jack looked at me, thoroughly confused. After a moment, though, he smirked.
“Yeah, I know, Lou,” Jack said, amused. “That’s been obvious since, like, February.”
“But,” I sputtered, “I’m telling you now! And it’s been hard to tell you!”
For the first time since we’d arrived in Columbus, Jack allowed himself to laugh.
“I get it, Lou,” he said. “But it’s not a big deal. And it certainly hasn’t been stressing me out. It’s okay to like Tanner.”
I started to laugh, too.
“Well, good!”
Even though I wasn’t really there to talk about Tanner, I still felt a rush of relief as I confessed my feelings out loud. It didn’t mean I was going to do anything about them, but allowing myself to talk about them made me feel so much better. I knew it was now my turn to offer Jack that same relief.
From somewhere deep inside I found the courage to look him straight in the eye.
“So, Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s also okay to like Teddy.”
Jack’s look of surprise quickly gave way to panic, and I watched his chest rise and fall as his breathing quickened.
“I haven’t said anything because I wasn’t sure,” I said hurriedly, “but then when you ran off just now . . .”
“Did you say anything to Teddy?” Jack asked, the panic rising in his voice.
“No, I would never,” I assured him. “But just so you know, he definitely wanted to sit with you.”
A prolonged silence filled the room as Jack slowly sat down on the edge of his bed and turned his face away from me while I continued to stand awkwardly by the desk. Suddenly his hands flew to his eyes, tears catching him by surprise.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Don’t be sorry,” I said, debating whether to go to him or stay put. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk to me about it.”
“It’s not like I’ve been sure myself,” Jack said after a moment, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’m still not really sure . . . I mean, I just know that I like Teddy . . . Though he might not, you know . . .”
“I’m pretty sure he does,” I ventured, causing Jack to sit up straighter.
“Really?” He sniffed.
“Well, it was kind of obvious that last night at camp . . .”
Jack squirmed the way I did when he teased me about Tanner.
“Oh, jeez . . .”
“Keeping a secret is tough,” I said, finally joining him on the edge of the bed. We sat side by side, not saying anything, for what seemed like a long time. Finally, Jack turned to me, his eyes rimmed with red.
“You know what else is tough? Knowing that our show sucks.”
“No!”
As much as I’d wanted to accuse him of that very thing yesterday, now all I wanted to do was assure him otherwise.
“It doesn’t. It’s just different. You took a risk and that’s super brave.”
“I just wanted us to win.” He sighed. “I know how much you wanted to win.”
“I did,” I admitted, “but honestly—I don’t even care anymore. I mean, I care about the show, but who cares about winning? Everyone else here is having such a great time—”
“—and we’re miserable!” Jack interjected, making us both start to laugh again. It was true—Kaylee and Teddy had promised an amazing weekend filled with like-minded theater nerds, and here we were having a serious life moment in a dark, lonely hotel room while everyone else was geeking out over some belting Broadway diva on the first floor.
“Do you want to go back downstairs?” I asked. “I bet we could still catch the last bit of the concert.”
“I don’t think I could deal with seeing Teddy right now,” Jack said, shaking his head. “I’d be too self-conscious with both of you there.”
I understood what he meant, imagining the next time I’d be with Tanner and Jack at the same time. So embarrassing.
“What if we just raid the vending machine, then?” I suggested. Jack’s eyes lit up. Having a health nut for a mom, meant he rarely got to eat junk food.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, reaching for his nightstand and scraping loose change into his hand. “I’m finally hungry!” We jumped up and headed toward the door, but as Jack put his hand on the doorknob, he paused.
“For the record,” he said, twisting his torso to look at me. “Teddy’s not the main reason I wanted to do Ghostlight.”
“I know,” I said, smiling mischievously. “But it’s so much more fun to pretend that it is.”
“Oh no, I’ll never hear the end of it, will I?” Jack said, rolling his eyes in mock despair.
As he opened the door I whispered in his ear, “Remember that time you made me give up Sound of Music so you could be with your boyfriend?”
Without missing a beat, he shot back, “Remember that time you gave up Sound of Music so you could be with your boyfriend?!” And with that, Jack took off running down the hall with me close on his heels, both of us shrieking with laughter.
Jack
I SLEPT MORE SOUNDLY THAT night than I had in months. I wasn’t sure if it was the mountain of fluffy hotel pillows or the mountain of v
ending-machine candy bars Lou and I had devoured while watching late-night cable, but the mattress absorbed my body like quicksand, and I woke up feeling new.
Talking with Lou and finally opening up about Teddy with another person felt like taking off a backpack that had been filled with rocks. I’d thought that admitting that I liked Teddy—acknowledging that I was different—would make me feel alone. But I’d clearly underestimated my best friend. And if what she thought about Teddy was true, I had not one, but two reasons to feel like I belonged.
Of course, not everything was in its right place. I still had to direct a show that I wasn’t even sure I believed in, with a cast of friends who felt like I’d let them down. While I got ready to face the day— I must’ve changed T-shirts ten times—I noticed the competition schedule resting on my bedside table. We were set to present The Fantasticks at one thirty that afternoon, which meant that we had to be on deck, ready to perform, by one o’clock. All at once I knew what had to be done. I’d never been good at math, but I knew enough to calculate that there was still time to fix what I’d so thoroughly messed up.
“Mom,” I called, snatching a room key off the dresser. “I have to go find my cast.”
“You sure you don’t want to wait for me?” she asked from the bathroom, drying her hair with a fluffy Marriott towel.
“No, this is an emergency. I’ll text you when I find them.”
I charged down to breakfast without even brushing my teeth. I bypassed the elevator for the stairs, jumping down two steps at a time. I stormed through the lobby, passing buffets of fruit salad and kids making a mess at the Belgian waffle maker. Finally, I spied a table with some familiar faces in the back of the restaurant.
“You guys,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath as I collapsed into their booth.
Lou and Jenny halted their conversation, and Tanner looked up from the pancakes that he was currently drowning in syrup.
“We need to get everyone together,” I said frantically. “I have an idea.”
“You want to do what?” Jenny blurted, almost spitting an entire mouthful of grapefruit juice into my face. I looked around the table at my cast, who were all in various states of dress, some still wearing slippers and pajama bottoms.
I could hear Belinda’s bus-ride advice playing through my head: “Go with your gut and hope for the best.”
“I want to change the show back to what it was before,” I exclaimed. “Back to when we enjoyed rehearsing and I’d never spoken the words concept or reality TV.”
Eight pairs of eyes stared back at me in disbelief. I knew that what I was asking was crazy, but I also knew that it was crazy to perform a show that nobody—cast, crew, or director—really believed in.
“But how?” Raj interjected. “We perform in, what? Four hours?”
“Well, if you think about it, that’s almost two whole after-school rehearsals,” I reasoned. “Think of how much we were able to do back in Shaker Heights. It can’t be that hard to strip away all the nonsense and get back to what was actually working.”
My cast still looked skeptical.
“Come on, guys!” Belinda said, throwing down her English muffin. “Yesterday we were all such mopes, and now our director is giving us the opportunity to turn this all around.”
Belinda rose from the table, adopting a strong stance, a marmalade-covered butter knife still in her hand.
“We all signed up to do a Jack Goodrich show, and now he’s giving us the chance to do something great,” she continued in a rousing voice strangely reminiscent of Alice Ripley’s Tony Awards acceptance speech for Next to Normal. “Just think of the story we’ll be able to tell!”
The cast’s heads turned slightly, trying to catch glimpses of anyone who might be feeling the same way.
“I say we do it!” Belinda cheered, raising her butter knife into the air. “Who’s with me?”
“I found us a conference room!” my mom cheered, flying down triumphantly to our table the second I texted her with the big news.
Together, our cast surged through the hotel with a newfound determination, like we were student soldiers boarding the barricade in Les Misérables. Everywhere we looked we saw groups of kids nervously heading to their own presentations—middle-schoolers dressed as orphans and greasers and dancing silverware. As we turned a corner on the second floor, I heard a voice call my name from the throng of passing students, then a hand on my wrist, spinning me around.
It was Teddy.
“Are you okay, buddy?” he said, pulling us out of the traffic jam of students. “You seemed pretty far gone last night.”
“Yeah, I’m all right,” I replied. “It was this stupid . . . stomach thing. I’m much better now.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said sympathetically. “I was worried about you.”
We just stood there for a few seconds. I could still feel the spot on my arm where he’d grabbed me with his hand, like a little spark on the hairs of my wrist. But I reluctantly shifted my gaze to the group of my friends disappearing down the hallway without me.
“Thanks for thinking of me, Teddy,” I said, snapping out of the moment and grabbing him by the shoulders. “And I’d love to continue this conversation, but right now, I have to go save my show!”
The next four hours were the craziest of my life: crazier than lines at Cedar Point the weekend their new roller coaster opened; crazier than Shubert Alley the weekend of the Broadway Flea Market; crazier than the final callbacks for A Christmas Story, where forty kids piled into a room and learned the entire dance break to “You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out” in just twenty minutes.
The conference room was only half the size of the actual stage, and it was filled with tables, chairs, and decorative plastic plants, but even in the crowded space, the show started to improve almost immediately after we resurrected the original script that I’d “modernized” into critical condition. I was amazed at how quickly the old moments came back to us, and whenever we drew a blank, Belinda, our new MVP, jumped in to remind us of our old blocking. (It turns out that she’d taken detailed descriptions of my staging, perhaps hoping that one day we’d reach this conclusion on our own.) My mom was able to run down a copy of our original cues to the festival stage manager just as the first school was loading in to perform. Laughter filled the room and smiles returned to our faces as we pieced together the magic we’d created in those first few weeks. And slowly, the idea of performing some slick, perfect presentation didn’t seem to matter all that much. We were having fun again—and that was the most that I could ask from any cast.
Just as we finished restaging the bows, a woman wearing a “Ghostlight Staff” T-shirt popped her head into the room. “Shaker Heights Middle School, you’re on deck!”
The butterflies returned to my stomach the second we arrived at the ballroom, just like they had the day before—but this time it wasn’t because I was dreading what was waiting inside.
“Okay, guys,” I said to my cast, now circled up and holding hands as I gave my final pep talk. “I know that what I’m asking you to do is crazy. I know that in a perfect world, we’d have another month to rehearse this version.”
“Or, you know, like, a time machine.” Tanner laughed.
“Fair enough.” I smiled. “But I wouldn’t have sprung this on you if I wasn’t sure that you guys could pull it off.”
I looked around the circle at my friends, remembering back to that Sunday morning in September when we’d all first gathered in the auditorium. It was hard to believe that with everything that had happened, these eight actors were still willing to put their trust in me.
“I know it’s going to feel a little bit like you’ve been shot out of a cannon,” I continued. “But if you just focus on telling the story, you can’t go wrong. Be honest, listen to your fellow actors, and most importantly”—I sighed, feeling a tightness growing in my throat—“just go out there and have fun.”
I watched my team disappear into the wings, and soon it
was only Belinda and me, totally helpless to whatever might happen next.
“My mom saved me a seat, but I don’t think I can sit in the audience,” I confessed, looking up at her. “I’m too anxious.”
“Oh, honey, I’m the same way,” she agreed. “Come stand in the back with me. We can pace nervously together.”
As the lights dimmed, I spotted two familiar figures taking a seat in the second row. It was Kaylee and Teddy! I’d thought for sure they would be preparing for their own presentations. I couldn’t tell if I was more excited to see their faces or terrified that they might be embarrassed by what was about to emerge from behind the curtain.
Our presentation began with Mr. Hennessy playing the jingly overture to the show. The first person to enter was Jenny, wearing a race-car-red leotard and a ballet skirt, springing from the wings in a split-leap jeté that made half the audience gasp in amazement. She proceeded to decorate the stage, arranging chairs between pirouettes and pulling costumes out of the trunk with flourishes and turns. I realized now how criminal it was to strap a camera on the shoulder of this beautiful ballerina and how lucky we were to see someone dance their own choreography.
Tanner was the first to sing, drawing us in with the gorgeous melody of “Try to Remember” just like he had his first day of rehearsal. Sebastian brought charisma to the poetic love song “Metaphor,” and Lou dazzled, popping out silvery high notes in her solo, “Much More.” (Now that she didn’t have to spend the final verse pretending to choose the perfect photo filter, her voice was able to soar.)
Of course, not everything was perfect. Some of the blocking was forgotten, and the occasional line was dropped. Tanner was probably the biggest offender, sometimes paraphrasing dialogue and even once reverting back to the old, concept version. In the speech where the two lovers meet in the forest, he was supposed to say “And love was sweeter than the berries,” but instead decreed, “And love was sweeter than Ben and Jerry’s.” Immediately he noticed his mistake and spent the rest of the monologue trying to stifle his own laughter. Sebastian got the giggles, too, and even Lou, the most professional of them all, had to turn upstage to keep from breaking character. Still, I couldn’t be mad; the sight of my cast enjoying themselves, even because of a mistake, was more gratifying than the most sincere performance of The Fantasticks: The Reality Show ever could be.
Jack & Louisa: Act 3 Page 12