“Peter letter?” Annie asks, dropping to the floor beside me. We are sitting on the floor of the band wing, waiting for homeroom to start.
Ryan makes a grumpy sound.
“Yes,” I translate.
“Ooh, let me see! I love looking at his penmanship.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. But he hands over the letter.
Annie reads and admires while I pet Ryan’s arm soothingly. William arrives and sits beside Annie, tucking an arm around her and reading over her shoulder. Leticia and Diane show up soon after, and the letter is passed around some more, and everyone expresses happiness about all the things that are going so well for Peter. Except Ryan, who just says “hmph” a lot.
Finally the bell rings for homeroom and everyone begins to disperse. Ryan gives me an extra kiss to show me he’s not really that grumpy before he heads off down the hall. I link arms with Annie and head for the stairway, still feeling the aftershocks of Ryan-kissing and also just generally feeling happy and good and safe and not even a tiny bit worried about anything possibly happening to screw up all the things that are going so well.
Everything is going to be fine.
In what seems like two seconds, it is Friday. Auditions. Ryan has gotten over his initial nervous excitement and is now just the regular kind of excited. I have listened to him sing “Stars” about five million times this week so far, but I can’t wait to hear him sing it again, onstage, while Mr. Henry sits in his favorite seat and jots down all kinds of positive notes on his legal pad.
I sit through a bunch of other auditions first, though. I’m in my own favorite seat with Ryan’s stuff piled in the seat next to me; he’s off in a stairwell somewhere, warming up. All of the usual suspects seem to be here, plus a few new faces who might be freshmen or transfers or else aspiring theater kids who only just got their nerve up to try out. A show like Les Mis will do that sometimes. One of the unfamiliar girls is really good — a potential Éponine, maybe. I can see Mr. Henry making his impressed face as he scribbles away.
When Mr. Henry calls Ryan, my beautiful boyfriend bounds up the steps with his usual otherworldly grace and stands confidently in the center of the stage. I love seeing him up there. It’s like glimpsing some rare wild creature in its natural habitat, where it is perfectly at home. Ryan onstage is a reflection of a world that makes sense. Given our recent nonsensical demonic experiences, I am particularly hungry for things that make sense right now. Everything in its proper place. Ryan center stage. Demons safely confined to the demon world. Mr. Henry in fourth-row-left-aisle. Everything as it should be.
The intro music begins, and then Ryan is singing. And he’s so good. Of course. I tear my adoring and possessive gaze away to glance at Mr. Henry, who is nodding and smiling and jotting as expected. Ryan finishes his section and thanks Mr. Henry and Mr. Iverson (the accompanist) and then bounds back down the steps and up the aisle and shoves his stuff over so he can drop into the seat beside me.
“You were great,” I whisper, squeezing his hand. “In the bag.”
“Thanks.” He squeezes my hand back. “And thanks for listening to me practice all week. It really helped.”
“You didn’t need help. But you’re welcome.”
We stop talking as the next name is called. It’s one of the new people; a boy this time. Jeff something. He’s freckly with reddish-blond hair, which for some reason makes me think he’s going for Marius, but when Mr. Iverson starts playing, it’s the familiar opening to “Stars” again. Jeff looks a little nervous as he waits for his entrance. He must be a transfer student; I definitely haven’t seen him around, and he looks too old to be a freshman.
Then he starts singing, and I find myself staring openmouthed.
His voice is like . . . velvet. It’s deep and strong and smooth as anything and all traces of his initial nervousness vanish as soon as he starts to sing. Ryan is staring beside me with the same shocked expression, and so is Mr. Henry. So is Mr. Iverson, who knows the music well enough at this point to be able to turn to stare and still keep playing.
I can feel Ryan’s deepening dismay like a physical presence, taking up more and more space as the song continues. When Jeff gets to the stopping point, Mr. Iverson plays several extra bars before his fingers remember to stop moving.
There is a moment of utter silence, and then Mr. Henry coughs. “Thank you, um” — he checks his notes — “Jeff. Very nice. Thank you.”
Jeff thanks him back and leaves the stage. Ryan is still staring at the empty space where Jeff had been standing. With visible effort, he blinks and turns to look at me. His face is pale and shaken and there is an underlying panic that makes me want to weep.
“Where the hell did he come from?” Ryan whispers finally. “Who is he?”
I shrug helplessly. “Transfer, I guess? I’ve never seen him before.” I hesitate and then say it, because someone has to. “He’s really good.”
Ryan barks a very unamused laugh. “Yeah. No shit.” He leans back in his seat, staring at the stage again, and adds, somewhat contradictorily, “Shit.”
Someone else is called in, and we stop talking again. I don’t take my eyes off Ryan, though. He looks . . . bad. This is bad. This is wrong. Javert is his part. I thought that was understood. I thought the universe was on board with that. The universe was not supposed to send this Jeff guy with his velvety voice and fake-nervous expression and part-stealing aspirations. I want to believe that it doesn’t matter, that Mr. Henry will cast Ryan no matter what, but . . . well, that is the downside of Mr. Henry having a heart of gold. If he thinks Jeff is the better guy for the part, he’ll give it to him. Even if it breaks his golden heart to do it.
“I have to . . . I’ll . . .” Ryan doesn’t bother to finish making his excuse; he just pushes up from his seat and walks quickly out the rear door of the auditorium. My immediate impulse is to follow him, but it’s pretty clear that he wants to be alone right now. I sink back into my seat and look up at the stage, where someone has started to sing “Castle on a Cloud,” which is the one song from this show that I actually kind of despise. I glance again at Mr. Henry. He seems distracted, not really jotting so much as absently tapping his pen against the paper. I don’t like how unhappy he looks right now.
This doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself firmly. Sure, okay, this Jeff guy will get a callback for Javert. So will Ryan. And Ryan will just have to crush him at callbacks, and then everything will be fine. Ryan is amazing. He can do it. He just . . . he’d just gotten complacent, maybe, relaxed into knowing he was the best singer in our school. And so now he has to remind everyone how awesome he is. So okay, that’s what he’ll do. No problem.
As the auditions continue, I keep sneaking hopeful glances at the auditorium doors.
But Ryan doesn’t come back for a very long time.
In fact, technically, Ryan never comes back. Not on his own. I have to go and find him.
Luckily, I know his favorite haunts by now, and where he’s most likely to go when he’s upset. As expected, he’s in the seldom-used far east stairwell, sitting on the bottom step on the basement level. There’s not even a doorway down here to get into the basement proper; it’s just a weird vertical dead end, like the contractors forgot what they were doing and built this area by accident.
I sit down beside him. He doesn’t look at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says back.
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Okay,” I say finally. “So you’ve got some competition. That’s okay. It’s unexpected, but it’s okay. You’ll both get called back, and you will kick his ass. You know you will. You were born to play Javert.”
He sighs. “I sure used to think so.”
“Ryan, come on. You can’t let this guy get to you.”
He shakes his head. He’s still not looking at me. “It’s not . . . it’s not just him. I mean, yes, at the moment, it’s largely just him, but . . . I think he was sort of a wake-up call. And
I don’t like what I’m waking up to, Cyn.”
“What are you talking about?”
Now he looks at me, and I’m shocked by the anguish I can see in his eyes. My Ryan is usually pretty goddamn resilient. I thought he’d have shaken this Jeff guy off by now and already be looking forward to their inevitable callback confrontation. But he’s not. Not even close, apparently.
“I think maybe camp and high school spoiled me, you know? I thought . . . I thought I was really good. I mean really good.”
“You are —”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. “I’m pretty good. I mean, I know that. I’m good for high school, and I’m even good for theater camp. But I let myself think that meant I was really good, like professional-level good. And then this guy . . .” He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Cyn. That’s what professional-level good looks like. I’m not — I’m not there. Not like that.”
“This is crazy talk.” I reach over and take his hand. “You’re just not over the surprise of having competition yet. He’s good, yes. But so are you. And I think . . . I think maybe you just relaxed for a while, you know? Because you could. And now you have to step it up a bit. But you can, and you will.”
He just shakes his head again.
“Okay, listen. How many recordings of Les Misérables do you own?”
“What does that — ?”
“How many?”
“Well — I don’t know. Original London, original Broadway, complete symphonic, twenty-fifth anniversary concert, twenty-fifth anniversary U.K. tour, several foreign language versions . . .”
“Okay, and how many different actors play Javert in those?”
“Well, lots. I mean they’re mostly all different, except for symphonic and tenth anniversary, which are both Philip Quast, but —”
“So you’re saying there are at least several great actors who can play that role professionally.”
“Well, of course. I mean there are lots of Javerts who aren’t even on any of the recordings . . .” He trails off, narrowing his eyes at me. “I see what you’re doing. But it’s not the same thing.”
“Oh, okay. So you’re saying that because this Jeff guy is good, you suddenly aren’t, but that same logic doesn’t hold in any other circumstances? This is special Ryan-Jeff logic that the rest of the world can’t possibly understand?”
“Cut it out. You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I’m trying to show you how ridiculous you’re being.”
“I’m not! I’m just — I’m just saying that he made me think. About how much I’d been taking for granted. I thought . . . God, Cyn, I thought I’d get into every college theater program I applied for. I imagined you and me sitting around with all our acceptance letters, eating snacks and discussing the pros and cons of all of our many options.”
My heart melts a little at this, because OMG. “You did?”
“Yes, I did. And I bet we’ll still get to do that for you, because you’re amazing, and you will get into every program you apply to. But . . . but I kind of just realized that I might not. That I almost certainly will not. That there are tons of guys like me out there, big fish in little ponds, dreaming their stupid impossible dreams. Shit, Cyn, I’m not even a triple threat. My dancing sucks. I should probably rethink that business degree my dad keeps not-so-subtly randomly mentioning over dinner all the time now.”
He leans over and rests his sad head on my shoulder. I squeeze his hand harder.
“Don’t you dare,” I say softly. “Don’t you dare let this one setback derail you from all of your hopes and plans. Or me from mine. I am still looking forward to sitting around together weighing the merits of all our many program options. I am already planning out the snacks in my head. You are not allowed to introduce that happy daydream to me and simultaneously kill it with your negative self-talk and melodramatic storm clouds of doom. You had better damn well at least try to beat this guy before you give up, Ryan Halsey.”
He’s quiet a moment, taking this in. His head is still on my shoulder. I wait, still holding his hand.
“Will there be really good snacks?” he asks finally. “I mean, like Oreos?”
“There will be amazing snacks. The best snacks that exist in this universe or any other. Including Oreos. But not Double Stuf.”
“Well, no, of course not. Those things totally screw up the cream-to-cookie ratio.”
I take a breath. “This is why I love you.”
“Because we see eye to eye on Oreos?”
“Well, there are some other reasons, too. But that one’s pretty high up there. Good cookie appreciation is important.”
“Damn straight.” He lifts his head and turns to look at me. His eyes are clearer now. “Have I mentioned lately that you are the best girlfriend ever?”
“Nope. You are way overdue, in fact.”
He gives me one of his slow, delicious lopsided smiles and leans toward me. “Best. Girlfriend. Ever.” He punctuates each word with a kiss.
I grin back at him helplessly, because that is what happens when he kisses me, but eventually I manage an awkward throat-clearing sound and an offhand “Don’t you forget it.” It wouldn’t do to let him know how completely he can still turn me into pudding whenever he makes the tiniest effort.
We emerge from the basement level and go to collect our stuff from the auditorium before the custodians toss it all in the lost and found. By the time we get to Ryan’s car, he seems almost back to his old self. We pick up some take-out Thai food and grab a mini pack of Oreos from the convenience store next door and then sit in a corner of the parking lot, sharing noodles and listening to one of my favorite musical-theater mixes on my phone.
Afterward, when nothing is left but a few stray Oreo crumbs, we sit quietly in the dark for a while.
“It will be okay,” I say. “You’ll see. We are going to have the best senior year ever. We’ve earned it. Nothing is going to take that away from us.”
Ryan strokes the inside of my arm with his finger. “Who am I to argue with the wise and beautiful Cynthia Rothschild?” he asks. “If you say it, it must be true.”
“Ha,” I say, since we both know I have been less than truthful on more than one notable occasion. But his compliment is appreciated all the same. Also, the inner-arm stroking is making it hard to think straight. “It is true. I refuse to let anything go wrong this year. Everything is going to be perfect.”
“You’re perfect.”
“You’re ridiculous.” But I’m not fooling anyone. I love it when he says things like that.
“I’m not,” he says seriously. He reaches over and touches my face, his eyes suddenly burning into mine. “I love you, Cyn. You know that, right?”
My heart swells ludicrously inside my chest. It’s not the first time he’s said it; we’ve both said it plenty of times by now. But it still gets me. Every time. And having him so close, his hand on my cheek, his eyes so serious and intense and focused entirely on me . . .
I discover I have to make another of those awkward throat-clearing sounds before I can speak.
“I love you, too. Now stop talking and kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice. This is yet another of the things I love about him. I would tell him that, but we are busy now.
We stay out about as late as any of our parents will tolerate, and then Ryan drops me off at my front door. Well, first he pulls over, and then I kiss him good night, and then there is more kissing, because Ryan. He makes my heart happy. And all my other parts, too. I am only able to get out of the car by silently reminding myself that I will get to see him again tomorrow night.
My parents are already in bed; when I close the door behind me, my dad calls down, “That you, Cyn? How were auditions?”
“Great,” I call back. “Ryan was awesome.”
“Glad to hear it. Don’t stay up too late drawing set designs, okay?”
I roll my eyes, even though no one is there to see it. “Good night, Dad!
”
“Good night, honey!”
I lock up and make my way upstairs. Ryan was all smiles by the time I got out of the car, and not only because of all the making out. I think he’s going to be okay. I know the Jeff thing was a shock, but he just needed to regroup. And have snacks. And be reminded how amazing his girlfriend is.
I meant what I told him about this year being perfect. We have earned it. The events of last fall and the beginning of the summer were really terrible, and while it’s not like I’ve forgotten — there are some things you can never forget — it’s time we put it all behind us. And he’ll see that his fears about the future are groundless, too. Once he gets his confidence back, once he gets this part and remembers how truly amazing he is, he’ll set his horizons back where they belong.
I smile again thinking about what Ryan said about his vision of us sitting around together and planning our futures. I’m not naive; I know we can’t necessarily plan on going to the same school. But it could happen. We’re both looking for great theater programs, after all. And anyway, the part that gets me is that he was thinking about us doing that, looking ahead together to see what the future might bring. What options we have, and what we might decide to do. Together.
Things have been great since we got past the difficulties during that first session at camp over the summer. Really great. Really, really, really great. But I’ve been trying not to let myself think too far ahead, since I know that, no matter what we might want, everything might change come graduation. I know that everyone might go off in different directions and that some directions are very far apart from one another. Some directions are opposite directions, even. Anything could happen.
But also, anything could happen. And the fact that Ryan was sitting around, thinking about us thinking about our futures . . . it makes me want to let myself think about our future more than I’d been letting myself thus far. Not too much, I’m not going to go crazy . . . but I might let a daydream or two of same-direction college plans slip in there from time to time.
Who am I to tell Ryan not to give up on his dreams if I’m not willing to give myself a few extra ones of my own?
Curse of the Evil Librarian Page 2