Will Grayson, Will Grayson

by John Green

  willupleasebequiet: hey

  willupleasebequiet: it’s will grayson.

  willupleasebequiet: the other one.

  WGrayson7: wow. hello.

  willupleasebequiet: is this okay? me talking to you.

  WGrayson7: yeah. what are you doing up at 1:33:48?

  willupleasebequiet: waiting to see if 1:33:49 is any better. you?

  WGrayson7: if i’m not mistaken, i just saw, via webcam, a revised musical number that involved oscar wilde’s ghost, live from the bedroom of the musical’s

  WGrayson7: director-writer-star-etc-etc

  willupleasebequiet: how was it?

  willupleasebequiet: no.

  willupleasebequiet: i mean, how is he?

  WGrayson7: truth?

  willupleasebequiet: yes.

  WGrayson7: i don’t think i’ve ever seen him more nervous. and not because he’s the director-writer-star-etc-etc. but because it means so much to him, you know? he really thinks he can change the world.

  willupleasebequiet: i can imagine.

  WGrayson7: sorry, it’s late. and i’m not even sure if i should be talking about tiny with you.

  willupleasebequiet: i just checked the bylaws of the international society of will graysons, and i can’t find anything in there about it. we’re in vastly uncharted territory.

  WGrayson7: exactly. here be dragons.

  willupleasebequiet: will?

  WGrayson7: yes, will.

  willupleasebequiet: does he know i’m sorry?

  WGrayson7: dunno. in my recent experience, i’d say hurt tends to drown out sorry.

  willupleasebequiet: i just couldn’t be that person for him.

  WGrayson7: that person?

  willupleasebequiet: the one he really wants.

  willupleasebequiet: i just wish it wasn’t all trial and error.

  willupleasebequiet: because that’s what it is, isn’t it?

  willupleasebequiet: trial and error.

  willupleasebequiet: i guess there’s a reason they don’t call it ‘trial and success’

  willupleasebequiet: it’s just try-error

  willupleasebequiet: try-error

  willupleasebequiet: try-error

  willupleasebequiet: i’m sorry. are you still here?

  WGrayson7: yes.

  WGrayson7: if you’d caught me two weeks ago, i would have had to agree with you fullheartedly.

  WGrayson7: now i’m not so sure.

  willupleasebequiet: why?

  WGrayson7: well, i agree that ‘trial and error’ is a pretty pessimistic name for it. and maybe that’s what it is most of the time.

  WGrayson7: but i think the point is that it’s not just try-error.

  WGrayson7: most of the time it’s try-error-try

  WGrayson7: try-error-try

  WGrayson7: try-error-try

  WGrayson7: and that’s how you find it.

  willupleasebequiet: it?

  WGrayson7: you know. it.

  willupleasebequiet: yeah, it. willupleasebequiet: try-error-try-it

  WGrayson7: well . . . i haven’t become that optimistic. WGrayson7: it’s more like try-error-try-error-try-error-try-error-try-error-try . . . at least fifteen more rounds . . . then try-error-try-it

  willupleasebequiet: i miss him. but not in the way he would want me to miss him.

  WGrayson7: are you coming tomorrow?

  willupleasebequiet: i don’t think that would be a good idea. do you?

  WGrayson7: it’s up to you. it could be another error. or it could be it. just do me a favor and give me a call first so i can warn him.

  that seems fair. he gives me his phone number and i give him mine. i type it into my phone before i forget. when it asks for the name to go with the number, i just type will grayson.

  willupleasebequiet: what’s the secret to your wisdom, will grayson?

  WGrayson7: i think it’s that i hang out with the right people, will grayson.

  willupleasebequiet: well, thank you for your help.

  WGrayson7: i like to be on call for all of my best friend’s ex-boyfriends.

  willupleasebequiet: it takes a village to date tiny cooper.

  WGrayson7: exactly.

  willupleasebequiet: good night, will grayson.

  WGrayson7: good night, will grayson.

  i want to say this calms me. i want to say i fall immediately to sleep. but the whole night my mind goes

  try-error-?

  try-error-?

  try-error-?

  by the morning, i am wreckage. i wake up and i think, today’s the day. and then i think, it has nothing to do with me. it’s not like i even helped him with it. it’s just that now i’m not getting to see it. i know that’s fair, but it doesn’t feel fair. it feels like i’ve screwed myself over.

  mom notices my unparalleled self-hatred at breakfast. it’s probably the way i drown the cocoa puffs until the milk overflows that tips her off.

  mom: will, what’s wrong?

  me: what isn’t?

  mom: will . . .

  me: it’s okay.

  mom: no, it’s not.

  me: how can you tell me it’s not? isn’t that my choice?

  she sits down across from me, puts her hand on my hand even though there’s now a puddle of cocoa-colored milk under her wrist.

  mom: do you know how much i used to scream?

  i have no idea what she’s talking about.

  me: you don’t scream. you fall silent.

  mom (shaking her head): even when you were little, but mostly when your father and i were going through what we went through - there were times when i had to go outside, get in the car, drive around the corner, and scream my head off. i would scream and scream and scream. sometimes just noise. and sometimes curses - every curse you can think of.

  me: i can think of a lot of them. did you ever scream ‘shitmonger!’

  mom: no, but . . .

  me: ‘fuckweasel!’

  mom: will—

  me: you should try ‘fuckweasel.’ it’s kinda satisfying.

  mom: my point is that there are times when you just have to let it all out. all of the anger, all of the pain.

  me: have you thought of talking to someone about this? i mean, i have some pills that might interest you, but i think you’re supposed to have a prescription. it’s okay - it only takes up an hour of your time for them to diagnose it.

  mom: will.

  me: sorry. it’s just that it’s not really anger or pain i’m feeling. just anger at myself.

  mom: that’s still anger.

  me: but don’t you feel like that shouldn’t count? i mean, not the same as being angry at someone else.

  mom: why this morning?

  me: what do you mean?

  mom: why are you especially angry at yourself this morning?

  it’s not like i’d been planning on advertising the fact that i’m angry. she kinda traps me into it. i of all people can respect that. so i tell her that today’s the day of tiny’s musical.

  mom: you should go.

  now it’s my turn to shake my head.

  me: no way.

  mom: way. and will?

  me: yes?

  mom: you should also talk to maura.

  i bolt down the cocoa puffs before there’s any way for her to persuade me. when i get to school, i sail past maura at her perch and try to use the day as a distraction. i try to pay attention in classes, but they are so boring that it’s like the teachers are trying to drive me back to my own thoughts. i am afraid of what gideon will say to me if i confide in him, so i try to pretend like it’s just an ordinary day, and that i’m not cataloging all of the things i’ve done wrong over the past few weeks. did i really give tiny a chance? did i give maura a chance? shouldn’t i have let him calm me down? shouldn’t i have let her explain why she did what she did?

  finally, at the end of the day, i can’t deal with it on my own anymore, and gideon’s the one i want to turn to. part of me is hoping
that he’ll tell me i have nothing to be ashamed of, that i’ve done nothing wrong. i find him at his locker and say

  me: can you believe it? my mom said i should crash tiny’s show and talk to maura.

  gideon: you should.

  me: did your sister use your mouth as a crack pipe last night? are you insane?

  gideon: i don’t have a sister.

  me: whatever. you know what i’m saying.

  gideon: i’ll go with you.

  me: what?

  gideon: i’ll borrow my mom’s car. do you know where tiny’s school is?

  me: you’re joking.

  and that’s when it happens. it’s almost astonishing, really. gideon becomes a little - just a little - more like me.

  gideon: can we just say ‘fuck you’ to the ‘you’re joking’ part? all right? i’m not saying you and tiny should be together forever and have huge, depressed babies that have periods of manic thinness, but i do think the way the two of you left it is pretty unhelpful, and i’d bet twenty dollars if i had twenty dollars that he is suffering from the same waves of crappiness that you’re suffering from. or he’s found a new boyfriend. maybe also named will grayson. whatever the case, you are going to be this walking, talking splinter unless someone takes your ass to wherever he is, and in this particular case, and in any other particular case where you need me, i am that someone. i am the knight with a shining jetta. i am your fucking steed.

  me: gideon, i had no idea . . .

  gideon: shut the fuck up.

  me: say it again!

  gideon (laughing): shut the fuck up!

  me: but why?

  gideon: why should you shut the fuck up?

  me: no - why are you my fucking steed?

  gideon: because you’re my friend, wingnut. because underneath all that denial, you’re someone who’s deeply, deeply nice. and because ever since you first mentioned it to me, i’ve been dying to see this musical.

  me: okay, okay, okay.

  gideon: and the second part?

  me: what second part?

  gideon: talking to maura.

  me: you’re kidding.

  gideon: not one bit. you have fifteen minutes while i get the car.

  me: i don’t want to.

  gideon gives me a hard look.

  gideon: what are you, three years old?

  me: but why should i?

  gideon: i bet you can answer that one yourself.

  i tell him he’s totally out of line. he waves me off and says i need to do it, and that he’ll honk when he gets here to pick me up.

  the sick thing is, i know he’s right. this whole time, i’ve thought the silent treatment was working. because it’s not like i miss her. then i realize that missing her or not missing her isn’t the point. the point is that i’m still carrying around what happened as much as she is. and i need to get rid of it. because both of us poured the toxins into our toxic friendship. and while i didn’t exactly invent an imaginary boyfriend trap, i certainly contributed enough errors to our trials. there’s no way we’re ever going to find an ideal state of it. but i guess i’m seeing that we have to at least make it to an it we can bear.

  i walk outside and she’s right there in the same place at the end of the day that she is at the start of the day. perching on a wall, notebook out. staring at the other kids as they walk by, no doubt looking down at each and every one of them, including me.

  i feel like i should’ve prepared a speech. but that would require me to know what i’m going to say. i have no idea, really. the best i can come up with is

  me: hey

  to which she says

  maura: hey

  she gives me that blank stare. i look at my shoes.

  maura: to what do i owe this pleasure?

  this is the way we talked to each other. always. and i don’t have the energy for it anymore. that’s not how i want to talk with friends. not always.

  me: maura, stop.

  maura: stop? you’re kidding, right? you don’t talk to me for a month, and when you do, it’s to tell me to stop?

  me: that’s not why i came over here. . . .

  maura: then why did you come over here?

  me: i don’t know, okay?

  maura: what does that mean? of course you know.

  me: look. i just want you to know that while i still think what you did was completely shitty, i realize that i was shitty to you, too. not in the elaborately shitty way that you were to me, but still pretty shitty. i should have just been honest with you and told you i didn’t want to talk to you or be your boyfriend or be your best friend or anything like that. i tried - i swear i tried. but you didn’t want to hear what i was saying, and i used that as an excuse to let it go on.

  maura: you didn’t mind me when i was isaac. when we would chat every night.

  me: but that was a lie! a complete lie!

  now maura looked me right in the eye.

  maura: c’mon, will - you know there’s no such thing as a complete lie. there’s always some truth in there.

  i don’t know how to react to that. i just say the next thing that comes to my mind.

  me: it wasn’t you i liked. it was isaac. i liked isaac.

  the blankness has disappeared now. there’s sadness instead.

  maura: . . . and isaac liked you.

  i want to say to her: i just want to be myself. and i want to be with someone who’s just himself. that’s all. i want to see through all the performance and all the pretending and get right to the truth. and maybe this is the most truth that maura and i will ever find - an acknowledgment of the lie, and of the feelings that fell behind it.

  me: i’m sorry, maura.

  maura: i’m sorry, too.

  this is why we call people exes, i guess - because the paths that cross in the middle end up separating at the end. it’s too easy to see an X as a cross-out. it’s not, because there’s no way to cross out something like that. the X is a diagram of two paths.

  i hear a honk and turn to see gideon pulling up in his mom’s car.

  me: i gotta go.

  maura: so go.

  i leave her and get in the car with gideon and tell him everything that just happened. he says he’s proud of me, and i don’t know what to do with that. i ask him

  me: why?

  and he says

  gideon: for saying you were sorry. i wasn’t sure if you’d be able to do that.

  i tell him i wasn’t sure, either. but it’s how i felt. and i wanted to be honest.

  suddenly - it’s like the next thing i know - we’re on the road. i’m not even sure if we’re going to make it to tiny’s show on time. i’m not even sure i should be there. i’m not even sure that i want to see tiny. i just want to see how the play turned out.

  gideon is whistling along to the radio beside me. normally that kind of shit annoys me, but this time it doesn’t.

  me: i wish i could show him the truth.

  gideon: tiny?

  me: yeah. you don’t have to date someone to think they’re great, right?

  we drive some more. gideon starts whistling again. i picture tiny running around backstage. then gideon stops whistling. he smiles and hits the steering wheel.

  gideon: by jove, i think i’ve got it!

  me: did you really just say that?

  gideon: admit it. you love it.

  me: strangely, i do. gideon: i think i have an idea.

  so he tells me. and i can’t believe i have such a sick and twisted and brilliant individual sitting at my side.

  even more than that, though, i can’t believe i’m about to do what he’s suggesting.

  chapter ninteen

  Jane and I spend the hours before Opening Night constructing the perfect preshow playlist, which comprises—as requested—odd-numbered pop punk songs and even-numbered tunes from musicals. “Annus Miribalis” makes an appearance; we even include the punkest song from the resolutely unpunk Neutral Milk Hotel. As for the songs from musicals, we choos
e nine distinct renditions of “Over the Rainbow,” including a reggae one.

  Once we’re finished debating and downloading, Jane heads home to change. I’m anxious to get to the auditorium, but it seems unfair to Tiny merely to wear jeans and a Willy the Wildkit T-shirt to the most important event of his life. So I put one of Dad’s sports coats over the Wildkit shirt, fix my hair, and feel ready.

  I wait at home until Mom pulls in, take the keys from her before she can even get the door all the way open, and drive to school.

  I walk into the mostly empty auditorium—curtain time is still more than an hour away—and I’m met by Gary, who’s hair is dyed lighter, and chopped short and messy like mine. Also, he’s wearing my clothes, which I delivered to him yesterday: khakis; a short-sleeve, plaid button-down I love; and my black Chucks. The entire effect would be surreal except the clothes are ridiculously wrinkled.

  “What, Tiny couldn’t find an iron?” I ask.

  “Grayson,” Gary says, “look at your pants, man.”

  I do. Huh. I didn’t even know that jeans could wrinkle. He puts his arm around me and says, “I always thought it was part of your look.”

  “It is now,” I say. “How’s it going? Are you nervous?”

  “I’m a little nervous, but I’m not Tiny nervous. Actually, could you go back there and, um, try to help? This,” he says, gesturing at the outfit, “was for dress rehearsal. I gotta put on my White Sox garb.”

  “Done and done,” I say. “Where is he?”

  “Bathroom backstage,” Gary answers. I hand him the preshow CD, jog down the aisle, and snake behind the heavy red curtain. I’m met by a gaggle of cast and crew in various stages of costume, and for once they are quiet, working away on each other’s makeup. All the guys in the cast wear White Sox uniforms, complete with cleats and high socks pulled up over their tight pants. I say hi to Ethan, the only one I really know, and then I’m about to look for the bathroom when I notice the set. It’s a very realistic baseball field dugout, which surprises me. “This is the set for the whole play?” I ask Ethan.