Green-and-yellow-striped banners hanging from a flagpole outside announced The Follies of 1763, a new play with music that revealed the love triangle of the venerable lexicographer, essayist, and poet Samuel Johnson; his biographer, James Boswell; and the object of their affections, Mrs. Hester Thrale, written by the same Will Connolly. Posters bordered the entrance with photos of actors in eighteenth-century costumes in the midst of what had to be a serious argument: angry faces with heads jutting turtlelike at each other in attack mode. Somehow, it had a comic feel.
Not an autobiographical first play in the kitchen-sink style, Elizabeth guessed. Since getting the job at the magazine eight months ago, she’d been enjoying the hubris of being something of a theater insider, the result of endless catch-up play reading and watching hours of American Theatre Wing interviews and other theater panel shows. No, not autobiographical at all; in fact, an unusual and risky choice for a debut play. Not a musical, but a play with music. She had asked to read the script but was told the author had refused. It made her even more curious.
Elizabeth tried each side of the double front doors, but they were both locked. And there was no one around to ask how to get inside. A tiny wisp of panic at the thought of screwing up her first interview by not finding something as stupidly simple as the stage door entrance hit the theater insider, adding more discomfort to the heat of the late July day. And then she saw the blessed smoker, an older man, his face creased from years of cigarettes, looking very theatrical in his jeans and wifebeater worn under a suede vest. He was sitting on the stoop in front of the brownstone next door, smoking away.
“Excuse me,” she asked. “Are you from the show?”
“I am.” Just those two words gave away his Irish accent. “What can I do for you?”
“I have an appointment with the playwright and I’m not sure how to get inside.”
Elizabeth was hot enough to move the man into action. He pushed himself up from the step, crushed his cigarette with his shoe, and walked over to Elizabeth.
“Follow me,” he said, leading her to another door a few feet down from the front entrance. “You’re here for the auditions, right?”
“Sort of.”
The man hesitated and turned to Elizabeth, now suspicious. Was this one of those nutty fans or an actor without an appointment? Actors would try anything. “What do you mean, ‘Sort of’?”
“Well, it’s more like a magazine. Do you know Show Survey?”
“No.”
“You’re an actor, aren’t you?”
“Stagehand’s union.”
“Well, it’s like a Zagat for Off Broadway, and I write for it.” She hated that description, felt it denigrated the magazine, but it led to instant understanding. Despite her own disapproval, she found herself using it more often than she wanted.
“Ah, so you’re a writer.”
Immediately, her credit rose from lowly, needy actor, one step below everyone, to intellect. Elizabeth loved that fringe benefit, though she still didn’t think she deserved it. She had been writing professionally for close to five years but still felt like she was in on a pass.
“Follow me,” he said, pulling open the heavy metal door. “See that door at the end? That’s the theater part. They’re all in there.”
He watched as she walked down the hall to the doorway, turned, waved him a thank-you, then pushed open the door and disappeared inside.
Elizabeth stepped into the theater and was blinded momentarily by the darkness, which was cut only by the dot of light way down front on stage. With the exception of a piano, the stage was empty. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the outline of four people sitting in the first few rows of the audience. Three were sitting together and one was sitting a couple of rows behind on the aisle.
The light from the briefly opened door made the lone sitter turn.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
“Elizabeth?” It was so tentative it sounded more like a question than an answer.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes.”
“Get out!”
Her first instinct was to flee, but before she could, one of the other three, a large square figure, jumped up. From the back of the theater Elizabeth could see from the outline what was kindly referred to as an ample woman.
“Easy, Will,” the woman said gently to the man who had shouted, her voice softened by a pleasant Texas accent. She called out to Elizabeth, “Are you from New York magazine?”
“Show Survey?” Another question, not answer.
“Not New York magazine?”
“No. Show Survey…”
“Show Survey?”
“You know the Zagats…”
“The giveaway,” the man next to her said.
“Well, actually we don’t give it—”
“That’s okay, honey. You come on down here.” The woman took a few steps over to the shouter, leaned over, and whispered something in his ear. Elizabeth could see him put his feet up on the seat in front of him. He was the only one who didn’t turn when she got closer.
“I’m Bala Trent,” said the big woman, putting out her hand. “I’m one of the producers, and the man with the big welcome is your subject, Will Connolly, the writer. You’re Elizabeth, right?”
Elizabeth shook the producer’s outstretched hand and smiled at the others, who stopped talking and turned to greet her. No one else got up.
Pointing to the two seated men, the producer said, “That’s Bob Ross, our director, and Neil Quest, our music director.”
Both mumbled a pleasant How do you do, and turned back to their conversation.
“Elizabeth Wakefield,” Elizabeth said to their backs.
“Why don’t you sit here, next to Will?” The producer pointed to the empty seat next to the writer, but Will didn’t move his legs, effectively blocking Elizabeth from his row.
“That’s okay,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll just sit here.” She moved into the seat just behind the writer.
The producer stepped over Will’s legs gracefully, considering her girth, and took a seat one away from him.
Elizabeth was dressed properly for the outside summer heat but very underdressed for the chilly theater. Everyone else, professionals knowing what to expect, had on sweaters.
“Sean!” the producer called out. From the wings, Sean, the same stagehand Elizabeth had met outside, stepped onstage. A thin, awkward-looking young woman came on behind him. With a birdlike nod to the spectators, she creased her cheeks in a quick smile, walked to the piano, and sat down. And didn’t look up again.
“Let’s have the next one.” Sean waved to someone backstage, and a dark-haired, handsome man of about twenty-five stepped out, walked over to the piano, and handed the pianist some sheet music.
“Hi.” He turned to the audience of five. “I’m Mark Evans.”
“Hey, Mark,” one of the two men sitting in the front called out.
Mark shielded his eyes, squinting as he peered out into the audience.
“It’s me, Bob. How’re you doing?”
“Pretty good … up to now.”
Bob and the man next to him chuckled. “What are you going to do for us?”
“‘The Colors of My Life.’”
“Great. I love Barnum.”
The young woman at the piano played the intro and Mark Evans sang.
Someplace around the fifth bar, Bob stopped him and asked for a few bars of another song, something lighter and faster; the actor obliged. There was a little chatter, and then the director turned to Will and Bala and with an imperceptible shake of his head made the decision. The producer thanked Mark Evans, and the next actor came on.
In the few moments it took to set up the new music, Elizabeth squeezed up enough courage to speak to the writer.
“Excuse me.” Elizabeth leaned over and said to the back of Will Connolly’s head, “Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Hey, can’t you see I’m busy,” h
e said in a nasty tone without even turning.
“Well, maybe when there’s a break…” She braced for the unkind response.
And got it.
“I said I was busy. Jesus. Get her off my back, somebody, huh?” Without waiting for an answer, he went back to checking the papers he had on his lap.
Bala Trent leaned over from the row in front and smiled at Elizabeth.
“We’ll stop for lunch in about an hour and then he’s all yours.”
“Thanks,” she said, adding a new dread, the lunch break.
Another actor came on and sang a few bars of some song Elizabeth didn’t recognize, then most of another from the same musical, which Elizabeth planned to Google as soon as she got home.
“That was nice. Thanks,” Will called out in a very friendly voice, so warm she didn’t realize that it came from the same man.
Again, the director nixed the actor and another auditioner was called.
This went on for ten more actors. Elizabeth was amazed at how good some of them were, but no one seemed to make the cut.
How did they stand the rejection? And it wasn’t just a comment on their talent. It could be their appearance: too tall, too short, not good-looking enough, too old, anything. They would never know what it was, so how could they ever fix it? Most of it couldn’t be fixed anyway. She would die being judged like that. It was bad enough having all those rejection slips from The New Yorker for her short stories, but at least that wasn’t face-to-face and not because she wasn’t pretty enough or young enough or thin enough or whatever. It was just that she wasn’t talented enough. Oh, my God!
Between the miserable rejections she had been watching for the last hour and her own lack of talent, Elizabeth’s day was ruined. Additionally, Will Connolly was obviously a prick.
Just then the houselights went up and everyone stood for the lunch break, including Will Connolly, who stretched his arms out, palms pushing the air as he rotated his shoulders, and turned around to Elizabeth.
She gasped.
The prick was a doppelgänger for Todd Wilkins.
* * *
When it first happened, when she first found out she had been betrayed, Elizabeth fled. Ran like a whipped dog. But in these last eight months, the pain of hurt had solidified into anger. Anger that left the ugly taste of metal in her mouth. And sometimes it became fury.
All directed into thin air.
It was mostly silent, but sometimes her fury erupted into voice, and the voice was loud and hoarse with rage, the words vile and threatening.
All directed into thin air.
Other times, she played with the idea, What if she hadn’t found out? Would they have gotten married? And then she tried to remember whose idea it was to get married. Maybe it was hers, but why did he go along with it? Weak asshole!
Would he have married her and still been in love with someone else? If he really was in love with Jessica and not just pushed into it when he got outed. What was the matter with him that he just kept going on with their relationship when he should have ended it?
Who knew and didn’t tell her? Winston for sure, but he had a loyalty to Todd. Still, he was Elizabeth’s friend, too, and he had to have known it would explode one day and ruin everyone’s life. Maybe that’s what ended their friendship—his and Todd’s.
And what about Bruce? By that time he was her best friend, if he had known he would have told her. There would be no reason she could think of for him to keep such a secret. She decided he couldn’t have known.
What if it was all a big mistake? A momentary lapse. Like some crazy thing that happens only once and you regret it for the rest of your life? Could she ever forgive him?
A nauseating thought.
No argument in Todd’s defense would matter. The head had lost control and her heart would rule. And her heart could never again trust; suspicion would corrode it.
Suppose they had gotten married and then later, maybe after they had had children, she had found out?
Another nauseating thought.
Then would she have left him?
Absolutely.
What if she never found out? That would be like it never happened. Except it did.
But when? When? When?
At night, in bed, alone, Elizabeth went over her years with Todd, always looking for clues, hints that she had missed. So many questions she couldn’t ask. Too late to ask. Now every time she remembered him going somewhere without her was suspect. She didn’t even know how long it had been going on.
And she would never read his letter to find out.
All she could remember now was how much they had hated each other, Jessica and Todd. They hardly spoke. They weren’t even Facebook friends. If Elizabeth was around, it would be okay, but otherwise, there was no interest at all. She’d tried to push them together just because it made it difficult to spend time with her sister when Todd was around. And, of course, as premier boyfriend, he was around a lot.
She remembered that time in her senior year at SVU when she was sick with the flu or something and had promised she would show up with Todd at Jim Regis’s party and then couldn’t go. When Todd heard, he announced that he wasn’t going alone. Elizabeth had to practically force Jessica to go with him.
I’m shivering under mountains of quilts, begging her. “You have to do it for me, Jess.”
Jessica and I have been sharing an apartment since the end of our sophomore year. Our bedrooms are on the second floor of a small, two-story, white clapboard house about two miles from the school. The house is one of fifty originally built in the seventies to house faculty.
Mrs. Schriker, our landlady, had taught psychology for twenty years and was now retired and letting out the two bedrooms on the top floor to students. Simply but neatly furnished in flowery prints and beveled blond woods, the apartment has the quiet and order of someone’s childhood home in the Midwest. And—with the exception of Jessica’s room—it is impeccably kept.
“You know Todd’s never going to go alone.” I’m almost pleading. “And I owe Jim; he picked me up every single day for two weeks when my car broke down.”
“Is that supposed to be a dig at me because I didn’t?” Nobody could get hurt faster than Jessica. Except maybe the people she hurt.
“No, I understand perfectly.” And the truth is I do. No matter how many justifications I have to invent, no matter how many rationalizations I have to twist into shape, I always end up understanding Jessica. Because I love her unconditionally. Or maybe just uncontrollably.
“They’re counting on me to bring Todd. I promised. He’s, like, the star of their whole party.”
After Todd’s magnificent performance at the basketball game the night before that snatched the state championship away from UCLA and gave it to the long-shot SVU, he wasn’t just king of the court; he was king of the school.
It was something of a redemption for Todd, who had botched up his college career for a while, losing his scholarship and dropping out.
Besides, an Elizabeth Wakefield promise was gold. On the other hand, getting a favor from Jessica on a Saturday night was diamonds. If I thought I owed Jim, it was nothing to the debt I would owe Jessica.
Today, with the shades pulled down, the normally sunny, cheerful bedroom is sickroom dark. It might have been a bit of a sympathy ploy, but I was desperate.
“Listen, it’s got to be better than sitting around all night watching me sneeze and fixing tea.”
I don’t think it had actually occurred to Jessica that she would have to babysit her sick sister. In fact, she’d just gotten off the phone after making plans with her friend Lila Fowler. They were going to try a hot new club that had just opened.
“Jim Regis is short and dumpy and has terrible parties with other short and dumpy people,” she said.
“You are so cruel I can hardly believe you’re my sister.”
“Just honest. Hey, maybe Winston would go with him?”
Todd’s roommate, Winston Egber
t, had been his best friend since grade school.
“He can’t. He’s going down to San Diego for I forget what. Besides, Winston would not be a draw. As it is I’m going to have to talk Todd into going with you.”
“Really. Well, he doesn’t have to do me any favors.”
“Oh, Jess, you know what I mean. He’s just not that big on parties, but he would go if I asked him to do it for you.”
“For me? Like I’m dying to go?”
“I can hardly swallow. Why are you making me talk? Just go with him for a couple of hours. Wear my favorite beige sweater.”
“The cashmere?”
“Yes, the cashmere. And take anything else you want, like you don’t already anyway.”
“Well, all right. I’ll do it for you.”
I know the price has just soared.
Actually, Jessica looks like she’s beginning to warm to the idea; it has to be better than staying home playing nurse, a part she could not be less suited for. In fact, now that she’s safely out from under her medical responsibilities, Jessica lets her caring gene take over. If it could be found.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right? Alone, I mean. Should I call Mom?”
Our parents still live in the same house in Sweet Valley not twenty minutes away.
“On pain of death. Do me a favor and just go get dressed. Todd’ll be here in an hour.”
Certain that I would be able to bribe her, I had already arranged with Todd to pick her up. And that wasn’t easy, either. He gave me an unusually hard time. Now, I’m wondering.
“Maybe I’ll wear your new suede skirt.”
“I haven’t even worn it myself yet.”
But Jessica is already deep in my closet, pulling out the skirt, helping herself to a pair of black boots and, for good measure, grabbing my purse.
“You’re taking my purse, too? It’s got all my stuff in it.”
“That’s okay,” Jessica says, dumping the contents on my dresser. “I’ll put it all back later.”
“Yeah, right.” And she’s gone.
Why was she fussing so much over a party she couldn’t have cared less about? I know why: Jessica has to have her triumphs. Even if they were only over short, dumpy people.
Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later Page 4