“Yeah, I guess.”
“I just got stuck. When my mother died, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I didn’t do jack, and look what happened. Well, not anymore, mister. That shit’s in the past.” He was all eager and excited, like a little puppy.
“Well, take it one step at a time, Ralph. Baby steps, right?”
“Fuck that. Life’s too short, bro.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Fucking Ralph, the philosopher.
“Can’t wait for your mother to get home. Got a question to ask her.”
At that, my blood went cold.
“Yeah? What kind of question?”
“About tomorrow night. Your big opener.” He shot me a worried look. “She’s not going with anyone, is she?”
“No,” I said, smiling. “I think she was planning on going it alone.”
“Not anymore,” he said with a flick of his eyebrows. “I got tickets.”
He pulled a couple out of his shirt pocket and waved them in the air like they were tickets to the goddam Super Bowl or something. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sounds like you got it all figured out,” I said.
“Sure as shit, bro.”
Fucking Ralph. I started laughing. I just couldn’t help it. After everything Stewart had put me through, after all the madness, it was good to see that he’d at least helped somebody, that his Don had led one person out of the darkness. That it was Ralph, of all people, was the funniest part. And who knew—if a douche bag like Ralph could get his act together and find happiness, maybe there was hope for us all. Even for an idiot like me.
“Hey, Ralph,” I said, seeing the flash of my mother’s headlights in the window. “Got a makeover suggestion for you.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Stop calling me bro.”
The muffled buzz of the audience on the other side of the curtain came to me alone. Kaela was tending to some last-minute costume fixes, checking on lighting, making sure set pieces were ready to go. She probably had the most work of all of us these last few minutes before the show. Other kids were hustling back and forth, smiling, pale, nervous, whispering. Everyone was doing something.
Not me. I just stood there, listening to the sound of a packed house settling into their seats and into their expectations. I could feel the energy. I knew I should try to tap it, draw from it, but the power suddenly seemed to be going in the opposite direction. A force too big. It was sucking the life out of me, and I couldn’t reverse the flow. What the hell was I doing here? Where was I? Who was I? The whole thing was like a bad dream. Fucking Stewart.
“Hey,” he whispered in my ear.
I glanced over my shoulder. Stewart was in his Cervantes garb—fine medieval clothes, hair tied back, fake mustache and goatee, minus the armor and prosthetics the Quixote costume called for. It was always strange to see him as Cervantes. Not quite Stewart, not quite Don, but someone in between.
“It’s funny seeing you in that costume.”
He made a little face. “Yeah, I don’t like it much.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not really me.”
I snorted, then turned back to the curtain.
“Hey, you okay? You don’t look so good.”
I did my best to nod and smile.
“I’m nervous too,” he whispered. “Listen, Sancho…Frenchy, I just want to say thank you. I told you before I couldn’t have done this without you. You stuck with me to the end.”
“Almost to the end, anyway,” I said. “As far as I could go.”
His smile faded. “Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”
“We are.”
“Then that’s all that matters. This is the beginning of the journey’s end. It’ll all be over soon enough.”
“Knock it off.”
“It’s okay. Screw everything, let’s just have fun tonight. And don’t worry—Don will keep us safe. He hasn’t let me down yet.”
This time I smiled for real. When I looked down, he was holding out a little box.
“Go ahead, open it.”
“Christ, Stewart. No more gifts.”
“One last one. A little something to remember this adventure.”
I opened the box. Inside was a watch. Silver, heavy, expensive. I looked at the face, with its luminescent hands. It was set—five minutes to curtain.
“Check out the back.” He was all excited, the way he always got when he gave me something.
I flipped the watch over. It was a bit dark backstage, but I managed to catch enough light to read the letters etched into the silver.
Sancho and Don.
“Thanks, Stewart.” I started to put it on.
He stopped me. “Sorry, can’t wear it now.”
“That’s right.” I slipped it back into the box. “No watches in the Middle Ages.”
“Not that so much,” he said. “Peasants don’t wear watches. Not like this one, anyway.”
I looked at him and shook my head. “Blow me.”
We both started laughing. Then he threw his arms around me and hugged me tight.
“No fear, old friend.”
“No fear, Your Grace.”
There’s not much to say about the play. First it wasn’t, then it was, and there I stood, onstage, under the lights with Stewart and all my new friends, and it wasn’t that much different than it had been all week. The house lights were off, the stage lights bright upon us, so that the audience was nothing more than shadows. Our first lines came and went, and from there on out the musical just became itself—it wasn’t the movie version, the Broadway version, it wasn’t anyone’s version but ours, and not even ours, since it seemed to take on a life of its own. I was aware of the audience only when they gasped or clapped or—best of all—laughed.
Of course, I got most of the laughs.
But it was Stewart’s night. As if there were any doubt it would be otherwise. And he deserved every second of glory he got. Even I was in awe. After all the days, weeks, of rehearsal, after hearing him sing those goddam songs over and over again until I was singing them in my sleep, I still found myself pausing to catch my breath. He’d never been Don Quixote more than he was that night; the transformation was complete. With each scene, with each number, the silence grew more silent, the applause afterward grew louder. Then came the curtain call, and though everyone was already standing, when Stewart and I came out last to take our bow together—Stewart insisted—the place went wild.
Then it was over, and the curtain was closing, and Kaela was jumping into my arms and kissing me, and even Stewart was laughing and hugging people, and everyone felt great. After that I lost track of Stewart. In fact, the whole rest of the night was a blur as kids, teachers, and parents—hell, even Mrs. Masure—kept coming over to congratulate me and tell us how much we’d rocked.
I was so tired and happy, I felt like I was floating as I rode home in the car with Mom and Ralph. Both of them kept going on about the show until I finally had to tell them to shut up.
“Fine,” my mother said. “But I’m going back tomorrow night.”
“You are?” Ralph said, turning to her in amazement.
“Don’t worry, Ralph, you don’t have to go.”
Ralph paused, then shrugged. “Why the hell not?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I bowed to thunderous applause. I bowed again, Stewart and I together, as the curtain closed for the final time. There was no jumping or laughing or kissing today—not like Friday night, or even Saturday—just smiles and a few handshakes, maybe a hug or two.
Not that it hadn’t gone well. It had gone well. All the shows had. But it was Sunday afternoon, and we were spent. Happy, but totally spent after a blurry three days.
“You’re all exhausted,” Ms. Vale acknowledged, calling us to the center of the stage even as the applause died down and the voices rose with the house lights on the other side of the curtain. “That’s the way it should be. But it’s not over yet. So go
out there and get your accolades, then say your good-byes and get ready to work.”
There were a few groans, but Ms. Vale just laughed.
“Suck it up, people. It should only take an hour or two to break everything down if we all work together. Then it’s pizza time—all you can eat. Principal Masure’s treat.”
At that, everyone cheered. Everyone except Stewart, who stood off to the side, eyes cast downward, quiet.
We all dispersed to greet the well-wishers. I didn’t have anyone waiting for me—I’d actually managed to talk my mom into staying home—so I tagged along with Stewart as he met his parents at the bottom of the stage. They’d been to all three shows.
“Another good one, Stewart,” Mr. Bolger said. He looked over at me and gave a nod. “You too, Frenchy. Very impressive. All weekend.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bolger.”
“So it’s finally over,” he went on. “I have to say, thank God. Now we can all rest. What’re you going to do with all your free time, Frenchy?”
“Sleep.” I looked over at Stewart. “Actually, I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe I’ll start doing my homework.”
“Not a bad plan,” Mr. Bolger said, frowning in Stewart’s direction. “Right, Stewart?”
Stewart didn’t reply.
“Oh, that’s right,” Mr. Bolger said. “He’s still got the Quixote Project to contend with. For all I know, this might never end.”
I stirred uneasily and glanced over at Stewart, who continued to look sullen.
“Frenchy,” Mrs. Bolger said, “would you like to join us for dinner? We thought we’d go out and celebrate your newfound fame.”
I laughed. “Thanks, Mrs. Bolger, but Ms. Vale wants us to stay and take down the set and clean up. We’re going to have a cast party afterward, I think.”
She turned to Stewart. “You didn’t mention that, sweetie. That’s okay. Stay and have fun with your friends. We’ll take you out tomorrow. How’s that?”
Stewart didn’t say anything. In fact, he wouldn’t look at either of his parents. He just kept his eyes down, his mouth tight. Then he lifted a hand and waved it a few times in their direction, as if he were shooing away a fly. Mr. Bolger’s face darkened as he and his wife exchanged looks.
I’d seen Stewart be a prick to his parents plenty of times, but this was in a class by itself.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, trying my best to smile. I jumped up onto the stage and headed over to where Kaela was directing a few of the techs.
For the next half hour, I worked my ass off, helping Kaela mostly, as we started breaking down set pieces, putting away costumes and props, cleaning the stage as best we could. Everyone was laughing and joking now, relief and exhaustion and success all mixing together to make everyone punchy. From time to time, I’d glance over to where Stewart stood alone in the middle of the stage, still in his costume, holding a push broom but not really doing much with it. The bright stage lights had been turned off, dulling the space. It wasn’t La Mancha anymore, that’s for sure.
The kids noticed Stewart, but most seemed to make a conscious effort to ignore him. A few teased him, shouting over to make himself useful. He just shook his head and stared down at the stage. I wanted to be annoyed. I mean, this was our moment of triumph—the school goofballs turned stars. We should be basking in the glow of success. But seeing him swaying there, so lost, I couldn’t feel anything but anxious. All week, I’d wondered what this moment would be like for him, how the reality would hit him. It was over. Done. There was no more reason for him to be Quixote anymore. Not to everyone else, at least. He could no longer hide.
As the minutes passed, he seemed to grow agitated. Pretty soon I could hear him muttering to himself. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but his voice was angry, the way it sounded our last time together at the smoking rock. I started over to check on him.
“Hey, Frenchy,” Kaela called. “Could you give me a hand with this?”
She and two of the techs were struggling to lift one of the platforms. I glanced back at Stewart, who still stood there muttering, then went to help Kaela.
Just as I got there, a racket broke out from across the stage. Everyone turned to look. Not me, not right away. I just closed my eyes and listened to the smashing and the yelling and the swearing ringing out in the silence as everyone stopped what they were doing.
When I finally opened my eyes, there was Stewart, going after one of the set pieces. It was the windmill, a backdrop piece Kaela and one of her friends had built for fun to set in the distance during a few of the early scenes. It was only about five feet tall but beautifully detailed, one of the highlights of the entire set.
Not anymore.
Stewart had started with his broom, then switched to a nearby two-by-four when the broom handle snapped. Not much was left of the windmill, but he kept whaling on the broken pieces anyway while everyone gazed with stunned looks, Kaela especially, as all her hard work collapsed into rubble.
Ms. Vale walked up to Stewart, shaking her head. I thought she’d be pissed, but she looked more tired and sad than anything.
“Stewart!” Ms. Vale hollered. Stewart stiffened at her call. Then his shoulders sagged. He dropped the makeshift club.
“That’s enough,” she said, her voice quiet. “Go home.”
He blinked and shook his head a little. “But—”
“You need to leave. Now.”
He turned and started to go, his eyes watering. At the edge of the stage he stopped and glanced back at me with this desperate look on his face. For a second we just stared at each other. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me to go with him or if he wanted me to stay away. He just looked lost. Then he jumped off the stage and ran out of the auditorium.
“I should go with him,” I said as Kaela took my arm.
“Forget about him,” she said, looking over at the remains of her windmill. Then she turned back to me. “Maybe he needs to be by himself right now.”
“I guess,” I whispered. I wasn’t so sure, but looking around at everyone going back to work, finishing the cleanup, and getting ready to really celebrate, I told myself that she was right.
“You knew this wasn’t going to be easy,” she said afterward, catching me staring at the auditorium exit as we gathered up what was left of the windmill.
“For me or him?”
“You know, Frenchy, sometimes you need to take care of yourself,” she said as Mrs. Masure came in with a stack of pizza boxes. “You can worry tomorrow. For tonight, savor this. You deserve it.”
“Yeah, thanks to him,” I said, then went back to picking up the pieces.
“Howdy, beautiful,” I said, getting into Kaela’s car the next morning.
“Shut up,” she said, breaking into a grin as we pulled out.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“I was tempted to let you walk. You could use the exercise, chubby.”
“Hey,” I snapped. “I resemble that remark.”
She laughed. “I suppose you’ll need one tomorrow too.”
“Yeah. He’s out both days.”
Stewart’s suspension was in effect, for these next two days at least. After tomorrow, we had the rest of the week off for Thanksgiving. I wondered if he’d have to serve more days when we got back or if Mrs. Masure would let him go with just the two.
“Too bad,” she said. “He’s the man of the hour after this weekend. Guess all the glory’s going to have to fall on your shoulders instead.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Are you kidding? I had, like, thirty texts last night about you two. Girls are talking.”
“Girls, did you say?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Don’t worry, thinking’s never been my strong suit. Besides, I’m still too tired. I crashed as soon as I got home last night, and I still barely managed to drag my ass out of bed this morning.”
“I’m just saying—be prepared.”
Kaela was right. As soon
as I walked into the building, people were all over me, and most of them were girls. Kaela was right next to me the whole time until the bell, not saying much but definitely staking out her territory. The scene was so alien to me, I had no idea what to do or say. The whole thing freaked me out, to tell you the truth.
The rest of the day went pretty much the same way. People kept saying how impressed they were, how surprised they were. Surprised! I loved that one. It’s amazing how you can flatter and insult someone at the same time. Not that I blamed them. I guess I was kind of surprised myself. My favorite was when a group of kids told me outright they’d thought I was going to bomb. A few even said they’d gone to the show hoping I would bomb. They seemed to think Stewart and I had had this big plan to blow the whole thing as a joke. It made me feel good to disappoint someone in a positive way for a change.
As great and bewildering as it all was, the whole time I kept wishing Stewart were with me. He’d have known what to say. He’d have absorbed all the attention for me like a shield, soaking it up, making the most of it. Me, I could barely keep track of what was going on. I told myself it wouldn’t last. Pretty soon, I would go back to being old Frenchy again. This was just another part I had to play. Then again, so was old Frenchy.
The house felt weird when I got home from school. Partly because it was early—I was used to getting back in the dark—and partly from the quiet. After all the craziness at school, the double-wide felt bigger than usual, empty. I felt kind of empty too. Like you do the day after Christmas.
There was a note from my mother on the refrigerator. She was pulling a double shift tonight to make up for the one she’d missed over the weekend because of the play. As I read her note, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I should get a job, start making some money. Mr. Bolger had asked me what I was going to do with all my free time. A job was probably a good place to start. But I had other things to worry about first.
I tried calling Stewart at his house. His mother answered.
“Frenchy, hi,” she cooed. “Stewart’s not here right now.”
“Oh. Do you know where he is?”
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