by Robin Talley
Dance Studio, Beaconville High School Performing Arts Wing
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 30
“Whoa, this is cool. I’ve never come here except when we needed it for extra rehearsal space. It’s bigger than I remember. Or maybe it’s just all these mirrors.”
“I’ve always loved it here. The same way you love the tech booth, I think. I come here sometimes when I need to be alone.”
“For extra dance practice?”
“Yes, but mainly I just come to get away. Sometimes I like to turn out the lights and lie back on the mats and stare up at the ceiling. With all the mirrors, it’s like being in space.”
“That’s so cool. . . . Anyway, I wanted to say, I’m sorry about earlier.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t have pushed you about the college stuff.”
“You didn’t push. Really, it’s fine. I know it’s all anyone’s talking about today.”
“Yeah, every year the seniors all find out where they got in around the same time, so . . .”
“I’m sorry I acted strange about it.”
“You didn’t act strange. I was surprised you didn’t want to talk, but that’s okay.”
“Thanks . . . I’ve just been trying not to think about it.”
“It’s totally cool. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Well, it’s not a secret. I got into a few schools. Emerson, Ithaca, and NYU.”
“Wow, that’s great! NYU’s what you wanted, right?”
“Yes, but . . . I’m almost definitely going to defer. If I accept in the first place.”
“What do you mean, if? When we talked about it at my house, you didn’t say anything about not accepting.”
“I didn’t want your dads to think I wasn’t serious. But my agent keeps sending me out on more auditions, and if I get this show, or another role after this movie ends, I don’t know how I could work and take classes at the same time. Even if I did, I don’t know how many years it would take to get a degree. And I’d be taking a spot from someone who could actually use it. Again.”
“Again? What do you mean?”
“It’s like with the show here. Christina would be playing Fantine if it weren’t for me. And then someone else could’ve been Factory Girl, and that would’ve been their first big role, and . . . no matter what I do, I’m messing things up for someone.”
“You’re not making any sense at all. Christina’s barely even a singer, and it’s not your fault you’re talented. Why shouldn’t you get to be in your school musical? Or get into NYU, for that matter?”
“I don’t know if NYU would even have let me in if it wasn’t for all this. Besides, some days I don’t know what the point is of thinking about college if I’m on this trajectory in the opposite direction.”
“Oh. Wow. Well . . . what do you want to do? Go to college, or be in movies?”
“. . . Do you know you’re the first person who’s actually asked me that?”
“What? What about your parents?”
“They assume I want to go to college. And my agent and everyone else assumes I want to be in movies.”
“Then what’s the truth?”
“I don’t know. That’s just it, I feel as though I can’t commit to either. And of course acting’s not even a real commitment, because there’s never any guarantee there will ever be another role. What happens if I wind up with a pile of negative reviews, or get on the bad side of some important studio executive, or . . . look, do you think we could talk about something else?”
“Oh. Sure, of course.”
“Tell me more about your dads. How did they get together?”
“. . . You seriously want to know?”
“I want to know everything about you.”
“. . . Wow. Okay. Well, it isn’t really interesting. They met when Pops was working for a nonprofit in Jamaica Plain—before he turned all boring and got a consulting job—and Dad was finishing college. It was Will who introduced them, actually. We’ve got an old album full of pictures of the three of them wearing punk band T-shirts. It’s all very nineteen nineties.”
“Ha. And then you came along?”
“Yeah, after they’d been together a few years, my dads put in with an adoption agency. That was before marriage was legal, but a lot of the agencies were doing adoptions for gay couples anyway.”
“I forget sometimes that marriage used to be illegal.”
“I know, me too.”
“So they adopted you from an agency?”
“Yeah. My bio-mom was in high school when I was born. I met her a couple of times when I was little, but then we stopped doing that. I don’t remember much about her.”
“Did your dads get married later? Is that why you just have one last name?”
“They got married, yeah, when I was still a baby. We’ve got a photo album of that, too. I look really confused in all the photos. Dad said they wanted to make me the ring bearer but they had to fire me because I kept trying to eat the ring box. But the reason my last name’s just McIntyre and not McIntyre-Perez or something is because back when they first got together, neither of my dads’ families were okay with them being gay. It took them both a long time to warm up to the idea, but Pops’s family took longer. When I was born, my dads were afraid his parents might try to challenge them for custody one day. So they gave me Dad’s last name because they trusted his side of the family more.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”
“No, no, it’s okay now. I know it sounds really dramatic, but I don’t remember any of that. I actually see more of my grandparents on Pops’s side than on Dad’s now, because they live closer. Pops says adorable grandchildren are the ultimate family icebreaker. They renewed their wedding vows when I was in middle school, and all four of my grandparents came and lit sparklers with us.”
“Ha. That’s wonderful.”
“What about you? Your parents are more conservative, right?”
“I don’t know that I’d call them conservative, exactly, but they’re . . . traditional. As far as they’re concerned, everyone should aspire to stability and security and that’s all there is to it.”
“Why did they let you start acting, then?”
“At first I think they just saw it as another activity, like being on the soccer team or something. By the time it got more intense, I’d proven I could do it and keep my grades up at the same time, so they let me continue, but they still don’t really understand it. Did I tell you they made plans to be out of town the night Les Mis opens?”
“What? No way!”
“They’ll be back to see it the next weekend, so it’s fine, but . . . they just don’t understand theater.”
“Wow. I can’t imagine. My dads come to every performance of all my shows. But then, usually they’re working at concessions or the box office or something.”
“As far as I can tell, your dads are generally . . . awesome.”
“Ha. I guess they’re okay. . . . Can I ask an awkward question?”
“Of course.”
“I think this is something I heard somewhere—or maybe I read it. But is it really true you were discovered at your middle school choir recital? . . . Sorry, was that rude of me to ask?”
“No, it wasn’t. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make a face. I suppose that’s true, but that word, discovered, is silly. In any case, I had a solo in the winter concert in sixth grade, and Rami—he became my first agent—was there, because his niece went to my school. He came up to my parents after the show and asked if he could introduce me to a voice teacher he knew to prepare for an audition. Just regional theater, but he said it could lead to other things. And it did.”
“Wow. It’s the kind of story you read in celebrity bios.”
“Rami was very nice, and he understood why I wanted to do theater. He’s the one who got me the audition for Annie.”
“I still can’t believe you’ve been on Broadway already.”
>
“Well, one show there was enough for me. I bet you’ll like it, though. The crew on that show seemed to have a lot more fun than the cast. I made friends with the sound mixer, and he’d let me sit in the booth during rehearsals when I didn’t have anything else to do. The stagehands were great too. Sometimes I’d help them sweep up sawdust backstage. They said it was against union rules, but I think that was a joke.”
“You . . . sat in the booth. Of . . . a Broadway show.”
“Well, not during performances.”
“I am still absolutely seething with jealousy right now. I’d pay to sweep up Broadway sawdust.”
“It’s no different from sawdust here. Besides, they’ll pay you to do that in a few years.”
“Ha. I wish my dads had your faith in me.”
“Oh, they do, I can tell. They just feel like they have to push you in another direction because that’s the kind of thing parents do.”
“Seriously, though. Even if you didn’t like working on Broadway, your agent must’ve been thrilled.”
“Well, yes, especially because it paid well. But when I told him I didn’t like it, he switched me to doing commercials. That was the other best way to make money, for a while at least.”
“You made my dad cry. In that dog food ad.”
“That shoot was fun. They let me play with the dog between takes. We can’t have one, because my sister’s allergic.”
“Did you have to miss school for it?”
“I don’t remember, but probably. That was always the worst part. I never got to do normal school things.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know. Have a big group of friends. Go to prom, with a date and a corsage and everything. Eat cafeteria food.”
“You aren’t missing much with the cafeteria food.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Do you, um . . . sorry, this is another personal question.”
“You can ask me personal questions. We’re lying on mats in an empty dance studio with the lights off an hour after everyone else left rehearsal. I think we can safely say what we want to say.”
“Okay, good point. So . . . do you think you’ll come out to your parents eventually?”
“Yes. My great-aunt’s married to a woman, and my parents get along fine with them. And my dad gave my sister and me a speech a few years ago about how it’s fine to be gay. I don’t know how they feel about being bi, specifically, since that’s probably closer to what I am, but I don’t think they’ll mind. Maybe I can just slip it into a conversation and be done with it. Or maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll figure it out on their own somehow. I don’t like the idea of having to sit down and have a big conversation about it, as if it’s some dramatic development, when really, it’s just part of life. I wish I didn’t have to think about it so much.”
“I know what you mean. How tired you can get of having to think about something over and over, when all you want is to have that space free in your brain so you can finally think about something else.”
“What do you want out of your brain?”
“Oh, I just meant in general. So, uh . . . I know this dance studio is one of your favorite places, but is it, like, sacred space to you? Like, would it mess up the vibe for you if we made out in here a little?”
Back Bay, Boston
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 12
“You’ve got to tell me where we’re going.”
“That would defeat the entire purpose! Keep your eyes shut. Unless you want me to get the blindfold back out.”
“If I wear that out here on the street, people will think you’re kidnapping me.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“Mel . . .”
“Kidding, kidding. Okay, we’re here. You can open your eyes.”
“Are we in—wait. Is this the restaurant you were telling me about?”
“Yep! The one where you tell the waiter what mood you’re in and they custom-blend you a milkshake that’s guaranteed to make you at least fifty percent happier, or you get your money back. Apparently they’ll do it with alcoholic drinks too, but that’s the underage version. Also, the burgers are incredible.”
“Mel, I knew we were in that Uber for a long time, but did you really bring us all the way into the city?”
“Uh-huh. And I did you one even better—look in your purse.”
“. . . Where’s my phone?”
“Somewhere safe, I promise.”
“You stole my phone while I was blindfolded?”
“It’s for a good cause! Anyway, did you find anything else in there?”
“. . . Is this a flower?”
“It’s a corsage. You wear it like a bracelet. Here, let me put it on you.”
“Awww. You got me a corsage?”
“Hey, you already know how cheesy I can be. And I guess I kind of thought . . . maybe tonight we could do some of the stuff you said you’d never gotten to do. Like go out on a date and wear a corsage. And not have to be constantly waiting on the edge of your seat for phone calls. I thought tonight we could drink milkshakes and eat burgers and just be normal teenagers without counting calories or being paranoid.”
“That’s so sweet! I’m so happy. Thank you. Oh, but for the record, I don’t count calories. And I don’t think I’m paranoid most of the time either.”
“Good. When’s the last time you had a milkshake, though?”
“Ah, well . . .”
“That’s what I thought.”
“In all seriousness, though, if I get a call, I’ll have to take it.”
“It’s Sunday night, you’re not going to get a work call. And if you do, I’ve got your phone and I can give it to you, but for now, let’s have one night when we don’t have to worry.”
“Thank you. For planning this all out. No one’s ever done anything like this for me. . . . Ah. I love it when you blush.”
“. . . Okay, I’m going to go hide somewhere now.”
“No, you’re not! We’re going to find a booth and order life-changing milkshakes. I think there’s one in the back.”
“Oh, I see it. Wait here in case something else opens up first, and I’ll run and grab it.”
“All right.”
“. . . Hey, is this table free—oh. Oh. Oh, hiiii, Rachel.”
“Mel. Hi. This is . . . random.”
“Yeah, I know, right? Are you here with—um, who are you here with?”
“Why? Who are you here with?”
“No one. I mean . . . I’m here with my dads.”
“Oh, you are? Where are they? . . . Wait, is that Odile Rose by the door?”
“What? No. Oh, wow. Um, yeah, I guess it is. Hey, who’s that guy who’s turned around waving at you? Over by the bar, with his back to us?”
“Uh . . . just somebody I know from swimming.”
“Oh. You know, it’s cool if you’re here with a guy. You don’t need to be embarrassed or anything.”
“I’m not embarrassed at all. . . . Oh, hi, Odile. We just spotted you over there. Wow, is that a corsage? You must be going somewhere exciting after this.”
“Hi, Rachel. So nice to see you! It’s so funny that we all wound up here tonight, isn’t it?”
“It really is! Hi, Odile, I’m Mel, by the way. We’ve, um, met before, but just in case you forgot. I’m the stage manager.”
“. . . Hi, Mel.”
“Anyway, I’ve got to go. Nice seeing you, Rachel. And you too, Odile.”
“I thought you just asked if this table was free?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I got confused. I have to go, um, meet my dads outside.”
“I should be going too. Rachel, is it all right if I come by the costume room Wednesday after rehearsal again, if you still need help?”
“Sure, that’s fine. We always need help.”
“All right. See you then.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . . Okay, I don’t think
she can hear us out here. Odile, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I just blanked completely. I know we said we were going to keep things secret, so . . .”
“That’s all right, but . . . Rachel’s got to know you were lying. She’s seen us talking before. Everyone has. We might as well go back in and tell her the truth.”
“No, no, we can’t. It’s fine. There’s another restaurant down the block that’s just as cool—it’s got a tiki theme and all the drinks come with umbrellas. I bet they’ve got good burgers, too.”
“I don’t feel right about this. We’re both working with Rachel on the show, and you’re her boss. Keeping this quiet was fun at first, but this kind of thing is how rumors get started.”
“. . . I mean, she’s also my ex. And that whole situation is . . . complicated.”
“I know, but—”
“Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t want this to ruin our night. Can we please just pretend it never happened?”
“. . . All right. Where’s this tiki place?”
“Down this way.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“So in the interest of pretending that whole thing never happened . . . can I tell you something embarrassing I’ve always wanted to do?”
“Of course.”
“And maybe it’ll turn out it’s something you want to do, too.”
“Maybe . . .”
“I’ve actually never walked down a street in the city holding someone’s hand.”
“. . . You mean, like this?”
“Yeah. Like this.”
“. . . I love seeing you smile like that.”
“I love being here with you like this.”
“Good. Now . . . can I tell you something embarrassing?”
“Hell yes. I feel like such a loser tonight, that might actually help.”
“Please don’t feel like a loser. I love that you came up with this plan. And here’s my embarrassing thing . . . I’ve never walked down a street anywhere holding anyone’s hand.”
“. . . Really?”
“Really.”
“I’m your very first?”
“You are.”
“Wow. I . . . I really love being here with you.”
“You said that already.”