Five, Six, Seven, Nate!

by Tim Federle

  “Pick a good photo,” I say. “Please pick a nice photo.”

  If you Google-Image my name you find exactly three pictures. The famous school portrait, which I call Fagster-the-End-of-the-World-Photo. A pretty okay one where Libby and I got Jankburg press coverage for the time we went door-to-door, collecting money for a Carol Channing Museum we were cooking up. And a picture of a guy named Nathan Jackson Foster, in Poughkeepsie, who whittles presidents’ faces into frozen Brie. So, yeah.

  “Were you asking for it?” my dad asked that night, when he overheard me and Mom talking in the kitchen. “Did you do something to provoke those harmless boys into making a mean thing about you?”

  I remember, distinctly, that he was eating a leftover Primanti Bros sandwich, its hundred layers splaying forth on his lap and falling into couch cushions. Pittsburgh is the only place in the world where you’d put french fries inside a sandwich. (I’m adding this in the plus category for Pittsburgh, by the way.)

  “No, Dad,” I said, with Mom scooting me out of the kitchen, because I was getting Tippy riled up. “I wasn’t asking for it. You don’t ask people to create a Web page about you where they call you every name under the sun.”

  “It’ll give you character,” Dad said, turning up Jeopardy. He never knows a single answer, but don’t remind him. “Stay out of those boys’ way.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” someone asks, and then Heidi the Protector’s next to me, grabbing the Sharpie and capping it.

  “Come on, buddy.”

  My hands are practically blue, they’re so cold; ever since getting the news that I was going on as Elliott, I never quite got anything to eat, and the enormity of this night is hitting me like a Mac truck. (I’d love to be a Mac-truck driver, just transporting makeup from theater to theater, sea to shining sea.) Point is, I think the endorphins are finally wearing off, here. I’ve never been a kid who got runner’s high—that’s Anthony’s territory. Me? I suffer from runner’s low. My highest moments come from singing in the woods with Feather. Or during the nights of sleep where James Madison and the Bills of Rights aren’t making nightmare appearances, taunting me. Torturing me. Calling me a fag.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” a brazen girl calls out again.

  Aunt Heidi pulls my hat down tight over my ears. “Let’s get to Sardi’s,” she says.

  “Who’s Libby?”

  That stops me.

  “Who’s Libby?” I say. They know Libby?

  “Yeah,” says the brazen girl, she of Pippi pigtails and dangerous eyes.

  “Your bio,” the girl says, reading from it: “For Libby: I hope you were right about me.”

  “Oh, Libby.”

  It warms me up, just saying her name. It spreads white to my blue hands and nourishments to my belly. As if by just reciting the word Libby—my best friend, my coach, the person who kind of knew me before I knew myself, because girls grow up so much faster—is enough to give me, like, vital nutrients.

  “Libby is my best friend. Ever. And if you liked anything I did up there tonight, basically she’s responsible for rewiring my every bad instinct as an actor.”

  “What does it mean?” the redhead says. She’s just about the last of them standing here, clumped with a troupe of dancer girls, all wearing the same shiny blue jackets. Miss Judy’s Center for Theater Arts. “What does I hope you were right about me mean, in your bio?”

  “It means . . .” I start to explain.

  But then I wonder what it means too. I wrote it at the last minute, in the car ride with Mom to New York. Libby never even approved the bio, too busy sleeping that last night away with me. Our legs intertwined, our hands all over each other. Nate Foster: the least threatening boy in America.

  “Come on, Natey,” Heidi says. “Gotta get there before they close. Get you a hot drink.” She’s smiling in this weird way, like she’s distracted all of a sudden.

  “It means I hoped I lived up to Libby’s expectations. It means I hope I’m as good as she swore I was back in her basement. It just means I hope that . . . Libby was right.”

  And that’s when a scorched alto voice says its most important dialogue yet.

  “I was,” the Voice says, creeping up from behind my shoulder like a fire alarm—but the good kind. The kind that takes your whole class out to the school parking lot for half of a test.

  “I was definitely right about you, Natey-greaty.”

  And that is when I faint.

  Fade-out

  The worst part, I suppose, is the humiliation.

  “At least you didn’t hit your head.”

  It’s not the fact that I split my lip open.

  “At least you didn’t fall into anyone.”

  It’s the fainting-in-front-of-my-new-and-only-fans part.

  “If you hadn’t taken forever, we’d have waited in Sardi’s like your aunt instructed. But we got worried. And curious.”

  “I guess the rule going forward is that maybe you shouldn’t sneak up on me. But thank you. For being worried.”

  Heidi brings out a tray of hummus and carrots.

  “I thought we’d have a nice healthy snack to welcome our guests,” she says, popping around the apartment and throwing things into closets.

  “You guys planned all of this out today?” I say.

  “Of course,” Libby says. “What did you think? I’d drive to New York at the very last moment to see you in the chorus?”

  Libby’s mom gives me a squeeze and makes her way into Freckles’s old room, and Heidi hits the lights in the kitchen and heads to the bathroom to wash her face. This’ll take an hour or three, because she cried so much, earlier tonight, that she had to keep reapplying greasier and thicker makeup. She kind of actually looked like E.T. when she got to my dressing room.

  “So,” I say.

  “So,” Libby goes.

  “Was I awful?”

  She launches Heidi’s only throw pillow at me. “Listen, rock star,” Libby says, bypassing the hummus altogether and taking the plate right back to the kitchen. “You were perfect. Just talk faster. Once you know the lines better.”

  Libby Jones always cuts to the chase.

  I hear Aunt Heidi’s phone dinging in the bathroom a bunch of times, and then she kind of giggles. It actually sounds like she’s whinnying into a hand towel or something.

  “Everything cool in there, Aunt Heid?”

  She cracks open the door. Her cheeks are red—even through a shocking amount of green foam.

  “Apparently we are seeing a late movie with that Calvin next weekend,” she says, sighing and giggling some more and then shutting the door.

  Go, Calvin! I bet he’ll even buy our tickets, because he’s that kind of guy. Wow.

  “Speaking of lucky,” I start to go, frustrated tonight’s rhythm with Libby feels a little off. But then—

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Libby says, pulling the rabbit foot from her backpack.

  “How did you know I was going to ask where it is?”

  “Please, Nate. I knew how you were going to bow tonight,” she says. This makes sense. She taught me how to bow. My instinct at the end of our basement shows was always to wave or curtsy. “And I knew you’d be grinning from ear to ear that you got to replace Jordan, of all people.”

  She tosses me the foot.

  “Oh, yeah, Jordan,” I say. My stomach and heart switch roles. “Yeah, him.”

  “Yeah, him,” she says, laughing, scrunching her face, kicking me a little. “The kid we hate, right?”

  “Nah,” I go, quicker than I mean to. “I mean, he can be a little bit of a twerp, but . . .”

  “A little bit?” she goes, grunting hard enough, now, that Heidi swizzles her head back out to check on us. She’s moved on to a blue facial-foam layer and is looking pretty sea-creaturey.

  “Nate, saying Jordan is a little bit of a twerp is like saying Gypsy is a little bit of a star vehicle.”

  I kick her back. “We had a turning point,” I
say. “Jordan and I turned over a new leaf.”

  “You’re purple right now. Do you know that? You are the color purple.”

  “Brilliant movie,” I say. “Great book.”

  “Iffy musical,” she interrupts—but doesn’t change the subject. “You look like an eggplant.”

  “What’s with you and all these vegetables? It’s disconcerting.”

  “What’s with you and all these big new words? It’s discombobulating.”

  Heidi gets a tip-toed glass of water from the kitchen. This is hilarious because there’s already a glass in the bathroom. Eighty bucks she’s checking on us to make sure we haven’t started a fire or traded drugs or something.

  “Anyway,” I go.

  “Well, maybe Jordan’s grown up,” Libby goes, swinging her legs down and kind of picking at an afghan thread. “I know I’ve changed a little.”

  “You mean not wearing mismatched socks?”

  “You noticed?”

  “Libby, for God’s sake. It’s one of your chief qualities. You not having mismatched socks is like me having a magically healed underbite. And—”

  “Are you and Jordan more than friends?”

  She says it so quietly, it actually gives me a believable excuse to say, “What?” Heidi’s back in the bathroom again, thank God.

  “Are you—” Libby stops and looks at me and then looks away and then looks at me again. “Are you guys, like . . . more than friends. Or something.”

  I hate being known this well. For my whole relationship with Libby, being known this well has been the selling point. The riddle on the Popsicle stick.

  “I don’t,” I start. “No. Know, I mean.”

  “Well, that sort of says it all.” She gets up and roots around inside her luggage, but there’s nothing in there. She’s stalling. Libby never stalls. She blurts.

  “Are you going to change on me?” she finally says, looking up with tears in her eyes. I’ve never realized how legit pretty they are.

  “No!” I say. “No, I’m the same. I’m just the exact same.”

  “Okay,” she says. “So you’re not going to be all different and secretive or anything?”

  “Libby!” I ricochet my eyes over to the bathroom, but at least Aunt Heidi’s got the water on full blast. No way she can hear us. “I thought our generation was supposed to be the one that didn’t care about, you know, what people are. Or aren’t.”

  “Our generation isn’t you and me,” she says, kerplopping into the futon and then hugging that throw pillow, hard. “Our generation isn’t stuck in Jankburg, alone.” She takes off her glasses and rubs an eye.

  “Please, Libby. You’ve got Billy O’Keefe.”

  “Bill,” she says, “and I don’t. I—I broke up with him. Turns out he wasn’t at all into the Gay-Straight Alliance thing . . . so I wasn’t at all into the him thing. Or something.”

  I want to shout, “Oh my God, no way!!!” but figure it’s best to play it cool, so I just go: “Oh my God, no way.”

  “Way.”

  “Well, see? That sounds more like our generation already.”

  She lightning-bolts the glasses back on and turns right to me. “Our generation didn’t promise each other to get married if they were both thirty and hadn’t met somebody.”

  “Come on, Libby, we’re thirteen. Not thirty. We’ve got . . . like . . . a really long time to figure all that out.”

  “You are so terrible at math,” she says.

  “What?”

  “You literally couldn’t have done that math if you’d wanted to. Thirty minus thirteen.” But she’s not saying it meanly. There’s a smirk on her tongue.

  “Whatever,” I say, laughing. She’s right. The only counting I’ve mastered goes five, six, seven, eight. I reach over and hug her, which is pretty awkward, because we’re getting older and stuff, but it’s also the right thing to do. Heidi would approve.

  “There’s been nobody like you, Natey.” Libby kind of laughs. “Not Bill.” She laughs harder. “Not the other girls, that’s for sure. The so-called lucky rabbit foot is false advertisement.”

  “Well, there’s nobody like you here, either, Libby.” I hate how it comes out, because I really mean it, but it sounds like I’m just saying that because she did.

  “You’re just saying that,” she goes. But she knows I mean it. Please, she knew how I was going to bow before I did. “So . . . Jordan hasn’t replaced me?”

  Only in that a kiss with him felt like a real kiss, I want to say. But I just go, “No way. Not even close. Three Jordans is like . . . one Libby.”

  “Thanks?” she asks, her forehead suddenly littered with dubious eyebrows.

  “You’re welcome,” I say. Give Libby an inch and she’ll still refuse to run a mile in gym.

  “You should call your mom and dad,” she says, and Heidi somehow hears that—did she overhear all of this?—and opens the bathroom door. “And rub it in their faces, Natey. Tell them you became so much more famous than Anthony tonight.”

  Dad told me to come back a star. Dad will flip when he finds out how much extra money I made this week for playing Elliott.

  “You should, Natey,” Heidi says, toweling her squeaky face. Uh-oh, it’s a night she’s got her retainer in. I hope Libby doesn’t snort. “They’re going to—well, I don’t know what they’re going to say, because your mom still hasn’t called me back yet tonight. But you should phone home right now!” She starts to hand me her cell.

  “No,” I say. “In the morning. It’s so late. I don’t want to wake up Dad and Anthony. They’ll be up in a few hours to do weights in the garage.” Right by Jordan’s meticulously researched orchids.

  Heidi does a whole “suit yourself” routine, hugging me good night and telling me how proud she is. How I’m the greatest Foster alive, and she never could’ve pulled off what I did tonight. “Thanks, Aunt Heidi.” And I just let her have the moment. I don’t even downplay it or discount it. “Thank you, thank you.”

  And Libby and I flip off the last night.

  And settle into the terrible slats of the futon.

  And it’s like there’s nothing except everything to talk about.

  “I don’t want to tell them anything tonight,” I finally say, when the honking and occasional drunk voices from the street get to be both too quiet and too loud. “I don’t want to share any of this with Mom and Dad. Or Anthony.”

  “Not even Feather?” Libby says. “You dog would be very proud of you. Especially since you’ve played so many scenes opposite him in my basement.”

  “Nah,” I say, smiling, trying to find a good spot on the pillow. “He’s not so hot on the phone.”

  “Why don’t you want to spill your news?” Libby goes. “It’s, like, the biggest news ever.”

  “Because if I tell the family Foster I went on as Elliott, they’ll ask what that means.”

  “Right.”

  “And then they’ll ask if I’m getting more money.”

  “Right.”

  “And then they’ll say, Why didn’t you just get the part in the first place?”

  “Totally.”

  A radio blares from a passing car, and I close my eyes.

  “And then they’ll ask if Jordan’s jealous of me, and Dad will follow the wrong story line and ask if there’s something we can do to get rid of Jordan.”

  Libby laughs.

  “And then Anthony’ll be all, That’s cool. Does that mean you’re not coming home for a while officially, and can we turn your bedroom into a steam room or something for postgame detoxes?”

  Libby laughs really hard now, but she’s getting heavy with sleep.

  “And then Mom’ll take the phone back and say, Serves those people right, from the other side of town, for thinking they can just have everything. A big house with a carousel, and a mom in fur coats all day long, and a kid starring on Broadway.”

  “Your mom’d have a point,” Libby says, yawning.

  “Except they don’t have al
l those things. Jordan’s dad is . . . never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Jordan’s family maybe isn’t as well off as you’d think.”

  “Ah, I see,” Libby says, rolling over to face the other way. She’ll flip back in two seconds, though, because the most annoying street lamp is on her side of the futon.

  “You see?” I say. “What do you see?”

  She rolls back over. Told you. “You’ve got secrets now with Jordan. You’re protecting him.”

  But I ignore her there.

  “And since I promised Jordan to keep his secret, I wouldn’t be able to tell my mom that his dad lost his job. That they were almost bankrupt before Jordan got Elliott.”

  I open my eyes and look up at Heidi’s ceiling, which is so dark I could fall into it forever.

  “And I wouldn’t be able to tell my dad that Jordan’s like me, too, and that families who live in bigger houses aren’t always happy. And that starring on Broadway can actually be a lot of pressure.”

  Here, my voice gets cracky. Darn theater air, huh, Asella?

  “Uh-huh,” Libby goes.

  “And I definitely wouldn’t be able to tell my brother—or anyone—that Jordan and I kissed tonight.”

  A hundred thousand seconds go by in one, and then Libby puts her hand on my shoulder and just sort of doesn’t say anything, because sometimes that’s the best way to say it all.

  “And that’s that. And that’s maybe why I’m not going to tell my parents—yet—that I became a Broadway star tonight.”

  Libby pulls her hand away and we close our eyes and we’re both about to fall asleep, when I add one more thing.

  “It actually doesn’t even matter to me that I missed the whole party at Sardi’s because I fainted and scuffed my knee.”

  “Those pants needed to go anyway,” Libby says like a dream. Or in a dream. Or singing out from a dream.

  “All that matters is that I’m proud of myself.”

  Tonight I lived up to me. Not Dad or Mom, or Anthony’s legacy. Tonight I was myself, because everybody else was taken. “For literally once I’m proud of myself.”

  It’s superquiet, and the sirens all shut off like in some weird cooperation, and Heidi’s done in the bathroom, and Libby’s mom is snoring the contented moans of somebody doing better than the doctors could have even imagined.