Stephanie had Aurora, Emily fumed, her thoughts relentless as the chug-chug of the train. Stephanie had a boyfriend and a date. Stephanie was an urban sophisticate who wore red lipstick and understood the male mind. Could anxious, unadorned Emily Pearl from the suburbs ever metamorphose into such a confident and attractive creature? No. It was simply unimaginable.
Emily’s gut ached and her skin felt hot. She decided she must be in mourning for Aurora. She’d taken Intro to Psych last semester, so she knew about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. These were called the Kübler-Ross stages, named after the woman who identified them.
The second stage was anger. Maybe that’s what Emily was feeling. At the moment, she wanted to growl at everyone she saw.
“Do you feel angry?” Emily said to Philip, somewhat out of context. But surely he was in mourning for the show as well, and would understand how she felt.
“Yeah,” he said. “In fact, I’m planning to kill Mark the next time I see him. Why? Do I look angry?”
“No,” said Emily. “I was just thinking about the Keebler Elves. And how one of the stages is anger, and that I’ve been really short-tempered lately, like I just wanted to fight with someone.”
Philip frowned. “Cookies make you angry?”
“Kübler-Ross!” Emily buried her head in her hands, her dark hair falling over them like a curtain. “I hate when I do that!”
“Do what?” Philip was getting more lost by the minute. Girls could be very confusing, that was the truth. He’d been thinking about girls a bit extra lately, ever since Mark had said what he’d said to their mother. Not that Philip hadn’t thought about girls before, of course he had; half the people he knew were girls, after all—
“Saying something different than what I was planning to say,” explained Emily. “It’s like my brain is putting words in my mouth.”
“Listen, Em,” Philip said. “I’ve been thinking, and I was wondering if you wanted to be my girlfriend.”
Emily stared at him, speechless.
Obviously Emily’s brain-mouth problem was contagious. Philip had not planned to say anything remotely like that. He’d been planning to ask her what she’d thought of the Anyone Can Whistle cast recording he’d lent her. A young Angela Lansbury and some obscure Sondheim songs; it was a particular favorite of his.
“Angela Lansbury!” he sputtered. The truth was, Mark’s taunts had set him wondering—why wasn’t Emily his girlfriend? They spent all their free time together. They had stuff in common. She didn’t, as far as he knew, like anyone else. And she was a perfectly presentable person—nice-looking, intelligent, a little offbeat by most people’s standards but so was Philip, and she had a good heart.
It made perfect sense, except for the fact that they’d been best friends for almost three years and the idea of romance had never even come up. Why was that?
Emily was still staring at him. “Wow,” she said. “Wow. Where did—When did you—I’m not sure what to say.”
Philip wasn’t sure, either, so he took a pen out of his backpack and started to doodle on his arm.
“You don’t have to answer,” he mumbled, not able to look at her. “I don’t know why I said that, I shouldn’t have. Forget it, okay?”
“Okay,” said Emily. Did he want her to be his girlfriend or not? And could she even picture Philip as her boyfriend? Philip was so sweet, so not like other boys—but could she imagine them holding hands, kissing, going to the prom? She could easily imagine them going to Aurora, but that was never going to happen again. Never, never, never. She felt the tears well up.
“Hey,” Philip said, panicky. “Hey! Don’t get upset. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. Let’s not talk about it, okay, just forget what I said.”
“Okay,” Emily said again. She’d never been so confused, but luckily they were almost home.
18
“THE OLDEST ESTABLISHED PERMANENT FLOATING CRAP GAME IN NEW YORK”
Guys and Dolls
1950. Music and lyrics by Frank Loesser,
book by Abe Burrows and Jo Swerling
Thursday. Four performances left.
It was very late when Mark got back to D-West. Philip was already in bed, sleeping, but that didn’t prevent Mark from starting a conversation the moment he entered the room.
“Stephanie Dawson, now, that’s a woman,” he said, flicking on the bedroom light. Philip groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. “Did you know she’s a dancer? And what a head for business! Dude, I want in on this Lanerick Rep thing!”
Philip didn’t answer, so Mark punched him in the leg. “I’m serious. I’m in for five grand. You bring the money to the guy’s office tomorrow, got that? Steph told me his name. Davy Davidson, Frankie Frankenfart, some wacko name like that.”
“Stevie Stephenson.” Philip mumbled. “School tomorrow. Go see him yourself.”
“I can’t, you idiot. Look at me!” Mark shook his mane of frizzy hair. “Do I look like a man of the theatuh?”
Philip opened one bleary eye. “You look like Cheech. Or Chong. One of those guys.”
“Exactly! A professional like Frankenfart wants to do business with his own kind. You’re going.”
“Why should I?” said Philip.
“Five thousand dollars,” said Mark. “Four for me, one for you. The one is a loan. When the investment pays off you can use the profit to make good on the sexy granny loan. I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse. Capish?”
Philip didn’t capish, really, but he was still half asleep. He grunted and tried to hide under the covers. “You owe me money, dancing boy!” Mark yelled in his ear. “How else are you and your cute little nongirlfriend planning to pay me back?”
This was a fair question, and it was one for which Philip did not yet have an answer.
“Steph told me she always had this fantasy about having a boyfriend who’s a producer, huh. How hot is that?” Mark kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed. “Did you know that Nathan Lane was the voice of the meerkat in Lion King? Steph told me. He’s awesome.”
“He’s the One Sure Thing, all right,” said Philip. Going to Stephenson’s office would be a huge pain, but even more excruciating was listening to Mark try to dish about theatre. Philip looked at his clock radio. It was almost two a.m.
“Love that meerkat,” mumbled Mark as he drifted off. “Cute as a button, man.”
Philip didn’t see Emily until study hall, when they met in the library as usual. His horrible faux pas of the previous day made him afraid Emily might want to explore this boyfriend-girlfriend concept further, or talk about “the relationship”—didn’t girls always want to do that?—but he needn’t have worried. Emily was so grossed out by the notion of investing Mark’s money in the Lanerick Rep that that was all she wanted to discuss.
“No!” cried Emily, after Philip had explained the plan. “That would be like—something!” She struggled to remember the phrase. “Like giving comfort to the enemy! That’s what Grandma Rose calls it in Fiddler when one of Tevye’s daughters falls in love with a Russian soldier.”
Philip didn’t quite see the connection. He shrugged. “Everyone seems to think it’s a sure thing. If we can make back the money we borrowed from Mark, wouldn’t that be worth it?”
“What if the Lanerick Rep is a bust, though?” Emily asked. “Then we’d owe Mark a thousand dollars more than we do now.”
It was a risk, but Philip had no idea how to calculate the odds. They needed advice, the kind of advice that could only come from a threatre-savvy person with an inside track. They might try Morris, but they didn’t know how to get in touch with Morris other than to wander Times Square looking for him.
There was someone else they could ask, though. And two of the library computers were available.
AURORAROX: yoo-hoo
BwayPhil: Anybody home?
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: Phil & Roxie, where’ve you guys been lately?
; SAVEMEFROMAURORA: I was worried, thought maybe you did something dumb out of desperation.
BwayPhil: We’re okay.
AURORAROX: not really, though
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: That hothead Marlena had to go and spill the beans—did you get any tix by some miracle?
AURORAROX: no
AURORAROX: all gone by the time we got there
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: Ah, too bad. Wish I could help ya but—well, too bad.
AURORAROX: i thought you hated Aurora
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: Oh, I do, but now that it’s terminal I can afford to get sentimental.
BwayPhil: Listen, we have a question for you, do you mind?
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: Depends what it is, but fire away.
BwayPhil: It’s about the Lanerick Rep.
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: Can you believe that John Simon? “Like printing (expletive) money.” In the Times they publish this filth!
BwayPhil: Is it, though?
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: Is it what?
BwayPhil: A surefire hit? Because a friend of ours has a small amount of money to invest and we were wondering what you thought—
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: I’m shocked, shocked! The body of Aurora is not even cold and listen to you!
AURORAROX: please
AURORAROX: “our friend” is desperate
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: I think your friend should collect baseball cards is what I think. What people pay for memorabilia, it’s unbelievable.
AURORAROX: hypothetically, though
AURORAROX: what would a person make?
AURORAROX: if they invested money in this Lanerick Rep
AURORAROX: and it does as well as everyone says?
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: It’s all a crap game, of course. But you are relentless and pushy, Rox, and I like that, so I will answer. Hypothetically, then—I’d say a person would make ten times the money. That’s conservative.
BwayPhil: Ten times? That’s a 1000% return—that’s crazy.
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: You know what they say, kid:
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: You can’t make a living in the theatre—
SAVEMEFROMAURORA: but you can make a killing.
Philip looked at his watch. “If we leave now we can make the twelve-thirty-seven train and be at Stephenson’s office by two.” He looked at Emily with growing excitement. “Ten times the money, Emily. That makes one thousand into ten thousand—more than we borrowed from Mark!”
“Okay,” Emily said. She wasn’t sure about this, but if Philip and SAVEME thought it was the right thing to do . . .
BwayPhil: Okay, thanks, that’s all we needed to know—
AURORAROX: thanks saveme!!!!!!!
“Emily Pearl! Just the person I was looking for!”
Emily whipped her head around in terror. Why would Mr. Henderson be looking for her? It could only be bad news.
“Uh, hello, Mr. Henderson,” she mumbled. “What’s up?”
“I have a theatrical emergency to deal with, and I need your help.” He was acting smug, as usual, but also seemed genuinely nervous. “You are aware, I’m sure, that the drama club production of Fiddler on the Roof, of which I am the director, opens this weekend?”
Like I care, Emily thought. Philip had adroitly pulled an interactive Spanish quiz up on the screen and was conjugating away.
“The roles of Tevye’s five daughters are being played by some of your classmates: Michelle, Cindy, Chantal, Lorelei, and Beth. But Lorelei twisted her ankle badly during cheerleading practice this morning.” Mr. Henderson made a face. “I’m short one of Tevye’s daughters.”
Emily dared not imagine what he was going to suggest. “Isn’t four daughters enough?” she said.
“One would think,” he sighed. “But Fiddler requires five. Lorelei might be well enough to do the show on Saturday. She might not. We need an understudy.” He extended a hand to Emily. “Congratulations, Emily. You’re on!”
“Me!” cried Emily. “Why me?
“Because I figured you were the only girl in the school who knew all the music already, am I right?” Chagrined, Emily nodded. “Besides, you desperately need some extra credit.”
“Do I have to?” she whimpered.
“Only if you want to pass English. Rehearsal is today after school.” He smiled. “Welcome to the theatre, Emily.”
“ ‘Welcome to the Theatre.’ ” Philip turned around and stared at Mr. Henderson. “Applause, 1970. Music by Charles Strouse, lyrics by Lee Adams, book by Betty Comden and Adolph Green. Based on the film All About Eve.”
“Oh, dear.” Mr. Henderson seemed amused. “Not another one. Just promise me you won’t pursue it professionally; it’s a penniless life of heartbreak and disappointment. You know what they say: you can’t make a living in the theatre—”
“But you can make a killing.” Emily and Philip said it together, wide-eyed.
“Precisely. I’ll see you at rehearsal, Emily.”
With that, Mr. Henderson made his exit.
19
“HOW ARE THINGS IN GLOCCA MORRA?”
Finian’s Rainbow
1947. Music by Burton Lane, lyrics by E. Y. Harburg,
book by E. Y. Harburg and Fred Saidy
And so, however improbably, thanks to a clumsy cheerleader, Emily spent the afternoon learning the choreography for “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from Fiddler, and Philip ended up traveling to Stevie Stephenson’s Manhattan office alone.
After Mr. Henderson left, Emily had sputtered and ranted about how she was now convinced Mr. Henderson was SAVE-MEFROMAURORA—her own English teacher! What were the odds? Philip thought it was probably a coincidence that Mr. Henderson had used the same expression as SAVEME, but he had a train to catch and no time to debate the issue. Impulsively, he’d leaned over and kissed Emily goodbye, on the cheek. Then he left the library without looking back, just in case she was wiping it off.
It was true Philip didn’t have much in the way of sexual experience and that his best friend was a girl whom, until today, he’d never even attempted to kiss. But that didn’t mean he was gay, did it, and what the hell business was it of Mark’s anyway? And why did Mark have to get their mother involved? Now poor Mrs. Nebbling would devote all her legal and costume-making skills to securing Philip’s right to marry another boy and designing outlandish outfits for him to wear in the Greenwich Village Halloween parade. Didn’t the woman have enough to deal with? No question: Mark was dead meat.
This line of thinking kept Philip occupied during his trip on the Long Island Rail Road, his duck-and-dodge through the crowds of Penn Station to the street, his long-legged speed walk up Eighth Avenue and around the corner of Forty-fourth Street to the Sardi’s building, which housed Stevie Stephenson’s office. He could walk much faster when Emily wasn’t trotting along next to him trying to keep up, and it felt good to exert himself.
It had been easy to find Stephenson’s office address on the Internet. Philip pressed the elevator button and waited. He patted his coat pocket, which drooped with the weight of five thousand dollars in cash. An offer, certainly, that even a man of Stephenson’s extravagant means couldn’t refuse.
Nobody was around when Emily got home after rehearsal. It was a relief in a way, because it meant Emily didn’t have to make happy chitchat about her Eleanor Roosevelt High School drama club debut. In Fiddler, no less! Emily had had no trouble learning the part, but it was pretty hilarious watching Mr. Henderson dance around like a starry-eyed teenage girl as he taught her the steps.
Her parents would be home soon, though. Emily wondered when Grandma Rose and Stan would make their getaway. The Winnebago had been purchased and insured, the tank filled with gas, and the rig inconspicuously parked in front of Birchwood Gardens D-West (this had been Mark’s idea—you had to give him credit for knowing how to hide things in plain sight), but Grandma Rose remained mum on the timing of their departure.
“If you don’t know, the Cossacks can’t torture it out of you,” she’d said to Emily, patting her cheek.
“Not that you wouldn’t try not to tell. But parents have ways. So how do you like my Stan, huh? What a cutie!”
All hot grandmas have boyfriends. Even if their granddaughters don’t. Emily felt a tinge of bitterness as she grabbed a bag of Chex Party Mix and brought it with her to her room. She wasn’t supposed to eat in there, but at the moment all she wanted to do was lie in bed with a forbidden snack and listen to the Aurora CD. She especially wanted to hear Marlena Ortiz sing the heartbreaking second-act reprise of “Never Be Enough,” which always made Emily cry.
What a confusing day, she thought. Mr. Henderson either is or isn’t SAVEME and Philip either does or doesn’t want to be my boyfriend and I’ve been kidnapped by a high school musical that opens in two days—but I might or might not be going on, depending on Lorelei’s stupid ankle. . . .
The only thing that seemed certain was that Aurora was closing, and Emily would never, ever see it again.
If you’re going to cry anyway, better to have a sad song to do it to. Emily popped the CD in her stereo and stretched out on the bed.
Miss O’Malley’s voice had a gentle Irish lilt, but she still sounded very firm on the phone.
“No, dear, I’m terribly sorry. All the house seats are spoken for. That’s right, have a good day now.”
“Mr. Stephenson’s office—oh, hello, Mr. Mayor. I wish I could help you, love, but Stevie’s already promised them all . . .”
“Hello, Stephenson Productions. Ah, Mr. Trump! The flowers you sent were too much now, darlin’. Yes, I know how you love the show, and if I had a single ticket left I’d give it to you for sure. . . .”
While she was talking, she cocked one eyebrow at Philip and gestured for him to have a seat. The reception area of Stephenson’s office was clubby and rich-looking, with leather sofas and dark wood paneling. The only whiff of theatre about the place was the copy of Variety lying on one of the coffee tables, peeking out from underneath the day’s Wall Street Journal.
“Dearie me! Tell the prince I’m much obliged, but I can’t possibly entertain his proposal—he’s got quite enough wives already. No, no house seats for him, either, so sorry, Mr. Trump. Cheers!”
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