“Philip?” Emily asked as they walked together through Times Square. Her hair was all staticky and glued to her face because she kept touching it with her woolly mittens, and she had to peel the strands away from her mouth to talk. “I was thinking about what you said. About me being your girlfriend.”
“Really?” said Philip.
“Yes,” she said. “Did you mean it?”
“In a way I did,” said Philip. They continued walking, Emily taking two steps for every one of Philip’s. It was half a block before he spoke again.
“Except there’s one thing,” he said, as if he were continuing the previous sentence without a pause. “I think there’s a chance, maybe, that I might be gay.”
Philip stopped walking so he could turn and see Emily’s face. She still had a strand of hair stuck in the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, Philip reached over and brushed the hair away from her lips. “I mean, maybe, you know? But I thought you should know.”
“Okay,” said Emily. In a way she was surprised by what he’d said, but also, in a way, not. “So, maybe we should just stay friends for now? Would that be good?”
“Yes,” said Philip. It felt like a weight had been lifted. “That would be good.”
Emily felt relieved as well. “We’ll always be bosom buddies, Philip,” she said. “Always.”
“ ‘Bosom Buddies.’ ” A huge smile lit up Philip’s face. “Mame, 1966. Music and lyrics by Jerry Herman, book by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee.”
It was almost seven-thirty.
27
“NEVER BE ENOUGH”
Aurora
2005. Music, lyrics, and book by Albert Smeave
Never be enough,
My love for you could never be enough,
Ten thousand years could never be enough,
To say what’s in my heart . . .
There was a huge, buzzing crowd in front of the Rialto Theatre, but the first person Emily and Philip recognized was Morris. He was standing directly under the marquee, leaning on a cane. Ruthie was with him, weeping and dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“Ruthie! Morris! What happened to you?” Emily asked, concerned. Ruthie jerked her thumb backward toward the theatre and sobbed.
“It’s the Closing Toe,” Morris said, rapping his cane on the sidewalk. “No worries. It’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”
“Two hours and twenty-one minutes, to be precise,” Philip corrected.
“Not tonight.” Morris snorted. “Ever been to a closing performance?”
Emily and Philip shook their heads, which Morris seemed to take as an invitation to launch into one of his lectures.
“When a real turkey closes it’s hilarious, frankly. The audience is stacked with hard-core flop collectors. They come just so they can say they saw the stinker before it died. Hey, Ruthie—remember Moose Murders?”
Ruthie nodded, still crying.
“Man, that stank! Anyway, a flop closing is fun. The more people talk about it afterwards the worse the show gets. But this show . . .” He shook his head. “People love this show. It’s gonna get emotional. Figure a two-minute hand after every song, at least.”
“Such a tragic night,” sobbed Ruthie. “So sad!”
“You think it’s sad for us—what about the actors?” Morris said. “Tomorrow they’re unemployed. Back to the auditions, the catering jobs, the temp agencies.” Morris sighed contentedly and leaned on his cane. “Remember when Cats closed? What a party that was. The fur was flying. I was picking whiskers out of my clothes all night.”
“This is different.” Ruthie sniffed. “This is too soon! Aurora’s time hasn’t come yet!”
“All shows close sooner or later,” Emily said gently. “Come on, Philip. We’d better go take our seats.”
“You have tickets?” Morris was shocked. “For tonight?”
“Orchestra, eighth-row center,” Philip said. “And it’s not even my birthday.”
Morris was right about the audience’s mood. Emily could feel it in the air as she and Philip entered the theatre. Emotions were raw and explosive, a mix of loss and celebration and protest. Some people were already getting sniffly as they took their seats.
But not Emily and Philip. For them, being here was pure, transcendent bliss. There were lumps in their throats and butterflies in their stomachs, but from the depths of themselves they knew—as clearly and certainly as anything could be known—they were where they were meant to be, at exactly the moment they were meant to be there.
It was seven-fifty-nine.
“Cell phone?” whispered Philip. It was their ritual, and not to be omitted. This is the last time, Emily thought, goodbye, and she dug through her bag until she found the phone.
The light was blinking.
She had a message. She could turn the phone off and check the message later, but she had a whole minute, plenty of time. Emily pressed the voice mail button and listened.
“Hello, Emily? It’s Mom. Daddy and I just wanted to say we got your note. We were pretty upset to find out you’d gone into the city without permission.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” her father’s voice interjected.
Emily’s eyes filled with tears. Philip mouthed: “Who?” She held up a hand and listened.
“But we called Rabbi Levin as you suggested, and he encouraged us to have an open mind. In fact, he was quite adamant that we go see the drama club show tonight anyway, though it seems you’re not going to be in it.”
“Stan and I are going, too!” That was Grandma Rose in the background now. Mrs. Pearl’s voice became muffled.
“Rose, you know it’s just a high school production, right?”
“So?” answered Grandma Rose, distant but audible. “They’re doing Fiddler on the Roof and I should stay home?”
Her mother’s voice came back to the phone.
“Anyway, that’s where we’ll be. I expect we’ll see you later. Emily, I hope whatever it is you’re doing in the city has turned out exactly the way you want. We love you!”
Click.
Emily turned to Philip. The houselights were starting to go down.
“Fiddler on the Roof,” she said, in awe. “My whole family’s going to see Fiddler on the Roof.”
“What?”
“Tonight. Right now.” Emily’s eyes were big as moons.
“They’ll love it, Emily.” Philip squeezed her hand. “It’s a great show.”
The first notes of the overture to Aurora began to play.
Emily looked around the glorious, gilded house of make-believe called the Rialto Theatre and turned back to Philip with a smile. “Yes,” she whispered. “It is.”
Then they turned their eyes to the stage, where the lights were just beginning to come up.
Stevie Stephenson and Delacorte Press Present
MY LIFE: THE MUSICAL
BY MARYROSE WOOD
STARRING
EMILY PEARL In a few years Emily hopes to be attending Yale University or someplace just as good. She will major in English, with a minor in theology. Love and thanks to Mom, Dad, Rabbi Levin, Uncle David, and Grandma Rose, and to her best friend, Philip.
PHILIP NEBBLING ran for treasurer of the Eleanor Roosevelt High School drama club and won. He plans to be a theatrical producer someday, and has recently begun to date.
LAUREY AND STUART PEARL were so touched by the final scene of Fiddler on the Roof (in which Tevye’s inability to forgive his daughter Chava for marrying a Russian soldier prevents him from bidding her a proper farewell, even though they may never, ever see each other again) that they resolved at once to forgive their daughter Emily for what, after all, were fairly harmless transgressions.
ROSE PEARL LEFKOWITZ thought the Tevye in the drama club production of Fiddler was not bad. (“He was no Zero Mostel, but what do you want?” she commented. “He’s just a kid!”)
STANLEY LEFKOWITZ was quite relieved when the State of New Jersey declined to prosecute that little mi
sunderstanding at the truck stop. He was equally relieved that he and his new bride, Rose, honeymooned at a nice hotel in Florida and not in a Winnebago.
DAVID PEARL now runs Uncle David’s Broadway Treasures, an eBay-based marketer of theatrical memorabilia. A judicious culling of Emily’s and Philip’s vast signed Playbill collections easily repaid all monies owed to Mark, but the one-of-a-kind “Albert Smeave” program was deemed much too special to sell.
ALBERT SMEAVE was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama for his epic nine-hour musical, Fiddling While It Burns, depicting the fall of Rome. Weak ticket sales were further marred when disgruntled customers believed they had purchased seats for a sequel to Fiddler on the Roof. He sold the film rights to Aurora for a ridiculously large amount of money.
MARLENA ORTIZ was unavailable to reprise her star turn in the title role in the film of Aurora due to schedule conflicts. She is currently launching a European tour to promote the release of her first solo album, called Marlena, Herself. Her role in the film will be played by a former Aurora chorus dancer named Stephanie Dawson.
CHARLES HENDERSON received an Eleanor Roosevelt High School Teacher of the Year award for his ongoing dedication to the drama club. He has not yet decided whether Aurora would be a suitable choice for next year’s spring musical, but it’s certainly possible.
MARK NEBBLING After being dumped by Stephanie Dawson (her budding film career required her to take a “more strategic approach” to relationships, she explained), Mark had what he describes as a “personal awakening.” To his mother’s amazement, he gave Mrs. Nebbling enough money to pay off the last of her student loans, got a haircut and a part-time job, and is now attending community college—including the occasional acting class—on a much more regular basis.
LORELEI CONNELLY With her ankle in a cast, Lorelei Connelly bravely performed the role of Hodel in the Eleanor Roosevelt High School drama club production of Fiddler on the Roof. Not surprisingly, she brought down the house.
STEVIE STEPHENSON Lackluster ticket sales scotched plans for the Lanerick Rep. With the two stars under contract, however, Stephenson quickly regrouped by mounting a pair of out-of-town revivals: Matthew Broderick will tour midsized American cities in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, while Nathan Lane will assay the role of Tevye in a Las Vegas production of Fiddler on the Roof. Despite its stature as a classic of stage and screen, Fiddler has been trimmed and revised for the Vegas production. “Ninety minutes, no intermission, and no Cossacks!” notes Stephenson. “Why? Because the public always prefers a happy ending!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Writing My Life: The Musical has been incredibly special for me, because the world of Broadway musicals was so much a part of my own teen years and remains very near to my heart.
You see, I was cast in my first Broadway musical when I was eighteen years old. As it turned out, it was my last Broadway musical, too. But what a show to be part of! It was called Merrily We Roll Along (1981, music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, book by George Furth), and it was directed by one of Broadway’s most legendary and innovative directors, Harold Prince.
Quite an auspicious beginning for a drama club geek from the suburbs! I mean, what were the odds? How could a second-year acting student at NYU, with no agent or connections or professional experience, become part of such an illustrious project?
Here’s how: I showed up at an open call with a resume I typed the night before (yes, on an actual clackety-clack type-writer) and a photo of myself I paid a dollar for in the passport photo booth in Penn Station. I waited all day with the hundreds of other starry-eyed wannabes who’d shown up.
At the end of the day, no closer to auditioning than when I’d arrived, I tossed my resume and photo into a big black plastic trash bag that the stage manager used to collect head shots from all the kids who hadn’t been seen. Tired and defeated, we went home.
Some weeks later, my then-boyfriend, Tom, received a letter in the mail. It was from the Merrily casting office. His photo had been plucked out of the trash bag, and would he please come in for an audition on the following Thursday?
What? Him and not me? They must need boys, I told myself. I wished him luck that Thursday morning, and off I went to tap class. I was a very poor tapper, mind you, but I liked tap class because I could kid myself that tap wasn’t actually dance, but math, since it involved a lot of counting. Dancing I wasn’t so hot at, but math I could do.
An hour later I emerged from class, sweaty and gross. The receptionist of the dance studio called me over to his desk and handed me a slip of paper with a phone message on it. The message was from my boyfriend, and I will never forget what it said.
“They want you at the Sondheim audition. Get here before six. Love, Tom.”
What could this mean? Was I going to waste time wondering? No! I raced home to my skanky studio apartment in the East Village, where the halls ran thick with roaches and the mailbox was perpetually broken. I showered, dressed, grabbed some sheet music (I only knew one song; it was “I Wish I Were in Love Again” by Rodgers and Hart), and hauled my tapping toes back uptown to a rehearsal studio in the theatre district.
I made it, I think, by five. It still seemed likely that the phone message was some kind of sick joke, but nevertheless I walked up to the person who looked like she was in charge and introduced myself. She laughed heartily—merrily, one might even say. “Maryrose Wood! We’ve been looking for you!”
(Later it was revealed that I too had been sent a letter offering an audition, a letter that had never been delivered due to my perpetually broken East Village mailbox. A phone message had been left as well, on my answering service, but I never got it because, impoverished acting student that I was, I was behind in my monthly fees and the service was holding all my messages.)
So, to fast-forward a bit—many callbacks later, after I’d sung “I Wish I Were in Love Again” fast, slow, funny, sad, sexy, goofy and every other way they could think of to ask me to sing it, I was one of about two dozen young actors, many of us still teenagers, who got cast in this can’t-lose, surefire Broadway hit.
So long, NYU! I was on Broadway now. Could stardom be far behind?
Oh, yes. So very far. Sadly (at the time of its original Broadway production, at least), Merrily was a flop. I mean, flop! The audience was bewildered, and a steady stream of people walked out during the second act.
The show received some brutal reviews. New York Times theatre critic Frank Rich wrote that it was a “shambles,” and with the exception of some of the leads, “the rest of the cast is dead wood.” Friends joked that I should be glad, because at least he mentioned me by name.
Merrily closed after only sixteen performances. At the last show we sobbed ourselves hoarse during the final number and then showed up at RCA the next morning to record the cast album. (It remains a terrific recording of a marvelous score that has earned a well-deserved “cult” status, and I bet those of you who are ardent musical theatre fans know it well.)
Merrily We Roll Along was a show about how idealistic young people are sometimes forced, and sometimes choose, to abandon their dreams and ideals over time. Some dreams, however, don’t die. Twenty-one years after Merrily’s Broadway debut, the entire original cast reunited for one night only on the stage of LaGuardia High School. Thrillingly, Stephen Sondheim and Harold Prince were there as well.
After only a few days’ rehearsal under the direction of Kathleen Marshall, we performed a concert version of the show to a sold-out audience who went absolutely bonkers with joy. Twenty-one years of history rewrote itself in a night. They loved us, we loved them, and we all loved each other. We were, finally, a hit.
Writing a book is a lot like acting: you get to play all the parts and experience everything your characters feel. For me, working on My Life: The Musical and reliving Emily and Philip’s over-the-top idealism and their fierce, unconditional love for the theatre was like being given the gift of time travel—the chance to go back, just l
ike the character of Emily in Our Town, and look one more time on the sweet innocence of the past, when shows ran forever, everything was bound to be a hit, and stardom was just around the corner.
Life isn’t always exactly like a musical, but so what? Idealism is a candle we shouldn’t ever let go out. I know Emily and Philip wouldn’t, and I hope you never do, either.
May all your dreams come true to *thunderous applause*—
Maryrose Wood
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
While still a teenager, Maryrose Wood made her Broadway debut in the chorus of Merrily We Roll Along (1981, music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, book by George Furth). She went on to act, dance, sing, direct, improvise, and write her way through many plays and musicals. Her work as a lyricist and book writer has made her a three-time winner of the prestigious Richard Rodgers Award for new musicals, which is administered by the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Maryrose wrote Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love and Why I Let My Hair Grow Out. She lives in New York with her two children and a rather theatrical little dog. And she still sings—in the shower. Visit her at www.maryrosewood.com.
Published by Delacorte Press
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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