by J. C. Long
“The show is running too long,” Annabelle said, tone neutral. Her eyes remained fixed on her Long Island as if it were the most interesting thing in the world to her at that moment.
“Then cut one of the stupid dance numbers! Not like we need as many of them as we have. No one comes to Broadway to see dance.” Distaste oozed from Donnie almost palpably.
As a dancer I couldn’t hold my tongue. “No, nobody. I mean, A Chorus Line and Chicago and Forty-Second Street, Thoroughly Modern Millie, they weren’t popular at all. Neither was Cats, come to think of it.” I made sure he could not miss the sarcasm dripping from my words.
Donnie turned a cold look on me. “Oh look, he speaks. And here I thought he was a nameless, voiceless face with dance shoes. I guess that’s only during the show.”
“Don’t be an ass just because now you only have one solo, Donnie,” Annabelle drawled.
I was grateful to her for coming to my defense.
Donnie, though, didn’t appreciate it as much as I did, judging by his heavy scowl. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t bitch if they cut one of your nine numbers.”
Annabelle laughed. “Are you kidding? I begged Corker to cut one. It would be nice to have maybe five minutes of backstage time a night.”
“I need another drink,” Mike muttered.
He started to rise from the table, but I held out a hand to stop him.
“I’ll get it,” I said, wanting to be as far away from Donnie as I could get at the moment. “Straight whiskey?”
Mike studied me for a moment and, sensing my need to get away was greater than his, nodded. I scooted past Annabelle, anxious to be out of the scumbag’s vicinity.
“Oh, he even fetches, huh?” Donnie sneered.
“You want to go there?” I asked with a raised eyebrow as Maureen finally rejoined the group with the Jack and Coke Donnie asked for. He didn’t have a comeback for that, and I walked to the bar feeling victorious. I stood at the bar for a few minutes before I even placed the order for Mike’s drink. The bartender, who wasn’t helping anyone at that moment, kept giving me strange looks. I held off as long as I thought I could get away with and then ordered the drink.
By the time I got back to the table Donnie and his groupies had, thankfully, moved on to speak to someone else Donnie knew. I handed Mike his drink with a flourishing bow, and he laughed, thanking me.
“Could his head be farther up his own ass?” Annabelle asked as Donnie’s obnoxiously loud and clearly fake laugh reached us.
“If he tried really hard, maybe,” Mike said. “I wouldn’t suggest it, though. The world doesn’t deserve that.”
“What does he have against dancers?” I glowered, taking a drink of my now watered-down Long Island.
“Probably the fact that he’s shit at it,” Mike suggested.
“I hate entitled assholes like that.”
“Entitled is right,” said Annabelle. “He’s never had to work his way up—he doesn’t appreciate the ensemble because he’s never been in the ensemble. His father was chief financial backer of his first show. I doubt he even had to audition. Everything is just… handed to him.”
Thinking about how hard I’d been working since coming, and about all the people who’d been working longer and harder than me, I was indignant. It sucked that the broken system allowed something like that to happen.
Annabelle got another drink for herself while Mike and I nursed ours for a while, just chatting about the show, our excitement for the upcoming move to the theater for tech rehearsals and full runs. When I finally finished my drink, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
I was feeling proud of myself. I’d finally overcome whatever nonsense it was that was causing me to act like a complete moron around Mike, and now we were just conversing like normal people at a bar. Lucy and Georgina would be proud of me.
On the way back to the table from the bathroom Donnie intercepted me, his eyes flashing with unconcealed hate. “If it isn’t the perfect dancer.”
I attempted to go around him, but he held up an arm to stop me.
“What do you want, Donnie?” I demanded impatiently.
“What I want is to let you know you’re out of your league.”
While I said it about myself, a heavy anger was stirred in my stomach hearing someone else say it—especially Donnie. I controlled my face, though, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d scored a hit.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Donnie let out a harsh, cruel bark of a laugh. “You think no one notices the way you trail after Mike, like a puppy looking for a reward? It’s pathetic. Why the fuck would he even look at you? He’s a Broadway star—you’re just a nobody. Look over there.”
My jaw clenched tight, I followed Donnie’s gesture and saw that two guys had come to the table and were chatting with Mike. Both seemed a little starstruck. As I watched, Mike said something to them with a smile and they both laughed, their manner clearly flirtatious.
“He could have anyone he fucking wants. Sure, he might waste some time with a dancer—I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time—but as soon as he’s done, he’s just going to move on and forget about you, because in the end you’re just some face in the crowd that means nothing.”
Donnie spun on his heel and walked away, a satisfied smirk on his face, but I barely noticed. Instead I stood there in the middle of the bar, shoulders being jostled by people while I had an internal crisis.
It should have been easy for me to dismiss Donnie’s words as pure vitriol, but it wasn’t. I was a nobody, at least as far as the world of Broadway was concerned. I might as well have been a nobody in every other aspect of my life too. I had never been overly popular, didn’t have a large circle of friends. Even in high school, half of my classmates didn’t know my name.
And did it matter? I never cared before, because I knew what I wanted and I was focused on achieving it. What happened? What was I doing, wasting my time pining over Mike Chang when I should be focused on my part in the show? Was I so desperate I was turning friendly moments, things he would do for any other castmate, into something more? Was I creating some fantasy where I could be more than just some quick fling? Hell, it was insanity to think I could be even that!
I needed to get out of there. I hurried to the table and slapped a twenty down, unsure how much the drinks cost there. “I’m going to get going,” I said quickly, trying to ignore the surprised and confused—and maybe disappointed? Damn it, there I went again—looks on Annabelle and Mike’s faces.
“Is something wrong?” Mike asked, starting to stand up.
I put on my fakest smile, ignoring Aunt Georgina’s voice that reared up in the back of my mind. For someone in theatre, you can’t lie worth a damn. “No, of course not. It’s just, I told you that tomorrow I have brunch plans, remember? I want to get home so I’m not late for that. Thanks a lot for inviting me out tonight. I had fun. See you at rehearsal.”
I didn’t give either of them any more time to protest or ask questions. I pivoted on my heel and hurried out into the night and back to the safety of my home.
SCENE VIII
THE CAB ride home from Rager was a blur. It seemed like the time between stepping out of Rager and walking through the door of Aunt Georgina’s apartment was mere moments. I didn’t even know what time it was when I walked through the door. It couldn’t be too terribly late, though, because Aunt Georgina was still up, this time watching old Friends reruns on cable.
“You’re home early,” she said in surprise as I walked through the door.
I could see a glint of worry in her eyes as she said this. I needed to get away from her quickly, before she really picked up that something was bothering me.
“I have plans with Wes and the others tomorrow morning,” I explained, hurrying into the bathroom, pretending like I really needed to pee to escape her questing gaze.
I splashed water on my face and flushed the toilet for extra measure
, even though I didn’t use it, and slipped from the bathroom and into my bedroom. Well, Lucy’s bedroom. I collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, a heavy feeling growing in my chest.
Was I being an idiot for listening to Donnie, for letting his words get under my skin? He hated me, that much was evident, and would have liked nothing more than to send me into this sort of spiral.
But just because the words came from a disgusting, vile source didn’t mean there wasn’t a hint of truth in them, argued another part of my brain. Could I completely discount Donnie’s words just because they came from him?
My mind continued to war back and forth like this for I don’t know how long, chasing away any chance at sleep. Anytime I tried to slow the thoughts down or divert them they just came back stronger than ever.
Tate O’Connor, I thought morosely, overthinker extraordinaire.
THE SKY was beginning to lighten by the time I finally fell asleep, and I had trouble waking up a few hours later when my alarm went off. I was half inclined to blow the brunch off, but I’d already had to reschedule or ignore several plans with these guys, and that would only get worse as the show progressed. Despite my exhaustion—of both the mental and the physical sort—I crawled out of bed, dressed, and made my way to the restaurant where we were to have our brunch.
“You look fucking tired, Tate,” my friend Wesley Rodriguez said as I sat down at the table we’d reserved.
I was about five minutes late for brunch and was the last of the group to arrive. Wesley sat in front of the window. To his right was my chair. Next to me on the other side was Sean Forrest, my newest friend. Next to Sean was Moses Miller, the last member of what we called the “Broadway boys” since most of us were trying to get on Broadway somehow or another—me as a performer, Wes as a songwriter, Moses as a director. Only Sean seemed to have no aspirations for the stage.
“You have a long practice yesterday?”
“What are you practicing?” Moses demanded as he poured me a liberal amount of champagne followed by a much less liberal amount of orange juice for a mimosa. “You land that audition?”
“I didn’t tell you?” I buttered a piece of bread and took a bite, starving. My lunch at the bistro near the studio seemed so far away, and I hadn’t eaten anything at the bar. Thankfully the others knew what I would order and had placed it when they’d done their own. “Yeah, I got in. We’re about to start our fourth week of rehearsals. We’re moving to the theater this week.”
“Lucky bastard gets to work on a Damon Artillo and Brett Smalls show—I could just die of jealousy,” Wes said, mock glaring at me.
Damon and Brett, the songwriting team for the show I was in, were Wes’s songwriting heroes. They were gods in his eyes. The fact that I got to perform to their music in some way was an utter blessing, as far as Wes was concerned.
“I’ve never even met them,” I reminded him.
“That’s not even the best part,” Wes went on, ignoring me. “He’s in the same show as Mike Chang.”
Moses gasped theatrically. “No way. Oh, I would give anything to be working next to that fine Asian man.”
Sean looked confused. “Who is Mike Chang?”
Wes, Moses, and I stared at him in shock. “How do you not know who Mike Chang is?” I asked. “He’s only one of the biggest Broadway stars out there today.”
“Not to mention one of the hottest,” Moses added.
Sean raised his eyebrows curiously. “Got a picture?”
His request was immediately met with three cell phone screens bearing the image of Mike Chang being aimed in his direction. Mine was a classy shot that he did for a Broadway.com interview, Wes’s a still from his show before this one, and Moses’s, in typical Moses fashion, was a shirtless photo of him that was taken by paparazzi.
Sean let out a low whistle. “You are one lucky bastard, Tate.”
I squirmed a bit at that, the comments drawing my mind far too close to the issue of the previous night. Donnie’s spiteful face kept swimming into my mind’s eye.
“He may be able to get lucky too, from what I hear,” Wes threw in, oblivious to my discomfort with the topic. “Rumor has it that Mike Chang likes to get his ‘showmance’ on, if you know what I mean. Heard he has a fling with a different cast member in every show.”
Donnie’s words came back to me in a rush, and I quickly drained my mimosa in one long drink, reaching for the champagne. If this was the line of discussion I could expect all brunch, I was going to need to order another bottle.
“So he’s gay?” Sean inquired as the waiter brought us our orders. My stomach growled appreciatively as the bacon grilled cheese and a hearty helping of fries was placed in front of me.
“Can we get one more?” I asked the waiter, holding up the champagne bottle.
“He’s gay,” Wes affirmed. “That interview he did for Broadway.com talked about his coming out and how it was less of a big deal for his family than the fact that he wanted to be a Broadway performer.”
I’d read the article Wes mentioned, and a thought came to me. “Didn’t he mention having a boyfriend? He said the boyfriend kept motivating him and brought him flowers opening night, right? I’m pretty sure his boyfriend wasn’t an actor.”
“If he had a boyfriend, where did the showmance thing come from?” Sean inquired.
“Please,” said Moses dismissively, “when has that ever stopped anyone?”
“You know, we’re not all whores like you, Moses,” Wes reminded him, and we all laughed, though mine was somewhat forced.
I was ready for us to get off this topic as soon as we possibly could. If I could get away from the table without making an ass of myself and revealing what had gone on (in my head) between Mike and I, it would be a miracle.
“He hooked up with any cast members yet?” Moses asked me, leaning forward so I could reveal whatever scandalous tidbits of gossip I had.
“No, not that I’ve noticed,” I said casually, wondering if that was actually true. I didn’t spend much time with him during rehearsals, at this point. He was quite popular amongst the cast, and I knew that more than one set of eyes were pining after him. Maybe I was being blind and he had started some sort of showmance or hookup with someone else in the cast. The thought made me extremely angry for some reason.
“There’s something you’re not telling us, honey,” said Moses, becoming serious—very unusual for him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I huffed, knowing I was trapped. They would not buy it, and they would pester me until I let it out. “Goddamn it, fine. Okay, here’s the thing.” And I told them everything, from the meeting with Mike to my idiocy when it came to talking to him and what happened at the bar with Donnie.
Wes stopped me when I mentioned him bitching about Artillo cutting a number. “He called Damon Artillo what?”
Moses patted Wes’s hand comfortingly. “Not the time, honey.”
“Right. No, you’re right.” He took several deep breaths. “Continue, Tate.”
“This Donnie guy sounds like a real bitch,” said Sean darkly when I finished up.
“But he’s probably right,” I insisted. “You said it yourself—Mike Chang has a reputation. That’s not something I want to get wrapped up in. I don’t want to be another notch on his musical belt.”
“I guess you’ve got to do what’s best,” Sean said, though he didn’t sound like he agreed with me for some reason.
“I think you’re crazy,” Moses declared, pouring more champagne and orange juice into his glass—just a splash of the latter, I noticed. “I would jump at the chance to dance the horizontal tango with Mike Chang.”
SCENE IX
MONDAY WE didn’t have rehearsal, my first day off in a long time. I had no desire to spend that time trapped in my head, so I went to Aunt Georgina’s diner to work for the day. I reached the diner around eleven, quickly slipping back into the small break room behind the kitchen and putting on the apron I always wore.
Aunt Georgina was behind the counter when I exited the kitchen, ready to get to work.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she told me for the umpteenth time. “You don’t get many days off, so you should just sit at home and rest today, or go out and do something fun.”
“I like working at the diner,” I assured her, ignoring the skeptical look on her face. That wasn’t a lie; I did enjoy working with Aunt Georgina. She made work fun and would often supply me with a continuous fill of snacks. And during downtime I could just sit there and watch the big TV that hung in the corner above the door to the bathroom.
Georgina moved in closer, inspecting me with the hawkish eyes of a mother, even though she had no children of her own—unless you counted Lucy, and she and I always did.
“Are you all right? You’ve been acting a bit strange since you went out to the bar.”
The one downside I hadn’t thought of about working at the diner was being around Aunt Georgina all day. If she got it into her head that something was wrong, she would sniff it out like a bloodhound. Damn it, you’re an actor, I reminded myself forcefully. You can do this. I put on my most reassuring smile.
“I’m fine,” I assured her, hoping she believed me.
“Okay,” she said at last, satisfied—for now. “But don’t go overdoing it, okay? You’re leaving here by five, at the latest. No arguments.”
That would be fine. A good six hours of work, time to focus on anything other than my problems and Mike. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.
The shift went by relatively smoothly. I saw a long parade of people I knew, regular customers who I served once, sometimes twice a week. They all greeted me with friendly hellos and brief updates on what was going on in their lives.
An older woman named Dorothea, who I saw at least twice a week, stopped me as I passed by her at the counter. I greeted her with a wide smile. “Hey there, Miss Dorothea.”