Both Sides Now

by Peyton Thomas

  “These are stunning, Jojo.” Bailey takes the bouquet from Jonah and spins it around and around, a floral kaleidoscope. He’s been cold-shouldering Jonah since Saturday, but you’d never know it, not from the way he’s cooing. “I love that you couldn’t even wait ’til after the show.”

  Jonah’s grin is lopsiding even harder. “Actually,” he says, “I wanted to talk to you about that. Talk about tonight’s show, I mean.”

  “Uh-huh?” Bailey extracts his phone from his pocket. “Hold on. I’m just gonna get this for Instagram.”

  Jonah’s eyes flicker to mine. Is this a cue? Should I step back? Whatever’s about to go down, I can’t be in Bailey’s line of sight when it does.

  I sink back behind a concrete pillar as Bailey puts his phone in his pocket.

  Jonah turns to him. “Bailey, babe,” he says. “I can’t make it to your show tonight.”

  “What?” Bailey is staring at Jonah like he’s just sunk a knife into the space between his pale ribs. “Why not?”

  Jonah’s gaze is level, his voice gentle. “You know why, Bailey.”

  “Really?” Bailey laughs, incredulous. “Fucking really?”

  Jonah answers with a nod. Yes, Bailey—fucking really.

  “I can’t believe this.” There’s water welling in Bailey’s eyes. I’m not moved. He cried on cue as Valjean, too. “What the fuck? I thought you loved me.”

  Jonah glances past Bailey, past me, to the drama club. Their phones are still out, the red lights still glowing. Guess they specialize in more than one kind of drama.

  “Let’s go somewhere private,” Jonah says, voice low. “Talk this through alone.”

  “If you have something to say,” Bailey says—a hand flies out, sweeps over the dramatists—“you can say it in front of everyone.”

  Jonah swallows. He squares his jaw, his shoulders. I know that look on his face, know what it means when he holds himself like this.

  It means he’s about to eviscerate the person at the podium.

  It means we’re about to win.

  “This musical, Bailey? It’s racist. You know it, I know it, and that’s why I never auditioned.” Other people might raise their voices in a fight. Not Jonah. He is calm, level, utterly in command. “I didn’t want to play Bun Foo or Ching Chong or whatever. I didn’t want to sing in pidgin English.” He shakes his head. “And I kept quiet about it, right? Because I knew how happy you were to be playing this role. But you never, ever thought about how I might feel.”

  “Oh my God, Jonah, it’s set in the nineteen fucking twenties.” Bailey is in full-on tears now, rivers just sprinting down his cheeks. Whatever he pays his acting coach, it’s not enough. “It’s not gonna be the most woke thing ever!”

  “But you could update the script to make Millie a boy, yeah?” Jonah pulls back, says this at a cool remove. “You could make up a completely fictional version of the 1920s where it was totally fine to be gay.”

  “I literally can’t even, like . . .” Bailey holds his roses the way a nightmare-menaced toddler clings his teddy close. “There is, like, zero gay rep in musical theater, and . . .”

  “Really, Bailey? Gay men are underrepresented? On Broadway?”

  “Oh, so now you’re just . . .” Bailey lifts his sleeve, mops away another wave of tears. “You’re just being openly homophobic now. Okay.”

  “Openly homophobic?” Jonah laughs. “Bailey, I’m gay!”

  “Really?” Bailey laughs just as joylessly. “Because lately, it seems like you’re way more interested in—”

  “Don’t.” Jonah lifts a hand, giving Bailey a wicked warning glare. “Don’t even start.”

  Bailey steps forward, his eyes skating over the audience. He’s scanning every head in the hall—looking, no doubt, for a flicker of red. He doesn’t find it.

  “Did Finch put you up to this?” Bailey demands, whirling back to Jonah. “Did he tell you to humiliate me in front of everybody?”

  “No, he didn’t,” says Jonah. “I am your boyfriend, Bailey.”

  “Not anymore you’re not.”

  A low, scandalized hum comes over the crowded hallway. Bailey opens his hands; the bouquet dives to the floor. The cameras in the crowd float higher, higher, to capture Bailey’s heel crushing the fat pink head of a rose.

  “Bailey,” Jonah says, voice low. “Listen—”

  “Fuck you,” Bailey cries, “and your flowers.”

  His foot descends on another rose, and lingers, grinding its fine pink petals into the tiled floor. I’m sure, for a second, that Jonah will turn, leave Bailey to the flowers. Instead, he steps forward. He takes Bailey’s arm in his hand.

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” Bailey says, wrenching his arm away. “We’re done, Jonah! It’s over!”

  “It’s not over until you apologize to Finch.”

  Bailey turns his head, then, to follow Jonah’s gaze. I do not pull my head behind the pillar fast enough, and his blue eyes meet mine, just for a second.

  “Say sorry,” he says, eyes still on me, “for what?”

  “You know for what,” Jonah says. “Tell him you’re sorry. Right now.”

  He doesn’t. He turns, and he blows right past me, past my pillar, protected by his thick hull of friends. They march with him up the hallway and around the corner. It only takes a few moments for the regular flow of traffic to resume. Kids step over the destroyed bouquet without a second thought. Jonah looks at me. People pass between us. His mouth forms the words I’m sorry just as the very same words leave mine.

  * * *

  —

  BAILEY LUNDQUIST—@BaileyOnBroadway

  Love Too get brutally dumped the morning of the biggest opening of my entire life lolololololololololol i really might k-word myself

  BAILEY LUNDQUIST—@BaileyOnBroadway

  apparently it’s racist to portray racism in a musical about racism wow wild who knew

  BAILEY LUNDQUIST—@BaileyOnBroadway

  ykw maybe this is for the best! like! i’m going to juilliard! bitch! i’m like a witch and you can’t kill me! bitch! there’s nothing holding me back! bitch!

  BAILEY LUNDQUIST—@BaileyOnBroadway

  YouTube: Shawn Mendes—There’s Nothing Holding Me Back (Official Video)

  BAILEY LUNDQUIST—@BaileyOnBroadway

  honestly when i bring my husband shawn mendes to the tonys to watch me accept best actor in a musical its OVERRRRRRR for you hoes

  BAILEY LUNDQUIST—@BaileyOnBroadway

  and by you hoes i mean j*n*h c*br*r*

  BAILEY LUNDQUIST—@BaileyOnBroadway

  anyway come see billie tonight lmao forget about the boy bouta be LIT. UP.

  * * *

  —

  After what may be the worst day of school ever endured by a human being—just hours on hours of speculation flying between desks and lockers about my mysterious role in the catastrophic public break-up of Bailey and Jonah—it is with profound relief that I haul myself back to my house and up to my room. Friday nights, understand, are the only time I give myself to do nothing at all. To recover, in a way, from the week. I’ve got a bag of peanut butter M&M’s, a pint of Rocky Road, and absolutely no commitments but a brand-new feature-length ContraPoints.

  So why, then, have I shattered my own calm by scrolling through the car crash that is Bailey Lundquist’s Twitter profile? I don’t follow him—I’m surprised I haven’t blocked him—but one of his tweets popped up on my timeline, buttressed by one of those 4 people you follow liked this tweet banners. And so, here I am, spelunking through a feed that has become a dedicated shrine to the derogation of Jonah Cabrera. I’m just reaching into my pocket for my phone—whether to text Jonah Sorry about Twitter or Don’t look at Twitter, I’m not sure—when I feel it buzz in my fingers.

  JONAH CABRERA: hey i know we were planning to meet
up at the green bean tomorrow morning but i’m so sorry i have to cancel

  JONAH CABRERA: i know we’re getting close to nationals and every minute counts but i need a mental health day

  JONAH CABRERA: i’m so sorry

  I begin to type:

  FINCH KELLY: You have nothing to apologize for. Are you okay?

  Wincing, I stay my thumbs on the keys; of course he’s not okay. I had a front-row seat—well, front-pillar—to this morning’s catastrophe. And I didn’t have another chance to check in with him all day. Jonah deserves much better from me than Are you okay?

  FINCH KELLY: You have nothing to apologize for. I know you’re having a hard day. I saw what happened this morning.

  FINCH KELLY: And I’m seeing what’s happening on Bailey’s Twitter right now

  JONAH CABRERA: yeah maria warned me to stay off twitter lol

  FINCH KELLY: well thank god for tech savvy little siblings

  JONAH CABRERA: yeah no kidding lol. she’s keeping ren & ben busy in the playroom downstairs so i can have some space to myself rn.

  JONAH CABRERA: most of my friends are either in the musical or at the musical so i am just by myself in my room listening to the same jay som song over and over

  I stare at the phone. Then I lift my head and stare at my laptop. The never-ending churn of Twitter. The bag of M&M’s tilting against the side of the screen. I have no real plans tonight. Nothing, really, to do.

  I’ve only ever been over to Jonah’s place to prep for debates. I’m not even sure I’ve been upstairs—maybe twice, if that, to use the bathroom. I’ve certainly never seen the interior of the bedroom where Jonah is presently lying on his side and listening to the saddest of sad music.

  But I could go over there tonight. I could ride my bike, be with him.

  I could help.

  FINCH KELLY: Well, listen, I understand if you just want to sit in the dark and cry

  FINCH KELLY: But if you need a distraction, I can bike over. No time flat.

  I wonder if I’m being too forward. Inappropriate, even. I mean, what am I doing, insinuating that he’s shut up in his room, weeping? That was rude, wasn’t it? Oh, God. I tap the timestamp of my message. Fear lurches through my gut: It has been two full minutes since I got a reply from Jonah. Oh, no. No, no, no. Is he upset? Did I offend him? I’m going to throw my phone into Puget Sound. I’m going to—

  JONAH CABRERA: thanks finch but i think i’d be pretty useless for debate prep right now lol

  No! That’s not what I meant! Not at all! Does he really think I’d crack the whip at a time like this? Force him to pile stress on top of stress? I was trying to make him smile, not stress him out. My thumbs fly across the screen.

  FINCH KELLY: No, no, no, sorry, that’s not what I meant at all

  FINCH KELLY: It’s just that I’m sitting here in my room eating peanut butter M&Ms and watching Youtube and I thought, well, if you wanted a friend, I am available to be a friend

  A moment ticks by. I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings.

  And then, mercifully . . .

  JONAH CABRERA: peanut butter m&ms you say?

  The knot of fear coiled up in my chest shakes loose.

  FINCH KELLY: I’ll be over in fifteen.

  JONAH CABRERA: Can’t wait:)

  I did it. I made Jonah smile.

  * * *

  —

  It’s a quick bike ride over to Jonah’s, where I’m greeted by a warm smile, a barking dog, and a gorgeous smell wafting from the kitchen. Jonah plays a kind of Tetris to hang my coat in a closet already stuffed to the gunwales. By the time he’s figured it out, I’ve unloaded half the bounty from my backpack: the much-anticipated peanut butter M&M’s; the aforementioned pint of Rocky Road, and a bottle of lemonade, just so we won’t get scurvy eating all these snacks. Jonah peers into my backpack—in search, I assume, of more junk food—and looks up, a little startled.

  “Is that a book?” he says. “Did you bring a book into my house? When I explicitly told you this would be a zero-work night?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. That’s not prep. Or work.” I reach for the book, fish it out, put it in his hands. “This is a ‘sorry Bailey broke your heart’ present.”

  He laughs, but it’s a softer, sadder sound than his usual doubling-up.

  “Capital in the Twenty-first Century,” he reads aloud, running a hand across the cover. “Finch, this thing is a brick. It’s literally . . .” He flicks it open, fans through the pages, arrives at the final number: “. . . 730 pages long.”

  “I know. But that’s 365 times two. If you read two pages a day, you’ll be done in a year. It’s perfect.”

  He looks at me, baffled. “Perfect how?”

  “Well, I was doing some research,” I begin, “and, apparently, if you’re trying to get over a breakup, it usually takes about half the time you were together.”

  “I’ve heard that, yeah,” he says, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “But keep talking. I wanna see where you’re going with this.”

  “Well, you and Bailey were together for two years,” I say. “So, like I said before: Read two pages of this book every day. A year from now, you’ll be over Bailey, and you’ll be an expert on inequality.”

  He’s very quiet as I talk, and when I finish, he’s even quieter, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. I worry for a second that I’ve stepped in it—that this gift is bananas, insane, the worst possible thing I could have offered him. I mean, for Christ’s sake, Finch: You comfort people with chocolate, ice cream, cheesy movies. You do not heal hearts with Thomas Piketty.

  But then, before I even know it’s happening, he’s wrapping his arms around me, pulling me in, close. I don’t quite hug him back, I’m so shocked. I simply stand, and let myself be held, my arms at my sides, the thick copy of Capital in his hands pressing into my back.

  “I love it,” he says, quietly, right into my ear. “Thank you. So, so much.”

  I’m still reeling when he steps back. “Go on and wash your hands,” he says. “We’re having dinner in a minute.”

  I hadn’t realized our evening would include dinner with the Cabreras. I’d assumed we’d be up in his room, gorging ourselves on junk food, maybe burning Bailey in effigy. I’m friendly with Jonah’s family—and with his mom’s cooking—but I’ve never claimed a seat at their table. Still, when I step into the kitchen, his mom lights up at the sight of me, like I’m part of the family.

  “Finch! So good to see you again.” She flaps her arms, and waves me close to where she stands, stirring a tall pot of peppery stew. “You want a hug?”

  As a matter of fact, I do. I sink into the soft warmth of her gingham apron and sigh. She lifts a hand, mid-hug, and signals to Jonah’s dad across the kitchen.

  “Finch is here,” she says. “Come, say hi.”

  He looks up, over his shoulder, and waves at me with a can opener. “Hello, hello, hello,” he says. “Jonah said you were coming by to cheer him up.”

  I look at my slippers, shy, suddenly, as Jonah’s mom returns to her soup. “That’s the plan, anyway,” I say. “Cheer him up with copious amounts of junk food.”

  “Well, let’s have some real food first,” says his mom, sliding on a pair of oven mitts, checked pink like her apron.

  Renata, the littler of the little sisters, is laying out mismatched placemats, and Maria—the elder—is rolling a scratched-up swivel chair into the kitchen from Mr. Cabrera’s office. How all seven of us will fit around this table is a mystery to me. It seems like a stretch to seat six here, let alone seven.

  The answer, I’m surprised to learn, is that we’re seated almost shoulder to shoulder. “You say grace at home, Finch?” Jonah’s mom asks me, as the kids scurry into the kitchen, taking their seats. “You could say grace tonight.”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” I shake
my head; I wouldn’t even know how. “We don’t pray together all that often.”

  “That’s okay,” she says, and smiles brightly. “Jonah’s turn, then.”

  “I’m not really in a grace mood,” Jonah says glumly, elbow on the table, chin in his hand. “Maybe Benjie can.”

  “Hay nako,” says Mr. Cabrera—and I don’t know what he’s saying, but I figure he must be scolding Jonah. “So you had a bad day. Even more reason to say grace.”

  And so, all around the table, the Cabreras cross themselves, close their eyes, and bow their heads. I’m just about to do the same when I feel a tiny hand brushing mine. Renata, on my left, has claimed my pinky finger.

  I look to my right: There it is, Jonah’s palm, laying open on the table like an invitation. I slip my fingers through his. When he begins to pray, I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Jesucristo,” he begins, “thank you so much for the gift of this day, and for the wonderful food Nanay made for us.”

  I’m just thinking how calm he looks, how serene in prayer, when I realize that I’m not supposed to be looking at all. We are, for Christ’s sake, praying; my eyes really should be closed. As fast as I can, I screw them shut. And then, along with Jonah’s prayer, I offer up a tiny, silent one of my own: that nobody noticed me, just now, staring at him.

  “Thank you for the gift of family, and the gift of friends . . .” He pauses here. His fingers locked in mine, I feel a little squeeze. I’m his friend; I’m a gift. “Sa pangalan ni Jesucristo na aming tagapagligtas at manunubos na kasama mong naghahari sa iyong kaharian at ang Espiritu Santo, Diyos na walang hanggan. Amen.”

  The stew that Maria ladles out smells gorgeous, intoxicating. On my first bite, I taste something that might be peanut butter, and then a chunk of spicy meat, slippery with cartilage. Next to me, Renata’s having the time of her life, blowing bubbles into her broth. On the other hand—literally—Jonah is savoring every spoonful.

  “I made Jonah’s favorite for dinner,” his mom explains, pouring me a second helping. “He had a bad day, thanks to that rotten boy.”