The Importance of Being Kevin
Page 23
Natalie asked if I’d told Dad about Les, and I said I still couldn’t, even though he knew I was gay.
“You being gay has nothing to do with why Les assaulted you,” she said in her office. I liked Natalie’s office. It was clean and tidy. The simple furniture was soft and beige, and the window looked out over Morse Memorial Park. “People like Les want power and control. He doesn’t—didn’t—care whether you were a boy or a girl, L or G, B or T. Don’t fall into thinking it had to do with who you are. It was about him and his selfishness. The question is, do you want to tell your dad?”
I nodded. “But I’ve already told him so much.”
“How about we tell him here?”
That’s how it happened. Dad knew I’d been seeing Natalie because he’d had to sign forms, and he was glad about it—he’d already said he wished I could see a counselor, even before Les—but he was a little surprised to hear he needed to come in. On the day I asked, he sat down in Natalie’s sparse, uncluttered office with me.
And I told him. He hugged me and said it was okay, and I cried yet again. I hated that, but I was glad he knew. I feel a little lighter every day.
SCENE IV: FINALE
KEVIN
THEN THERE’S Peter and me.
Everyone keeps reminding me that Peter is my first boyfriend and that I should be careful. “Doesn’t matter if you’re straight, gay, bi, or trans, buddy,” Wayne said. “Everyone falls in and out of love, especially when you’re young.”
I don’t care. Neither does Peter. Every time I see him, my heart speeds up. Every time he touches my face, I’m touching the entire universe and all the stars. I’m careful not to spend every second with him—even I know that’s a recipe for a big cookie filled with chocolate-chip disaster. I found a job at a pizza place, completely on my own, and Jess was right—don’t ever order the sausage special. I get lots of hours, which makes my time with Peter a little rare and all the more powerful.
Peter has compromised with his parents. He’s taking both business and architecture classes this fall. Rumors are floating around that the Morse family will take Morse Plastic public, but I’m supposed to say that those are just rumors. Really. They’re also working harder on getting Emily to be less dependent on Peter so that one day he can leave Ringdale without worrying about her.
OPENING NIGHT arrived fast. I hovered backstage with makeup and powder caking my face and everyone else in the cast pacing about muttering lines and gesticulating to themselves. The set was painted, the lights were hung, the furniture was in place. We even had little trees at the edges of the stage. A big bouquet of red roses arrived for me with a card signed Infinity. I melted over the makeup table. Peter also sent flowers to everyone else in the cast and to Iris and Wayne, but theirs were carnations. That was an hour earlier. Now my stomach was in knots, and I was sure I was going to throw up.
“You aren’t going to throw up,” Peter said in my ear. He looked stunning in his Jack costume—a dark Victorian jacket with a high collar and a tie, iron-straight trousers, and patent-leather shoes. I was wearing a similar outfit. Peter had already said I looked good enough to eat with a spoon, and I was glad my makeup hid my blushing.
“How did you know I was going to throw up?” I whispered.
“Everyone thinks they’re going to throw up,” he said. “You’re going to kill.”
I threw Joe a glance. “Probably not the best choice of words.”
Iris had warned us it was unprofessional—and bad luck—to peek at the audience before the play started, so I made myself not. But I could hear a whole lot of people talking beyond the heavy red curtain across the stage. Dad was out there. So were Peter’s parents and Detective Malloy. Even Natalie was there, though she said that, for privacy reasons, she couldn’t tell people she knew me. Iris was watching from the audience too. Once a play goes into performance, the stage manager runs everything. My mouth was dry and my heart was pounding.
“One minute,” Wayne said quietly. He was in his Merriman costume. “Places. Places.”
We all scurried away. Ray, as Lane the butler, went to the sideboard to pretend to arrange a tea tray, and I hid just beyond an open doorway. Recorded piano music filtered through the house, as it had during technical and dress rehearsals. The audience quieted, and Wayne hauled on the rope that brought the curtain up. The lights burst on, and the audience went dead silent. Lane arranged silverware onstage while the piano recording played. I waited, heart still pounding, until the music stopped. My cue.
I was stepping forward when I realized I had forgotten to spin the Algy shell around me. I was still Kevin Devereaux, still a teenager from Ringdale, still me. I stumbled and wondered if I should wait a second. But Ray-as-Lane was alone on the stage with no lines and nothing real to do. The audience was waiting. Ray glanced sideways toward my doorway.
Wayne stood with his prompt book open a few steps away. He made a shooing motion and mouthed, Go!
I went. No Algy shell. The lights blinded me, but I was ready for that from tech rehearsal. The house was all in shadow to me except the first two rows, and Dad was right there, front and center. Peter’s parents sat behind him. My mouth dried up. Everything was silent. I was screwing up. I was messing it—
Then say your line, dummy.
I opened my mouth, and my first line, the one I’d rehearsed so often I could say it asleep, came to me. “Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?”
I blew my accent. I wrecked the timing. But I said it. And then a weird thing happened. As I said the words, the Algy shell came to me. It spun around me, sheltered me, protected me. There was no audience staring at me. I was in my flat in London, wearing clothes I wore every day, talking to the butler who’d worked in my house for years. My posture straightened. My eyebrows quirked. My head tilted. My hands went arrogantly behind my back. I was Algernon Moncrieff.
“I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir,” Lane said, and the audience chuckled. I—Algy—didn’t notice.
“I’m sorry for that, for your sake,” I said. “I don’t play accurately—anyone can play accurately”—a bigger laugh—“but I play with wonderful expression.” More laughter, easy laughter, like soft butter on warm bread. Algy still didn’t notice it, but I did, and the audience pulled me through the play. They weren’t the enemy or something to be feared. They were friends, and they liked the play. They liked me.
I was home.
The play ticked along. Yeah, we made some mistakes—a few dropped lines, a missed entrance—but no one really noticed. The audience laughed and gasped and even applauded. In the green room after our first scene together, I did a little ecstasy dance with Peter.
“You’re brilliant,” I said, grinning.
“You make me that way, Kev,” Peter said with a grin of his own. “Come on. We’re up again.”
And then, all too soon, it was the final scene. All the deceptions about being named Earnest were uncovered, all the problems were solved, all the couples were together. Jack and Gwen shared a kiss, and Lady Bracknell interrupted.
“My nephew,” she harumphed, “you seem to be displaying signs of triviality.”
“On the contrary, Aunt Augusta,” Jack said, and he turned to speak to the audience, “I’ve now realized for the first time in my life the vital importance of being Earnest.”
The curtain came down.
Applause pounded through the house—I mean, big applause. It crashed through the curtain and washed over us in thrilling waves. Triumph swept me. I’d done it. We’d done it. They loved it. I couldn’t stand still. I was closest to Meg, whom I’d recently smooched onstage, and I hugged her hard. She laughed. All of us were laughing. Peter threw both fists into the air.
The applause was dimming a little. “Curtain call!” Wayne shouted.
All of us, including Wayne, hustled into a line, and one of the stage hands pulled up the main drape. The applause rose again. The house lights came up a little so we could see the audience. We all bowed once toge
ther. Then butlers Wayne and Ray took bows. Charlene as Miss Prism and Joe as Dr. Chasuble took bows. Meg and Krista took bows as Gwen and Cecily. Melissa did an elaborate curtsey as Lady Bracknell, earning grander applause and some cheers. Last, Peter and I came forward for Jack and Algy.
The applause boomed into thunder. People whistled and cheered. I stared, caught completely off guard by the noise. Then Peter bowed, and I quickly bowed with him. Dad was clapping with both hands above his head. The Morses were smiling, and it was the first time I’d seen them do that. I couldn’t quite believe it, but it was happening. Peter bowed again, so I bowed with him.
Then they were standing up. First my dad, and then Mr. and Mrs. Morse and Detective Malloy, and then the people around them, and finally the entire audience. They were on their feet and still applauding. I stared, shocked all the way through. They were standing for Peter, and they were standing for me. The applause ran and ran and ran. It was a sunlight river overflowing its banks. It was liquid diamonds and drinkable laughter.
The fabulousness came pouring out. I caught Peter in my arms and kissed him there, in front of the cast, in front of the crew, in front of the world. He stiffened, and I wondered if he’d pull away, but he was only surprised. He kissed me back, warm and hard and full.
The applause faltered for a tiny moment and then burst back into full power—full support. I thought I might float away right then. Peter and I kissed for a long moment, then separated and bowed one last time. Dad hid a smile behind his hands, and Mr. and Mrs. Morse continued their own applause with the house. Maybe the town was changing.
Meg ran into the audience, pulled Iris onto the stage, and made her take a bow too. I still had my arm around Peter’s shoulders, and I mouthed Thank you at her and at Wayne. Iris wiped at her eyes, and Wayne’s lower lip trembled. Then we all took one last bow together, and the curtain came down.
The second the drape touched the stage floor, we all burst into wild cheers that morphed into an orgy of hugging. And shouting.
“We kicked ass!”
“You and Peter? When the hell did that start?”
“I knew it. I knew it from the start.”
“Standing O! We got a standing O!”
“Cast party at my place!”
Wayne caught me in a hug of his own. “Congrats, kiddo,” he said. “For everything.”
Peter, of course, kissed me again, and everyone laughed.
“How long?” Meg demanded.
“We met just after Iris posted the cast list,” Peter said. “Kevin literally ran into me, and from then on, I was wrecked.”
I laughed, but I couldn’t let go of Peter. I didn’t want to, even with everyone looking. Best of all, I didn’t need to.
“No wonder you were so freaked when Peter was arrested,” Ray said.
“Yeah,” I said, not looking at Joe. “It was rough for everyone.”
“You never know what’s happening behind the scenes,” Melissa observed.
And then a little coldness went through me. I’d been so focused on myself and Peter that something else had fallen totally out of my head. I pulled away from Peter and turned to Wayne, upset now. “Wayne—I forgot something at curtain call.”
“What did you forget?” Peter asked, mystified.
“They’re still applauding out there,” Wayne said, and I realized he was right. The noise hadn’t stopped. “Let’s give ’em a second curtain call, everyone.”
Oh! I hadn’t heard of this. We rushed back into line and took hands. Iris took a place with us as the curtain came up again. The applause increased. I held hands with Peter and Meg for a moment, and then I dropped Meg’s hand, stepped forward, and saluted my dad, the most important guy in that audience. His smile widened, and he blinked hard.
We all took one more bow, and the curtain came down.
STEVEN HARPER PIZIKS was born with a last name no one can reliably spell or pronounce, so he usually writes under the name Steven Harper. He grew up on a farm in Michigan but has also lived in Wisconsin and Germany, and spent extensive time in Ukraine. So far, he’s written more than two dozen novels and over fifty short stories and essays. When not writing, he plays the folk harp, lifts weights, and spends more time on-line than is probably good for him. He teaches high school English in southeast Michigan, where he lives with his husband and youngest son. His students think he’s hysterical, which isn’t the same as thinking he’s funny.
Visit his webpage at www.stevenpiziks.com or www.stevenharperwriter.com
By Steven Harper
The Importance of Being Kevin
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
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Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Importance of Being Kevin
© 2019 Steven Harper
Cover Art
© 2019 Aaron Anderson
aaronbydesign55@gmail.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
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Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64405-257-0
Digital ISBN: 978-1-64405-256-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914541
Digital published July 2019
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America