I fish through my coat pocket’s detritus for my keys, then pull them out. The keys are wrapped in the note that Jane wrote me, the note from the Locker Houdini.
I’m walking down the street toward the car when I see a black plastic bag on the sidewalk, fluttering in the wind. Mano a Mano. I leave it, thinking I’ve probably just made someone’s tomorrow.
For the first time in a long time, I drive with no music. I’m not happy—not happy about Jane and Mr. Randall Water Polo Doucheface IV, not happy about Tiny abandoning me without so much as a phone call, not happy about my insufficiently fake fake ID—but in the dark on Lake Shore with the car eating up all the sound, there’s something about the numbness in my lips after having kissed her that I want to keep and hold onto, something in it that seems pure, that seems like the singular truth.
I get home four minutes before curfew, and my parents are on the couch, Mom’s feet in Dad’s lap. Dad mutes the TV and says, “How was it?”
“Pretty good,” I say.
“Did they play ‘Annus Miribalis?’” Mom asks, because I liked it so much I played it for her. I figure she’s asking partly to seem hip and partly to make sure I went to the concert. She’ll probably check the set list later. I didn’t go to the concert, of course, but I know they played the song.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. It was good.” I stare at them for a second, and then say, “Okay, I’m gonna go to bed.”
“Why don’t you watch some TV with us?” Dad asks.
“I’m tired,” I say flatly, and turn to go.
But I don’t go to bed. I go to my room and get online and start reading about e. e. cummings.
The next morning I get a ride to school early with Mom. In the hallways, I pass poster after poster for Tiny Dancer.
AUDITIONS TODAY NINTH PERIOD IN THE THEATER. PREPARE TO SING. PREPARE TO DANCE. PREPARE TO BE FABULOUS.
IN CASE YOU FAILED TO SEE THE PREVIOUS POSTER, AUDITIONS ARE TODAY.
SING & DANCE & CELEBRATE TOLERANCE IN THE MOST IMPORTANT MUSICAL OF OUR TIME.
I jog through the halls and then go upstairs to Jane’s locker and carefully slip the note I wrote last night through the vent:
To: The Locker Houdini
From: Will Grayson
Re: An Expert in the Field of Good Boyfriends?
Dear Jane,
Just so you know: e. e. cummings cheated on both of his wives. With prostitutes.
Yours,
Will Grayson
Chapter ten
tiny cooper.
tiny cooper.
tiny cooper.
I am saying his name over and over in my head.
tiny cooper.
tiny cooper.
It’s a ridiculous name, and the whole thing is ridiculous, and i couldn’t stop it if i tried.
tiny cooper.
If i say it enough times, maybe it will be okay that isaac doesn’t exist.
It starts that night. in front of frenchy’s. i am still in shock. i can’t tell whether it’s post-traumatic stress or post-stress trauma. whatever it is, a good part of my life has just been erased, and i have no desire to fill in the new blank. leave it empty, i say. just let me die.
tiny, though, won’t let me. he’s playing the i’ve-had-it-worse game, which never works, because either the person says something that’s not worse at all (‘he wasn’t a natural blond’) or they say something that’s so much worse that you feel like all your feelings are being completely negated. (‘well, i once had a guy stand me up for a date . . . and it ended up that he’d been eaten by a lion! his last word was my name!’)
still, he’s trying to help. and i guess i should take some when i need some.
for his part, o.w.g. is also trying to help. there’s a girl hovering in the background, and i have no doubt it’s the (in)famous jane. at first, o.w.g.’s attempt at help is even lamer than tiny’s.
o.w.g.: i know it sucks, but in a way, it’s good.
this is about as inspirational as a movie of hitler making out with his girlfriend and having a good time. it runs afoul of what i call the birdshit rule. you know, how people say it’s good luck if a bird shits on you? and people believe it! i just want to grab them and say, ‘dude, don’t you realize this whole superstition was made up because no one could think of anything else good to say to a person who’d just been shit upon?’ and people do that all the time - and not with something as temporary as birdshit, either. you lost your job? great opportunity! failed at life? there’s only one way to go - up! dumped by a boyfriend who never existed? i know it sucks, but in a way, it’s good!
I’m about to strip o.w.g. of his right to be a will grayson, but then he goes on.
o.w.g.: love and truth being tied together, i mean. they make each other possible, you know?
I don’t know what hits me more - the fact that some stranger would listen to me, or the fact that he is, technically, absolutely correct.
the other will grayson heads off, leaving me with my new refrigerator-size companion, who’s looking at me with such sincerity that i want to slap him.
me: you don’t have to stay. really.
tiny: what, and leave you here to mope?
me: this is so far beyond moping. this is out-and-out despair.
tiny: awwww.
and then he hugs me. imagine being hugged by a sofa. that’s what it feels like.
me (choking): i’m choking.
tiny (patting my hair): there, there.
me: dude, you’re not helping.
I push him away. he looks hurt.
tiny: you just duded me!
me: i’m sorry. it’s just, i -
tiny: i’m only trying to help!
this is why i should carry around extra pills. i think we could both use a double dose right now.
me (again): i’m sorry.
he looks at me then. and it’s weird, because i mean, he’s really looking at me. it makes me completely uncomfortable.
me: what?
tiny: do you want to hear a song from tiny dancer: the tiny cooper story?
me: excuse me?
tiny: it’s a musical i’m working on. it’s based on my life. i think one of the songs might help right now.
we are on a street corner in front of a p**n shop. there are people passing by. chicagoans - you can’t be less musical than chicagoans. i am in a completely demolished state. my mind is having a heart attack. the last thing i need is for the fat lady to sing. but do i protest? do i decide to live the rest of my life within the subway system, feeding off the rats? no. i just nod dumbly, because he wants to sing this song so badly that i’d feel like a jerk to say no.