I feel like i should’ve prepared a speech. but that would require me to know what i’m going to say. i have no idea, really. the best i can come up with is
me: hey
to which she says
maura: hey
she gives me that blank stare. i look at my shoes.
maura: to what do i owe this pleasure?
this is the way we talked to each other. always. and i don’t have the energy for it anymore. that’s not how i want to talk with friends. not always.
me: maura, stop.
maura: stop? you’re kidding, right? you don’t talk to me for a month, and when you do, it’s to tell me to stop?
me: that’s not why i came over here. . . .
maura: then why did you come over here?
me: i don’t know, okay?
maura: what does that mean? of course you know.
me: look. i just want you to know that while i still think what you did was completely shitty, i realize that i was shitty to you, too. not in the elaborately shitty way that you were to me, but still pretty shitty. i should have just been honest with you and told you i didn’t want to talk to you or be your boyfriend or be your best friend or anything like that. i tried - i swear i tried. but you didn’t want to hear what i was saying, and i used that as an excuse to let it go on.
maura: you didn’t mind me when i was isaac. when we would chat every night.
me: but that was a lie! a complete lie!
now maura looked me right in the eye.
maura: c’mon, will - you know there’s no such thing as a complete lie. there’s always some truth in there.
I don’t know how to react to that. i just say the next thing that comes to my mind.
me: it wasn’t you i liked. it was isaac. i liked isaac.
the blankness has disappeared now. there’s sadness instead.
maura: . . . and isaac liked you.
I want to say to her: i just want to be myself. and i want to be with someone who’s just himself. that’s all. i want to see through all the performance and all the pretending and get right to the truth. and maybe this is the most truth that maura and i will ever find - an acknowledgment of the lie, and of the feelings that fell behind it.
me: i’m sorry, maura.
maura: i’m sorry, too.
this is why we call people exes, i guess - because the paths that cross in the middle end up separating at the end. it’s too easy to see an X as a cross-out. it’s not, because there’s no way to cross out something like that. the X is a diagram of two paths.
I hear a honk and turn to see gideon pulling up in his mom’s car.
me: i gotta go.
maura: so go.
I leave her and get in the car with gideon and tell him everything that just happened. he says he’s proud of me, and i don’t know what to do with that. i ask him
me: why?
and he says
gideon: for saying you were sorry. i wasn’t sure if you’d be able to do that.
I tell him i wasn’t sure, either. but it’s how i felt. and i wanted to be honest.
suddenly - it’s like the next thing i know - we’re on the road. i’m not even sure if we’re going to make it to tiny’s show on time. i’m not even sure i should be there. i’m not even sure that i want to see tiny. i just want to see how the play turned out.
gideon is whistling along to the radio beside me. normally that kind of shit annoys me, but this time it doesn’t.
me: i wish i could show him the truth.
gideon: tiny?
me: yeah. you don’t have to date someone to think they’re great, right?
we drive some more. gideon starts whistling again. i picture tiny running around backstage. then gideon stops whistling. he smiles and hits the steering wheel.
gideon: by jove, i think i’ve got it!
me: did you really just say that?
gideon: admit it. you love it.
me: strangely, i do. gideon: i think i have an idea.
so he tells me. and i can’t believe i have such a sick and twisted and brilliant individual sitting at my side.
even more than that, though, i can’t believe i’m about to do what he’s suggesting.
Chapter ninteen
Jane and I spend the hours before Opening Night constructing the perfect preshow playlist, which comprises—as requested—odd-numbered pop punk songs and even-numbered tunes from musicals. “Annus Miribalis” makes an appearance; we even include the punkest song from the resolutely unpunk Neutral Milk Hotel. As for the songs from musicals, we choose nine distinct renditions of “Over the Rainbow,” including a reggae one.
Once we’re finished debating and downloading, Jane heads home to change. I’m anxious to get to the auditorium, but it seems unfair to Tiny merely to wear jeans and a Willy the Wildkit T-shirt to the most important event of his life. So I put one of Dad’s sports coats over the Wildkit shirt, fix my hair, and feel ready.
I wait at home until Mom pulls in, take the keys from her before she can even get the door all the way open, and drive to school.
I walk into the mostly empty auditorium—curtain time is still more than an hour away—and I’m met by Gary, who’s hair is dyed lighter, and chopped short and messy like mine. Also, he’s wearing my clothes, which I delivered to him yesterday: khakis; a short-sleeve, plaid button-down I love; and my black Chucks. The entire effect would be surreal except the clothes are ridiculously wrinkled.
“What, Tiny couldn’t find an iron?” I ask.
“Grayson,” Gary says, “look at your pants, man.”
I do. Huh. I didn’t even know that jeans could wrinkle. He puts his arm around me and says, “I always thought it was part of your look.”
“It is now,” I say. “How’s it going? Are you nervous?”
“I’m a little nervous, but I’m not Tiny nervous. Actually, could you go back there and, um, try to help? This,” he says, gesturing at the outfit, “was for dress rehearsal. I gotta put on my White Sox garb.”
“Done and done,” I say. “Where is he?”
“Bathroom backstage,” Gary answers. I hand him the preshow CD, jog down the aisle, and snake behind the heavy red curtain. I’m met by a gaggle of cast and crew in various stages of costume, and for once they are quiet, working away on each other’s makeup. All the guys in the cast wear White Sox uniforms, complete with cleats and high socks pulled up over their tight pants. I say hi to Ethan, the only one I really know, and then I’m about to look for the bathroom when I notice the set. It’s a very realistic baseball field dugout, which surprises me. “This is the set for the whole play?” I ask Ethan.