“God no,” he says. “There’s a different one for each act.”
I hear in the distance a thunderous roar followed by a horrifying series of splashes, and my first thought is, Tiny has written an elephant into the play, and the elephant has just vomited, but then I realize that Tiny is the elephant.
Against my better judgment, I follow the sound to a bathroom, whereupon it promptly happens again. I can see his feet peeking out the bottom of the stall. “Tiny,” I say.
“BLLLLAAARRRRGGGGH,” he answers, and then
sucks in a desperate wheezing breath before more pours forth. The smell is overpowering, but I step forward and push the door open a bit. Tiny, wearing the world’s largest Sox uniform, hugs the toilet. “Nerves or sickness?” I ask.
“BLLLLLAAAAAAOOOO.” One cannot help but be
surprised by the sheer volume of what pours forth from Tiny’s distended mouth. I notice some lettuce and wish I hadn’t, because then I begin to wonder: Tacos? Turkey sandwich? I start to feel like I may join him.
“Okay, bud, just get it all up and you’ll be fine.”
Nick bursts into the bathroom then, moaning, “The smell, the smell,” and then says, “Do not f**k your hair up, Cooper! Keep that head out of the toilet. We spent hours on that hair!”
Tiny sputters and coughs a bit and then croaks, “My throat. So raw.” He and I realize simultaneously: the central voice of the show is shot.
I take one armpit and Nick takes another and we pull him up and away. I flush, trying not to look into the unspeakable horror in the toilet. “What did you eat?”
“A chicken burrito and a steak burrito from Burrito Palace,” he answers. His voice sounds all weird, and he knows it, so he tries to sing. “What’s second base for a—shit shit shit shit shit I wrecked my voice. Shit.”
With Nick still beneath one Tiny arm and me beneath the other, we walk back toward the crew, and I shout, “I need some warm tea with a lot of honey and some Pepto-Bismol immediately, people!”
Jane runs up wearing a white, men’s v-neck T-shirt, Sharpie-scrawled with the words I’m with Phil Wrayson.
“I’m on it,” she says. “Tiny, you need anything else?” He holds up a hand to quiet us and then groans, “What is that?”
“What is what?” I ask.
“That noise. In the distance. Is that—is that—goddamn it, Grayson, did you put ‘Over the Rainbow’ on the preshow CD?”
“Oh yes,” I say. “Repeatedly.”
“TINY COOPER HATES ‘OVER THE RAINBOW’!” His voice cracks as he screams. “Shit, my voice is so gone. Shit.”
“Stay quiet,” I say. “We’re gonna fix this, dude. Just don’t puke anymore.”
“I am bereft of burrito to puke,” he answers.
“STAY QUIET,” I insist.
He nods. And for a few minutes, while everyone runs around fanning their pancake faces and whispering to one another how great they’ll be, I’m alone with a silent Tiny Cooper. “I didn’t know you could get nervous. Do you get nervous before football games?” He shakes his head no. “Okay, just nod if I’m right. You’re scared the play isn’t actually that good.” He nods. “Worried about your voice.” Nod. “What else? Is that it?” He shakes his head no. “Um, you’re worried it won’t change homophobic minds.” No. “You’re worried you’ll hurl onstage.” No. “I don’t know, Tiny, but whatever you’re worried about, you’re bigger than the worries. You’re gonna kill out there. The ovation will last for hours. Longer than the play itself.”
“Will,” he whispers.
“Dude, save the voice.”
“Will,” he says again.
“Yeah?”
“No. Will.”
“You mean the other Will,” I say, and he just raises his eyebrows at me and smirks.
“I’ll go look,” I say. Twenty minutes to curtain, and the auditorium is now damn near full. I stand on the edge of the stage looking out for a second, feeling a little bit famous. Then I jog down the stairs and slowly walk up the stage-right aisle. I want him here, too. I want it possible for people like Will and Tiny to be friends, not just tried errors.
Even though I feel like I know Will, I barely remember what he looks like. I try to exclude each face in each row. A thousand people texting and laughing and squirming in their seats. A thousand people reading the program in which, I later learn, Jane and I are specially thanked for “being awesome.” A thousand people waiting to see Gary pretend to be me for a couple hours, with no idea what they’re about to see. And I don’t know, either, of course—I know the play has changed in the months since I read it, but I don’t know how.
All these people, and I try to look at every last one of them. I see Mr. Fortson, the GSA advisor, sitting with his partner. I see two of our assistant principals. And then as I get into the middle, my eyes scanning faces looking for Will Graysony ones, I see two older faces staring back at me on the aisle. My parents.
“What are you doing here?”
My father shrugs. “You will be surprised to learn it was not my idea.”
Mom nudges him. “Tiny wrote me a very nice Facebook message inviting us personally, and I just thought that was so sweet.”
“You’re Facebook friends with Tiny?”
“Yes. He request-friended me,” Mom says, epically failing to speak Facebook.
“Well, thanks for coming. I’m gonna be backstage but I’ll, um, see you after.”
“Say hi to Jane for us,” Mom says, all smiley and conspiratorial.
“Will do.”
I finish making my way up the aisle and then walk back the stage-left aisle. No Will Grayson. When I get backstage, I see Jane holding a supersize bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
She turns it upside down and says, “He drank it all.”
Tiny jumps out from behind the set and sings, “And now I feel GrrrrrEAT!” His voice sounds fine for the moment.
“Rock ’n’ roll,” I tell him. He walks up to me and looks at me askingly. “There’s like twelve hundred people in the audience, Tiny,” I say.
“You didn’t see him,” he says, nodding softly. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. That’s okay. Thanks for making me shut up.”