Chapter Six “First Rehearsal Jitters”

six

" First Rehearsal Jitters "

Morning comes and I shamelessly beg Chase to stay. While we're hugging goodbye, he whispers into my ear, "Be a very good boy and I will send you many inappropriate texts when I get to New York."

Since this is community theater and everyone has real jobs, rehearsals are at night and on weekends. The day drags on slowly and the only real news is that the hospital wants to keep Dad one more day and he's hopping mad about it.

I dig through my bedroom closet and almost burst out laughing when I find the dated fake leather briefcase I carried around to rehearsals in high school. I pop it open and find a yellowed copy of a musical I wrote my junior year.

It was an adaptation of Pinocchio , which I chose because it was no longer under copyright. It was complete and utter trash. But I wrote it, directed it, and put it up with the enthusiastic help of the Plainview Players. Mrs. Henson led the charge and served as musical director.

I hesitantly open the script to a random page to see just how awful it really was. My eyes scan the lyrics for a song I wrote for Pinocchio and his father, Geppetto, just after Pinocchio had been brought to life.

It gives me such a kick

To see this little stick

Is now my son!

He once was dripping sap

But now I am his pap

I have a son!

Oh my fucking God. I turn red and chuck the script back into the closet. What was I thinking? And why didn't anyone stop me?

After that humiliating little stroll down memory lane, I head back into the kitchen to find Mom in a very cheery mood. "I'm having a breakfast burrito. Want one?"

I look down at Mom's plate, which contains a glob of scrambled eggs that manage to look both gelatinous and runny at the same time.

"No. I just want a cappuccino and maybe some toast."

"Well, I don't know where you're going to get yourself any fancy cappuccino around here."

"Mom, I sent you a very expensive cappuccino maker for your birthday."

"And I exchanged it for a very expensive Crock-Pot."

It's too early and I am too un-caffeinated for this malarkey. "Why would you do that?"

"Oh, Noah. I'm not going to sit around this kitchen drinking cappuccinos. I'm not French."

"Cappuccinos are Italian."

"Well, I'm not from Europe, then."

"So what am I supposed to do now? Make a cappuccino with your Crock-Pot?"

"You probably could. Crock-Pots are very versatile."

I fume and pour myself a depressingly plain cup of coffee. "It's fine, I'll just have to make do with an Americano for now."

Mom clucks. "Americano? What is that, Spanish?"

"It's also Italian. It's a cappuccino without foam."

"You know, with all of your cappuccino and Americano talk, you should probably just bite the bullet and move to Italy."

As I climb the stairs, I call back to her, "If I had a bullet it would be lodged squarely between my eyes."

Mom guffaws, which is probably the best sound in the world.

The day passes painfully slow as I flip sluggishly through the script of Stage of Fools and try to pinpoint where I went so catastrophically wrong. I also peruse the cast list that someone must have shoved in my fist as I staggered off the stage last night.

Louis Jenkins as King Lear. Well, at least he looks the part, with his weatherworn face and chronically sad eyes. And, of course, those majestic dreadlocks. It might work. And besides, beggars can't be choosers.

Melissa as Cordelia. Good call. I was home for Thanksgiving one year and caught her Cinderella in Into the Woods . I cried so hard when she sang "No One Is Alone" that I actually swallowed a contact lens. It somehow slid down my teary cheek and into my mouth. It's probably lodged in my lower intestine to this day.

And maybe Chase was right about the McNew twins. Maybe they were just the right amount of creepy for Goneril and Regan.

I then spot a name that makes me smile in spite of my resolve to find this whole little enterprise ludicrous. Abby Gupta. My grade school bus driver. When I was in seventh grade I got cast as Randolph MacAfee in the Plainview Players' production of Bye Bye Birdie and Abby played my mom. On the first day of rehearsal, she confided in me that she was originally hoping to be cast in the Chita Rivera role.

"I mean, my skin and hair combination alone should have made it a lock. But now I get to play your mom and we get to sing ‘Ed Sullivan' together and that's just as good!"

Whenever it would rain that year, she'd sing to me as I climbed the steps of the bus, " Gray skies are gonna clear up! "

And together we'd belt, " Put on a happy face! "

Invariably someone would whisper "freak" as I took my seat on the bus. But I didn't care. I had an inside joke with an actual adult. Top that, you jealous grade school bullies! Abby was listed as playing Gloucester, most likely because not enough men had auditioned. This was typical of most community theaters. If you think you're going to do Seven Brides for Seven Brothers , you can think again. You're actually going to be doing Seven Brides for Three Brothers and Four Cross-Dressing Middle-Aged Women with Badly Painted-On Beard Stubble .

I scan the rest of the cast list and only a few other names seem vaguely familiar. Someone had stapled a rehearsal schedule to the cast list. Four weeks until the opening night performance on September 1st. Well, the opening night performance and the only performance. Should I be offended that they think my musical can only fill the theater once? Oh, why do I care? Only four weeks to go. Four weeks to pull off the impossible. And it all starts with tonight's first rehearsal.

Before I head over to the theater, my phone vibrates. It's a text from Chase: Landed safely. Wishing you were here so I could do things to your mouth.

I consider for a moment and then respond with a very Victorian: Upon my return, I should very much like to eat your ass like an apple.

To which he responds: Thanks for giving me a semi in the Uber. Sending good thoughts for the old man. Talk later. Xx.

The witching hour arrives and when I get to the theater, it's pretty much empty.

Even though it's just a community theater production, I realize that I have to perform my pencil ritual.

When you're the author of a musical, you have to be ready to make changes on the fly. Tweaks to the script and score come fast and furious. There's no time for computers or iPads. You've got to go old-school. Graphite on paper. So I find a sharpened Ticonderoga #2 pencil in my briefcase and prepare to put it behind my ear. It's a symbol to myself and to everyone in the room that I'm here to work. Let's get down to business. Daddy is in the house.

I melodramatically position the pencil with eyes closed. When I look up, Luke is staring at me from the stage. "Luke? What are you doing here?"

"Finishing up the set. I sort of got put in charge after your dad's health scare. You're looking at your one-man stage crew."

"Terrific," I say flatly.

"What was that you were doing with your pencil? Is that how you get in the zone?"

"Just pretend you didn't see it. So who's the stage manager?"

Luke looks perplexed. "Um, I don't think we have one of those."

The beginnings of a headache start to percolate at the base of my skull. "Then who calls the show? The lighting cues? The sound cues?"

"Whoever's in the booth just follows along with the script and wings it. We're a little short on volunteers."

"Well, that is as cuckoo bananas as it is unacceptable," I grumble. "Who is going to call ‘places'?"

"What does ‘places' mean?"

The headache climbs the back of my skull and does a starburst over my entire cranium as I rub my eyes in agony. "?‘Places' means that everyone should get in their places because the show or rehearsal or what-have-you is about to start."

Luke rocks back on his heels in relief. "Oh, that's nothing! I can do that!"

I can only offer another flat, "Terrific."

Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to toss a bottle of Tylenol into my briefcase. I choke down two capsules and then stop to really examine the set. I have to admit, I'm impressed. It's rough around the edges, but it does look very similar to the Broadway spaceship interior. It's only fair to give credit where credit is due.

"So, the set looks great."

Luke bursts into a huge grin and it's so endearing that I almost smile myself. "Your dad and I wanted to get it right."

It's then that I realize he's wearing what people around these parts call a ‘wife beater' and while I'm generally against any garment that's named after spousal abuse, when it's on a body like Luke Carter's, I'll allow it. Wait, what am I thinking? Even admiring Luke's impressive muscles is disrespectful to teenage Noah. The helpless kid Luke terrorized with his friends. Luke was the one who coined the phrase Shakes-queer. Screw that guy.

"There's the old briefcase!" Luke grins, possibly trying to erase the growing scowl on my face. "Did you ever think of naming it? Because I was thinking, you should call it ‘The Executive.'?" Luke laughs. I don't. I simply stare at him and quietly will him to leave the premises.

Out of nowhere, Mrs. Henson's voice rings through the auditorium. "This is so exciting!!!"

The cast starts to wander in as Luke dutifully sets up folding chairs and several long tables on the stage. No one is talking, except for a few whispers as they take their seats. Only Mrs. Henson is rambling on about what an honor it is to be part of an original show. Other than that, the vibe is odd. Are they actually nervous?

Thankfully, I spot Melissa grabbing a coffee from the kitchenette. She seems like a safe enough port in the storm, so I walk over to her and pat her pregnant stomach. "Hey, fatty."

Melissa turns to me, clearly surprised that I'm actually here. "Well, spill the beans. What made you say yes to all this?"

I put on a glib face. "Because these crazy people gave me my first chance. I told Mrs. Henson when I was fourteen that I wanted to write musicals and she had such faith in me that I actually started writing musicals. Of course, all of my professional ones have been soul-crushing failures. Which has made me start to wonder if flop shows are all I'm capable of. What if I'm just a one-trick pony?"

"Better than a no-trick pony."

"Look at us, pretending we know about livestock. Between you and me, I always get confused. Is it the unicorns that are fictional or is it the zebras?"

"Speak for yourself. I'm no stranger to animals. I had a gerbil in junior high."

"How did that go?"

"It died. I guess I should have cared more. Or at least considered naming it at some point."

"Okay, now your mothering instincts are starting to worry me. Maybe it's best if the minute you give birth you just drive straight to the nearest orphanage and deposit it on the front stoop. Or maybe you could raffle it off."

Melissa says brightly, "These are such helpful suggestions. I finally feel like I have the start of a plan!"

We sip our horrible coffee in silence until Melissa decides it's time to goad me. "You know, you have to start this rehearsal at some point, right? We can't just stand here all night awkwardly trading bon mots."

"Pretty women shouldn't use complicated words like ‘bon mots.' It scares off the menfolk."

Melissa shoots me a jaded look. "Noah, just get this over with. I have a tiny human lodged inside of me feasting off what's left of my energy."

I nod my head and project my voice into the theater, WWE announcer–style. "Let's do this thing, bitches!"

Everyone looks back at me, clearly offended.

I pause and remind myself that calling people "bitches" is frowned upon in small-town America. "That's a term of endearment, obviously." Melissa's expression is one of brazen pity.

I try again: "Why don't we form a circle?"

From out of nowhere, Luke yells out, "Places!"

I give him an aggravated grimace and say, "That's not how that works. We're not taking our places, we're just circling up right now."

Luke nods solemnly. "My bad. I'll get it."

I suddenly can't ignore the strange vibe in the air as everyone joins the circle.

"Is everything okay, everybody?"

Mrs. Henson giggles. "We're all just kind of anxious. I guess we have those classic first rehearsal jitters. I mean, we just can't believe this is actually happening."

"I feel the same way!" I grin, probably a little too broadly. "So, Mrs. Henson is going to run through the songs. Let's just start at the top of the show."

Louis Jenkins raises his hand.

"Louis, you don't have to raise your hand. This isn't grade school."

He lowers it awkwardly. "Oh, okay. Well, I was just wondering. Aren't we going to do some kind of improv game to warm up? That's what we usually do. I mean, don't Broadway actors do that?"

"Uh…no." Broadway actors are professionals and time is money. There is no time for games.

One of the McNew twins, Jackie to be exact, raises her hand.

I remind them, "Everyone stop raising your hands. We're all adults here."

Although the fact that the twins are dressed in matching Hello Kitty t-shirts makes me wonder.

"The last show we did was Mame and to warm up, we would do that mirror exercise. Show him, Julia."

I watch slack-jawed as Julia and Jackie stand and start to pretend to be one another's reflection. They slowly form different poses and the fact that they're identical twins makes it especially disconcerting.

I scan the room and lock eyes with Melissa, who fights not to laugh as she pulls the collar of her shirt over her mouth.

"No, no, no. Let's just skedaddle along and get to singing through Act One."

People look genuinely disappointed.

Louis asks, "Any words of encouragement, then?"

I scan my brain for a second and realize that I'm probably not very good at being encouraging. "Well, um…every time you come into this theater, you have to put your egos aside. The show comes first. We're all in the same boat. Not everybody gets a star turn. We won't always agree with one another on things. But when you get hung up on something or feel lost, just ask yourself, ‘What is best for the show?'?"

Mrs. Henson bursts into a fevered smattering of applause and then realizes she's the only one. She looks around and then at me. "Sorry, that was just so very well said."

"Uh, thanks, I guess. Do you want to take the reins now?"

"Of course. Let's sing through the score." She sits down at a beaten-up piano and begins to play the opening number. As they warble through the songs, I find my eyes drifting back to the stage where Luke is bending over to paint the deck. He's wearing a ridiculously tight pair of jeans. I fight the urge to become completely hypnotized by his ass and lose. It's spectacular. And I'm looking away in five, four, three, two…

Mrs. Henson snaps me out of my trance. "Noah, is it okay if we take a break here? We've sung through all of Act One."

We have? How long was I staring at Luke?

I clear my throat and say with as much butch authority as I can muster, "Take ten."

"Coffee's in the kitchenette!" Mrs. Henson announces.

I wander over to Melissa, who has clearly been trying not to crack up this entire time.

"Don't look so worried, Noah. It's just the first day. We'll get there. Eventually."

"I'm not worried. You guys sounded great."

"We sounded nervous. We can tell you're comparing us to the Broadway cast. Which is understandable, but completely unfair, mister."

"I'm doing no such thing."

I smile and try to surreptitiously check my phone. Not a word from Chase in hours. What's that all about?

Melissa notices and gives me a sympathetic look. "Missing your boyfriend already?"

"He's probably out doing something exciting and glamorous. An opening at an art gallery or maybe a jazz club in the village. Sipping martinis with big-time directors and producers and muckety-mucks."

"And you're here with Plainview's finest amateurs."

"He's not even been gone twelve hours and I'm already homesick for him. And our friends. Our life together. You're never bored when Chase Abrams is around."

Melissa folds her arms and asks accusatorially, "So now we're boring you?"

I quickly shake my head. "No, not at all! I mean, this is fun and all, it's just…"

"It's just not New York City."

"It sure ain't," I reply wistfully. In a funny way, I know who I am in New York. I'm surrounded by risk-taking artists. And thankfully I get to be one of them. I'm also constantly drunk on the fast pace of the city, the exciting hum of a million things happening at once. The pace in Plainview is practically nonexistent. Which leaves plenty of time for memories of me as a kid, just dreaming of a way to escape it all.

Melissa mercifully snaps me back to life. "You'll be back with your hot British guy soon enough. But for now, we've got Magic to Do !"

Because I'm legally obligated, I respond, " Let's go on with the show! "

Once everyone is back from break, we start singing through Act Two. When it comes time for Louis Jenkins to sing Lear's big number, "Terrors of the Earth," something shocking happens. Louis stands up, opens his mouth, and this room-shaking baritone comes pouring out. The hairs on my arms start to rise. Everyone leans forward, savoring each note. And Louis actually has tears in his eyes by the time he hits the first chorus. When the song ends, everyone is silent and then bursts into applause. The whole cast has been transported by his performance. Once the room settles down, I take a moment to collect myself. It occurs to me that I've never been more moved by a performance of one of my songs. "That was amazing, Louis! Have you always been able to sing like that?"

Louis brushes it off. "Church choir."

"Well, it's very impressive." I pause for a second and remember Melissa's remark about how nervous I'm making everyone. So I add, "You know what, guys? You're actually very good! I mean, I know it's just the first rehearsal, but I'm honestly really encouraged by tonight! You guys are crazy talented. You should pat yourselves on the back!" A happy murmur bubbles up from the group and a warm feeling washes over me. Is this what encouraging people feels like? The sensation seems vaguely familiar. Maybe this is what Mom meant when she said I used to cast a spell when I directed shows back in high school. I make a mental note to try this encouraging thing more often. "So with that, I think we should call it a night." Everyone looks genuinely disappointed and it's palpable.

"Is something wrong?"

Abby Gupta starts to raise her hand and then remembers she can just speak. "Well, some of us were talking over the break. And we have some questions. Louis, maybe it's better if you ask. You're the lead, after all."

Louis clears his throat, "Now, I know this is only the first practice—"

"Rehearsal," I correct him, probably too quickly.

"Rehearsal. Right. But what is the play—"

"Musical."

"Musical. Got it. What is the musical about?"

I try to arrange my face in an understanding mask. I doubt it's working. I ask very slowly, "You don't know what King Lear is about?"

"Well, no, not really. It just seems like it's a bunch of mean people being mean to one another."

Abby nods her head in agreement. "Yes, they're not very nice people. In fact, they're downright nasty. I mean, they're nothing like the characters in Bye Bye Birdie , now are they?" She winks, as if I might have forgotten our glory days as the MacAfees.

I take a calming breath. Easy, Noah. You can do this.

"Well, you could almost say that the characters are archetypes—"

Abby looks confused. "What's an archetype? Is that like a font on a computer?"

Melissa lets a laugh escape and Mrs. Henson gives her a chastising look. Melissa turns guilty and averts her eyes.

"An archetype is sort of a…symbol…of a type of person. Does that help?"

"Oh, so we're not playing real people?" Julia McNew wants to know.

Jackie McNew quickly corrects her. "Of course not. You and me are cyborgs!"

"Well, um." How is this derailing so fast? "You two are just half cyborgs."

Julia looks confused. "Which half? Like the top half or the bottom half?"

"Okay, I kind of feel like some of you are rowing against the boat right now," I say carefully.

Louis Jenkins continues on. "About the cyborg thing. I'm sure it's obvious to everybody but me, but why are my two daughters robots?"

I try to swallow my very condescending sigh and look open-minded and patient. "Well, first off, Goneril and Regan are not robots, they're cyborgs."

"What's the difference?" Louis wonders. Patience, Noah.

"Well, a robot is a complete machine and a cyborg has some parts that are human. A cyborg has the presence of human life. I made the two daughters cyborgs as a metaphor for how they appear human and appear to love their father, but in fact, they don't. Their scheming nature is represented by the part of them that is mechanical."

Longest silence in recorded history.

"Oh, I think I get it. So that's what makes my character, Captain Lear, kind of forgive them," Louis says.

Whoa, wait, what?

"Um…you lost me, Louis."

"Well, if these gals are half machine, they can't have full human feelings. So I can sort of forgive them for betraying me. I mean, if they were full-on humans and betrayed me, that would be ten times more devastating, wouldn't it?"

And much to my chagrin, they're all staring at me.

The awkwardness is a thick fog filling the room and my jaw tenses just slightly in thought. A stunning revelation steals over me. Could Louis Jenkins be right? Could this community theater amateur who works in a barbecue sauce factory actually have a point? Could this guy, who has surely never taken a class in dramatic analysis, be smarter than all of the highly trained professionals that worked on the Broadway production? And am I too much of a narcissist to admit that he's right?

This was not what I was expecting. I had assumed I would be explaining the basics of musical theater until my face turned blue. That I'd be gently talking to them like they were five-year-olds. Explaining lingo like "upstage" and "hold for applause." All the things I had to learn when I made the jump from community theater to professional shows. The last thing I expected was to be getting invaluable dramaturgical advice in the middle of Plainview, Illinois.

So what do I do now?

Come on, Mr. Broadway, what's your move?

Sensing I might be quietly fuming, Mrs. Henson tries to intervene. "Look, Noah clearly knows what he's doing. Maybe we should just say the lines and concentrate on the blocking. We're the amateurs here."

I take a deep breath and with my stomach full of freshly swallowed pride, I say, "No, wait. Louis has a point. Lear would be much more devastated if Goneril and Regan were just human and flawed. So let's change that. We'll need to go through and cut all the cyborg references and also rethink the costumes."

The McNew twins, always late to the game, look up from their scripts. Julia blinkingly asks "Wait, we're not robots anymore? Because we've been working on our robot voices."

"No, I think Louis is right."

Louis blushes and does a kind of "Aw, shucks" face. "I didn't mean to screw up your play, Noah."

"Musical," I correct again, a little too eagerly. "And no, you're not screwing it up. You actually just improved it. And with that, why don't we call it a night?"

A cheer comes up from the group and someone screams, "Bumpkins!"

In the melee that ensues, I apparently agree to join the cast for drinks at the most disgusting restaurant in town. Thankfully, I end up drinking at a booth with Melissa, who primly nurses a lemonade. She gives me a cozy grin. "The cast is so excited about this. You're being a trouper."

"I can't believe that Louis Jenkins can sing like that. He actually made one song in my shitty musical sound halfway good."

"It's not a shitty musical. It has some really great moments. You're too hard on yourself."

"Not harder on myself than The New York Times ."

"Come on, Noah."

"I know. Ugh. Look, clearly the show wasn't perfect, but there were parts of it that I was really proud of and now…I'm not so sure. Maybe I was just kidding myself the whole time."

Melissa and I sit in silence for a minute. I decide to usher the conversation away from my questionable talent. "So, is it me or was Louis Jenkins's point about Goneril and Regan totally spot-on? I mean, where did that insight come from?"

Melissa shrugs. "It's that old ‘don't judge a book by its cover' thing, I guess."

Out of the blue, Lady Gaga's "Born This Way" comes on and Melissa's eyes go electric with joy. And without hesitation, we're singing at the top of our lungs. It's amazing how just a few notes can transform us both into screeching teenagers. Eyes closed in ecstasy, we bellow along.

Luke appears with a frosty mug of beer. He slides into the booth next to Melissa. We both look embarrassed at being caught belting our brains out. Melissa apologizes to Luke. "Sorry, we both really love that song."

Luke smiles broadly. "Don't apologize to me! You guys sounded great. How's everybody holding up?"

Melissa gives a snort. "Noah is going to need a year of therapy after listening to a bunch of hicks massacring his script and score."

I pull a "no comment" face.

Luke is downright enthusiastic. "I thought it went great ! I mean, clearly I'm no expert, but it is going great , isn't it?"

Melissa turns to me and raises her eyebrows with exaggerated expectation.

I smile tightly. "We are exactly where we're supposed to be at this stage of the process." Melissa cheers and showers my cheek with kisses while Luke announces that he's buying us shots.

Well, him and me shots, since Melissa has a tiny human festering in her uterus.

I protest, but before I know it we're three shots in and Melissa is nowhere to be found. Our hands keep touching every time Luke passes me another shot. His hands are so large and rugged, but his touch is so gentle somehow. It's surprising and confusing. Why is he being so nice to me? And why am I letting him? Somehow Luke winds up on my side of the booth and maybe it's because of the booze, but his muscle-riddled thigh is swaying dangerously close to mine.

"I think what you're doing is really cool." His words are slurry and his lips look so warm and wet with beer that I force myself to look away.

"Well, I've got a lot of free time on my hands now, so—"

"You want another shot?"

I shake my head so hard I risk giving myself a concussion. "No thanks. Are you trying to kill me, Luke? Are you trying to give me alcohol poisoning?"

"I was just offering. Although I'm not sure why I'm the one buying. You're the rich guy from New York. You should be buying me a round."

I force myself to look into his eyes and try my best not to get lost in them. "I'm not rich."

"Well, you sure as hell look rich. How much do those shoes cost, man?"

"I don't remember."

I do, obviously, but I'm not playing this game.

"Then your haircut. You've got to remember how much your haircut costs, right?"

And then he starts begging and between the booze and the green of his eyes I feel my defenses lowering against my will.

Luke turns into a pouty man-baby. "Please, Noah! Please tell me how much a fancy New York haircut sets you back! Please! Come on, man!"

And just to get him to stop I blurt out, "Two hundred and fifty dollars."

"Ah-ha!" Luke slams his manly hand on the table in triumph. "I knew it! Rich!"

I instantly start to backtrack. "Well, now wait a second. To be honest, Chase is the one who really pays for it. I mean, it's his Amex."

Luke's eyes grow wide with wonder and he pokes his finger into my solar plexus. "You're a kept man!"

"No!"

He's drunkenly teasing me now. "You are!"

I can feel my cheeks and the back of my neck start to heat up. "This is getting ridiculous!"

More poking from Luke.

Wait, is it strange that he's poking me like this? Why aren't I stopping him? I should be stopping him.

"You are, Noah! Hell, you know what you are?"

"Go ahead. Enlighten me, you asshole."

"You're…you're his sexy little boy toy!"

Luke and I freeze.

I can tell by the instant panic on his face that he's worried he's crossed an invisible line. And he has, the fucker. I'm about to bite his head off, when suddenly I burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Luke lets out a relieved howl and it takes us several minutes to come back down to earth and the laughter to unspool.

And in the ebbing of the hilarity, I try to get my drunken mind to concentrate. Did he just call me sexy? No, that would be downright crazy.

Shit, I'm drunk. No, no, no. That didn't happen. Pull it together, Noah, you colossal idiot.

But his impressive thigh has definitely gone slack and is resting snugly against mine. Huh.

There's a lull and then Luke turns serious and ruins everything by bringing up Dad. "You know, I gotta confess, I was so worried about Mr. A. Since he's getting released tomorrow, I thought I could pick him up. I've got my truck and he might have some medical equipment."

My mood immediately darkens. Talking about Dad and Luke's relationship puts me on edge once again. Why is he always gunning for Dad's attention? And why was Dad always so willing to give it to him? Even back in high school Dad just loved to rhapsodize about Plainview High's famous Luke Carter. How many Saturday mornings did I have to listen to Dad waxing lyrical about Luke's moves on the football field? Or how Luke had a smile for everyone in town? And the time sophomore year when Dad asked me if I would mind if he gave Luke his old fishing gear, because I clearly wasn't ever going to use it. And, yeah, I wasn't, but still. Come on! It's just weird.

All the shitty memories race through my head and I'm just drunk enough to finally let it all out. "I don't know how this big friendship thing happened between you and Dad, but you win, Luke."

Luke looks leery for a second. "I win what?"

"You win. Dad loves you more than his own son!"

I blurt this out just as Melissa returns and lowers herself carefully into the booth. "What's going on?" she asks, worried.

"I guess Noah's pissed that I'm working for his dad or something."

I let out a long, drunken groan. "It's like you're his fucking BFF. The way you kiss his ass, it's embarrassing. So you never had a dad growing up, does that mean you have to steal mine?"

Melissa gives me a shocked look. "Noah!"

Luke's face goes pale, and I instantly know I've gone too far, but I somehow don't feel any guilt. "What the hell did I ever do to you, Noah?"

I laugh in his stupid, gorgeous face. "Think, Luke. Think real hard. And do that thinking someplace far from me."

Luke jumps up from the table so quickly that I wonder if he is going to punch my lights out. But he just shakes his head and leaves.

Melissa and I sit in horrible silence for a couple of seconds until I muster up a very frail, "That was mean."

"Yes, that was mean, Noah. You're drunk. Let me drive you home."

Once we're in the car there are approximately three seconds of quiet before Melissa begins to lecture me. "That was a low blow."

"I know, but…" My mind swims around in boozy circles for a couple of seconds. "It's just…he and his friends treated me like shit growing up. And the theater was the only place I felt safe. And now, he's constantly at my safe place and he's probably like a Trojan horse filled with homophobia just waiting to get out and attack me again."

Melissa sighs. "Maybe he's changed. And maybe he's doing all this stuff for your musical as a kind of penance. Maybe on some level he's trying to make up for who he used to be."

"I just fucking hate him and in honor of my teenage self, I'm going to hold on to that hate and carry it around like a very expensive purse." Blinking lights catch my drunken eyes. "Oh, look, Dairy Queen!"

Melissa proves she will make a very strict mommy. "No Dairy Queen for you. You're too drunk and I'm not cleaning ice cream puke out of my upholstery."

And then my drunken mind circles back on itself. "Or, I don't know, maybe I do owe him an apology."

"Well, that song from Oklahoma! does say that the farmer and the cowhand should be friends."

"First of all, I'm not a farmer. Secondly, I'm not taking relationship advice from a musical that ignores the killing of millions of Native Americans."

"Fair enough."

"Fuck. Do I really have to say I'm sorry?"

"Your mom will know." And right on cue we pull up to my house and Mom is waiting on the porch because she's a part-time clairvoyant. I stumble out of Melissa's car and she carefully helps me walk. "He's drunk and needs water," Melissa announces.

Mom shakes her head and replies, "Gatorade is better."

Once inside the kitchen, I'm slowly sipping Gatorade as Mom and Melissa watch. "You have to apologize to that poor young man, Noah. I didn't raise you to hit below the belt like that."

I say nothing, only stare drunkenly at the candy-colored bottle in my hand and then take another swig of artificially flavored awfulness. "He started it. Years ago, in fact."

Melissa decides to double-team me with Mom. "You know, Nancy Kay, even though the musical we're doing is based on King Lear , I keep thinking about that line from Hamlet about the queen and how she ‘doth protest too much.'?"

Mom nods like she's hosting a talk show and Melissa is her favorite guest. "You are so smart, Melissa. Sometimes strong emotions are used to hide other strong emotions."

"I'm too drunk to follow this nonsense…" I say, slurring my words like the professional alcoholic I might be becoming. "But if you're insurpulating, no…insimpulating?"

"Insinuating? Is that what you're trying to say, son?" Mom asks, ever so patiently.

"If you're inferring that I actually like Luke and I'm covering it up with anger, you both need to be fitted for straitjackets."

Mom and Melissa exchange very staged looks of skepticism. Booze or not, I find myself on a roll.

"First of all, you've both seen my hot British boyfriend. So there's that. Secondly, I don't get crushes on straight guys."

Melissa looks floored. "You can do that? Control who you have crushes on?"

"Absolutely! It's called self-respect," I reply proudly, tapping my finger on the kitchen table for emphasis. "I refuse, outright refuse to be one of those…one of those…idiots pining over someone they can never have. I developed that self-preserving skill years ago. And it's been tested so many times, it's, uh, what's the word?…mullet proof! No, I mean, bulletproof!" I tip my head back and finish the Gatorade like a champ.

Mom considers this for a quick moment and then adds. "Of course we don't know if Luke is straight. He might be gay. Or bi." Something about her words make my stomach give a little lurch that's completely unrelated to alcohol. "He doesn't really talk about dating, but why would he bring up romance with a wizened old crow like me?"

"I don't want to talk about that guy anymore!"

Melissa sighs. "Well, I hate to talk about anyone behind their back, but I did fool around with Luke a couple of years after graduation and he was, shall we say, less than enthusiastic."

Laser focused, I sit straight up in my chair. "How could you not tell me about that?!"

"I thought you didn't want to talk about Luke Carter anymore."

Busted. I collapse back into my seat.

"Pfft! I don't. Forget I asked."

Melissa stands and grabs her purse. "Okay, I'll see you at rehearsal tomorrow, Gertrude!"

And before she's even halfway out the door, I'm yelling after her, "I'm not Queen Gertrude! I don't doth protest too much, not now, not never!"