Chapter_9_Drama_Teach

Biz holding my hand feels so natural. His little extra squeezes give me a few quick pulses to let me know he’s nothing but supportive. I squeeze back, feeling bad at how frustrated I can get sometimes but appreciating Biz for being here.

This is just like our usual theater date night where the lights dim and we instinctually hold each other’s hand. In New York, we try to see a few shows throughout the year. I like seeing the most cutting-edge theater to give me visual ideas as a director, and Biz loves anything on Broadway to keep him connected to his acting roots. After each show we have our usual late-night dinner-and-drinks discussion, debating the performance for hours.

The only show we’d ever walked out early on was an experimental show on the Lower East Side that involved too many strobe and laser lights. The giant sign screaming, “THIS SHOW CONTAINS FLASHING LIGHTS!!!” at the entrance gave us both so much anxiety, we thought we’d have seizures before intermission. During an extended disco scene where the protagonist was murdered on the dance floor and the strobe lights continued for what seemed like half an hour, we bolted out as quickly as possible. We couldn’t stop laughing at the fear-inducing sign and tried to calm our nerves afterward over tacos and margaritas.

The kids’ show starts smoothly. Students of all ages and gender expressions play each role. One older girl belts out her number to the back of the house like a pro. Another very sporty boy mumbles his lines and looks like he’d perform better on a basketball court.

Then I remember they’re kids. I shouldn’t critique their performances, but it’s hard to turn off my inner director. I make a mental note to take it easy on our own kid if they express interest in musical theater.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Biz laughing, getting caught up in the emotion and mouthing along to the lyrics. Melody and Evelyn are the youngest in the cast and don’t have major roles, but they’re background players in the opening and closing numbers, performing their hearts out with gleeful energy.

Making some of the adult-themed lyrics more child-friendly proves both challenging and downright comical. “Tits and ass” becomes “grit and class.”

Biz and I steal glances with each other throughout the performance. We’ve both scream-sung along with the original cast recording at home a million times.

When the entire cast comes together for the finale, my throat tightens. Seeing these kids perform with such confidence, I’m overcome with pride that my brother is raising two very awesome girls, and I can’t wait until we do the same.

Biz and I hold back happy tears as the students bow to a wildly supportive standing ovation.

The school has a cast party inside the gym where all the families, faculty and students mingle and celebrate the fruits of their labor. There’s a huge chocolate sheet cake made to look like a piano and cookies in the shape of the comedy and tragedy masks.

Biz and I stand there, holding plastic flutes of Prosecco as we watch Melody and Evelyn hug their fellow castmates and crew members, analyzing every last detail that no audience member would’ve ever caught.

“And when Hendrix swallowed their entire lyric in the second verse, I died.”

“A room full of theater kids is born,” I say.

“Hallelujah,” Biz says. We smile at each other, feeling like proud fake dads.

A couple of the insular parents suspiciously pass their eyes over me and Biz, so we make a point to introduce ourselves to a few of them. A wave of relief settles as they finally realize we’re not interlopers.

“I’m so glad Alex is okay,” says one very concerned mom.

“Let us know what hospital so we can send flowers,” offers another.

Everyone is flattered to learn that the school play is a stop on our way to the baby. More than a few of the progressive parents give me an overbearing vibe that suggests they still refer to their nine-year-olds as “four-hundred-sixty-nine-week-olds.”

This whole night is like a flash forward into our future as dads. That’s if we suddenly moved to the suburbs of Boston and became heiresses to a baby back rib fortune.

I’ve had enough of this Big Little Lies: Midwest, so I escape the inner sanctum of parents when I suddenly realize Biz is nowhere to be found.

I notice the twins are busy laughing and chatting with their friends. I toss back the rest of my Prosecco, pop a tragedy mask cookie in my mouth and exit the gym.

The sugar and bubbly collide inside my stomach, giving me a much-needed jolt of energy, so I speed-walk past the closed classrooms, the colorful library full of high-tech equipment and the cafeteria that looks like a Michelin-star restaurant. I feel both nostalgic for my crummy old public school and relieved I’m not still in school.

It occurs to me that Biz is probably getting fresh air somewhere outside. He doesn’t like being pinned down too long, that one.

Opening the double doors, I step into the starry, cool night, which sends a refreshing shiver through my body. I can see for what feels like miles in front of me—no buildings and certainly none of the Manhattan supertalls obstructing the horizon.

Walking around the periphery of the school, I discover the athletic field and the air suddenly becomes fetid with what smells like a skunk. I don’t want to come face-to-face with suburban wildlife, so I start to duck back inside when I hear faint laughter.

I walk the length of the dimly lit brick wall and turn the corner. From a distance, I spot the silhouette of Biz under a full moon. Turns out, it’s not a skunk. It’s weed.

Biz is standing under a weeping willow tree, the smoke billowing in the air like a thought bubble as he tilts his head back in laughter. Is he laughing to himself?

On the other side of the tree, my eyes go further into focus. Biz laughs and shares a fat joint with Mr. Aronson, their bodies too close to each other for my taste.

Biz turns to see me. “Wyatt!” he calls, which sounds like something between jovial and getting caught.

My nieces’ drama teacher and my boyfriend aren’t just sharing a joint. They’re sharing what could only be perceived as a romantic moment.