Alex Ko (26 page)

Thankfully, he had dealt with this issue before.

“You’re getting older now, Alex,” he told me one evening after he’d seen a random performance. “We should change the way you do some of the scenes. I’m going to have you work with Mark on aging up the part.”

I thought Mark Schneider, the new resident director, would just give me new directions, but instead, he helped me figure out what it meant to portray Billy as a twelve- or thirteen-year-old instead of an eleven-year-old. It was this kind of attention to detail that made
Billy Elliot
the huge Broadway hit it became.

“It’s all about the intention,” Mark told me. “You know how to play Billy at eleven. Now just be the same kid two years later.”

This changed the show in subtle but powerful ways. For instance, there’s a scene where Billy yells at Mrs. Wilkinson, his dance teacher. Always before, I’d done it like a kid throwing a temper tantrum, but Mark had me tone down the performance so I sounded more like an adult having an argument. It made the show more complex, and deeper emotionally.

Little changes like that helped me continue to fit the part even though I was entering puberty. They also helped keep up my interest. Sometimes, though, I tried to change things on my own, and that never worked out well.

The truth was, I was beginning to worry about my voice. Every singer cracks occasionally, even on Broadway, but soon after the White House event, I started breaking more and more. Some of the big, exciting numbers at the end of Act II were slowly slipping out of my range. David Chase, the show’s musical director, rewrote them one by one, bringing down notes, modifying sections, and in some cases, changing the key of the song entirely.

I was going through a big pop music phase at the time, and I noticed something. When all the big divas like Mariah Carey or Christina Aguilera had to hit a really hard high note at the end of a song, they would often riff around it. It’s called melisma, in which you sing multiple notes on the same syllable. It allows you hit the note but not have to hold it. One night, I decided to try it myself onstage.

It didn’t go over well.

“This isn’t a riffing show,” said David. “It’s not that what you’re doing is wrong—you sound great—but that kind of singing is completely different from the rest of the show. It stands out, and not in a good way.”

Abashed, I stopped riffing and returned to singing the part as it was written. But what David had said stuck with me.
What I was doing was entirely different from the rest of the show
. For the first time, it made me wonder: if I wanted to do something different, was it time to leave
Billy Elliot
behind?

It was a scary thought, and one I wasn’t sure I was ready to contemplate. Counting the auditions,
Billy Elliot
had been part of my life for more than three years. Leaving would mean . . . what? My family had fully transplanted their lives to New York City, and I couldn’t see us moving back. Would I go to high school here? Try out for a new show? Get my GED and apply directly to college? I might have been ready to leave
Billy Elliot
, but I wasn’t ready to go anywhere else. In the end, I decided to talk to Stephen.

After I explained how I felt, Stephen nodded.

“I’m glad you said something,” he said. “This is natural. There comes a point in every role when you’re ready to move on. It’s just a matter of doing it the right way. And this is a good time, because your contract’s about to be up for renegotiation, and I know you’ve been having trouble with some of the songs. Maybe it’s time for you to leave. You need to think about what you want to do next in life.”

“But what if I don’t know?” I asked Stephen. I could give him a long list of things I wanted to do with my life in general, but I couldn’t say what was
the thing
I wanted to do next.

“What about college?” Stephen asked.

I shook my head no.

“Eventually,” I told him. “But I’ve always been ‘the kid’ in all my classes. I don’t want it to be the same way at college. I want the full experience.”

“Well, you should keep dancing,” Stephen said. “Take classes at American Ballet Theatre, at least while you figure everything else out. Maybe audition for some acting parts.”

It all sounded good, and that was the problem. I couldn’t choose one thing over another. Contracts were coming up in a few weeks, and suddenly I felt like everyone was staring at me, wondering what I would do. But a couple of small accidents in a row left the show with a shortage of Billys, and Stephen and the rest of the creative team asked me to stay on for six more months. May 15, 2011, would be my final performance.

After that? I had no clue.

Chapter 27
The End

T
wo weeks before my final show, two very important things happened, one good, one bad. The first was a routine doctor’s appointment—or so I thought.

Both of my knees had been bothering me on and off ever since the injury. But in April, my right knee (the one that hadn’t torn) became really inflamed. I had to go back to PhysioArts, but after just one session, they sent me to Dr. Hamilton.

“It’s just the Osgood-Schlatter stuff, though, right?” I asked him.

“Yes,” said Dr. Hamilton. From his tone, though, I knew there was something more. “But it’s bad this time. I’m worried you’re about to reinjure yourself. I need to take you out of the show for the next few weeks.”

“Dr. Hamilton, I’m only
in
the show for two more weeks,” I said.

“That’s unfortunate, Alex,” he replied with a heavy sigh. “But we have to put your health first. I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to perform. I’m taking you out of the show.”

I couldn’t believe what Dr. Hamilton was saying. After five months of preparing myself to leave in May, had I just been suddenly thrust out the door? Had I already done my last show without even knowing it? I was prepared to leave, but I didn’t want to be gone already. I wanted to have my family see my last show, and to say good-bye to my new family from the show. This would be such a letdown. After all the work I’d done, I couldn’t believe it was all going to end like this.

No
, I decided.
I won’t let that happen.

Panicked and scared, I did the first thing I could think of. I called Mom. Together, we called Stephen.

“He’s got to perform,” Stephen said as soon as we explained the situation. “Maybe he can take the next month or two off, and then come back for a special return engagement?”

At first, that seemed possible, but the more we thought about it, the less it worked. I would have to remain in rehearsals that entire time, just to keep up to speed. And it would be hard for the rest of the cast and crew to revert to working with me as Billy for just a single performance. No matter how much we tried to justify it, it just didn’t make sense.

“What if I take off a few days, and just do my last show?” I said. I could deal with being out a week or two, so long as I could still have that final performance.

“That
could
work . . . ,” Stephen replied.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Mom said, when Stephen trailed off.

“
But
you’ll need to find a doctor who’ll sign you back in. Dr. Hamilton won’t. So here’s my advice: rest, heal, and get a second opinion.”

Rest? Rest was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to make the most of every moment I had left in the show. But Stephen was right. And I already knew the doctor I would go to: Dr. Mysnyk, our old neighbor and Dr. Hamilton’s colleague. I’d have to fly back to Iowa, but if it meant I could do my final performance, I’d have
walked
back. That’s how much that last show meant to me.

In fact, now that I was at the end of my time in
Billy Elliot
, every performance felt special, and I wished I didn’t have to miss a single one. Every time an understudy went on, I thought,
This might be the last time I hear them do this part.
The crew and cast all knew I was leaving, and everyone went out of their way to talk to me, hang out with me backstage, and wish me luck. We really had become like a family. I’d seen these people every day for two years, and now? Now I was leaving, and they all wanted to know where I was headed next.

But I couldn’t answer them. I still didn’t know what I was doing. I’d figured out certain things: I’d keep studying ballet, probably in the Pre-Professional Division of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School at American Ballet Theatre in the city. But I was going to take a little break first. Since I was out in May (maybe), I could take a month off before starting classes in the summer. My knees, I knew, would thank me for it. I would continue homeschooling and apply to college at the normal age.

“That’s a pretty full schedule,” Mom said to me. “Maybe that’s what you do for the next year.”

“Maybe,” I said. But it felt like something was missing, like there was something I should be doing, but I just couldn’t figure out what it was. I wanted something artistic, but not a show. And I wanted something that felt good, like doing charity events. I wanted to help people, especially kids like me, who had a dream they wanted desperately to fulfill. But I couldn’t figure out the right way to do it.

The next day, Mom came home from work at the usual time. I heard her keys in the door and began to pack up my schoolwork so we could get ready for dinner. But then I heard her talking to our neighbor Ellen Stern. Ellen was a writer, and she kept an odd schedule, much like I did, so she’d become close with our family. In fact, whenever Mom went away, Matt and I would spend the night at Ellen’s apartment. Whenever we saw her in the hall or elevator, we’d chat for a minute about the show, or the book she was working on. But tonight, she and Mom stood in the hallway talking for nearly twenty minutes, and when Mom came in, she had a thoughtful look on her face.

“What was that about?” I asked her. “Is everything okay with Ellen?”

“Hmm?” Mom said. “Oh, yeah, Ellen’s great.”

It was clear that Mom was distracted by something. I waited while she puttered around the house, putting her stuff down. Finally, she sat on the couch.

“Alex,” she said. “What would you think if I wrote a book?”

“That would be cool,” I said. “What kind of book? Like a novel?”

“About you,” Mom said. “Or rather, what it takes to raise a successful Broadway actor. It was Ellen’s idea. I don’t know—she wants me to talk to a friend of hers about it, another writer. Would it be okay if I wrote about you? Would that feel weird?”

I thought about it for a second. There were probably a lot of embarrassing moments in my childhood that I didn’t necessarily want the whole world to read about, but aside from that, I actually thought it was kind of cool. I wish we’d had a book like that when I was little, some kind of guide.

“So it would help families like us?”

“Exactly,” Mom said. “Normal people with talented kids who want to raise them right.”

Mom had never talked about writing before, but I thought it would be great to have an author in the family. I loved writing, and even though dance was my main passion in life, I’d always imagined that I would study writing in college. That’s why I wanted to go to Yale, because they had such a strong English department. So I urged Mom to go for it.

Mom met with Ellen’s friend, who referred her to an agent named Charlotte Sheedy. A few days later, Charlotte called Mom.

“I love the idea,” she said. “And I’ve seen
Billy Elliot
a dozen times. Alex is incredible.”

“Oh, thank you,” Mom said. “But I just don’t know. I’m not a writer.”

“But you have a great idea.” Charlotte tried to convince her. “And the expertise to back it up.”

“Maybe. Couldn’t someone else write it? Ellen?” Mom sounded uneasy about the idea.

There was a long pause.

“What about Alex?” Charlotte said finally. “Would Alex want to write it?”

“Alex?” Mom said, surprised. “But he’s . . . just a kid.”

“My daughter wrote a bestseller when she was twelve,” Charlotte said. “In fact, it launched her career. You might know her—she’s an actress. Ally Sheedy?”

That was enough to convince Mom, who loved
The Breakfast Club
, which was Ally Sheedy’s best-known role and one of the movies that had defined the 1980s.

“Would you want to write a book?” Mom asked me that night. “About the show, and how you got on Broadway?”

“I mean, sure, but . . .” I trailed off. Writing seemed like the kind of thing you did when you were older, more experienced, after college at least. I wanted to be a writer someday. But was I ready to be one now? I didn’t want to do it unless I knew I could do it well. “Can I do it?”

“Charlotte seems to think so,” Mom said. “She wants to meet you. She asked if you were free on . . . oh, wait, I wrote it down somewhere.”

Mom rummaged through the papers on the kitchen table.

“Here it is!” She held up a Post-it in triumph. “May sixteenth. Lunch. What do you think?”

May 16. The day after my last show. Suddenly everything clicked. I’d found it, the thing I was supposed to do next. I smiled.