Jack & Louisa: Act 1 (8 page)

“I’m Jack,” I said. “And I’ll be playing . . . Jack.” A wave of laughter rang from the circle. I guess Angela was right. “I know it’s totally unoriginal, but my favorite fairy tale is
Jack and the Beanstalk
.” I looked around the circle. Everyone was beaming, all seeming genuinely interested in what I had to say. Lou reached over and gave my arm a friendly little squeeze. “This is my first show with the Players,” I continued, “and I’d just like to say I’m really happy to be here.”

–LOUISA–

In an instant my life had gone from fine to
awesome
. Getting the phone call telling me I had won the part of Little Red was as good, if not better, than when my parents told me they would pay for a week at Camp Curtain Up. And then when Jack found out that he got cast, too . . . I don’t think I stopped smiling until I fell asleep that night. I might have actually kept smiling in my sleep.

Once rehearsals for
Into the Woods
began, it was funny to think that the only thing I’d wanted to do a few weeks earlier was avoid Jack Goodrich at all costs, because now we were together all the time. Even so, I felt like there were two versions of the same person: School Jack and Rehearsal Jack. School Jack was like an alter ego: an unassuming and neutral kid intent on averting the attention of his classmates, while Rehearsal Jack was like a superhero: a talented and extroverted actor whose superpower was making friends instantly. Meanwhile, I felt like his super sidekick, sworn to protecting his secret. We both knew everyone at school would eventually find out that he was doing
Into the Woods
—half the town came out to see the Players’ productions, especially the musicals. But Jack wanted to fly under the radar as long as possible, and I wasn’t about to break the promise I’d made to help him do just that. Still, I liked Rehearsal Jack much better than School Jack. Rehearsal Jack was a lot of fun.

Every night, as soon as our kitchen clock read 6:45 p.m., I would scarf down the last bites of dinner, grab my rehearsal bag, and run out of the house to find Jack waiting by our car, having shed his shy alter ego in favor of his outgoing superhero identity. We’d spend the ten-minute ride to St. Joseph’s reviewing what we’d worked on the night before, warming up our voices in the backseat. Dad would tease us from the driver’s seat, saying we sounded like a flock of geese. When we got there, we’d sprint through the double doors and up the stairs to the rec room, where Jack and I would high-five and air-kiss our fellow cast members like we were guests at a cocktail party.

Wayne Flanagan, handsome as a movie star with his wavy blond hair, always stood by the water cooler filling up his Klean Kanteen bottle, so we’d say hello to him first. One of us would ask him to name the weirdest scented candles he’d sold at Wax & Wayne that day, and he’d respond by making up the worst smells imaginable. “Wet Dog,” he’d joke. “Car Exhaust. Tennis Shoe.”

From Wayne we’d move on to demand hugs from Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz, even when their matching show sweatshirts were covered in crumbs from the tray of brownies or crumb cake they’d be cutting up to serve during our mid-rehearsal break. Sarah, our Rapunzel, liked to pretend we were celebrities and asked us for our autographs, while Simon, Rapunzel’s Prince, would pretend to restrain Sarah like she was a crazy fan. (It was totally obvious that Simon had a crush on Sarah.) It was usually around the time that Simon had his arm around Sarah’s waist that Angela (who totally had a crush on Simon), would announce that we were starting, and Renee would lay out the evening’s agenda.

I felt comfortable around everyone except for two people: Renee and Denise. As easy as it was for me to make jokes with Wayne Flanagan or hug Mrs. Schwartz, the thought of cracking a joke to Renee—or worse, making physical contact with Denise—made me shiver. It’s not that either one of them was mean; they spoke to me just like they spoke to the adults. Maybe that’s what freaked me out—they treated me like such a
grown-up
that I wasn’t used to it. Plus they were both so smart. Renee knew exactly how to get what she wanted from you—like, she’d always pay you a compliment before giving you an acting note, or she’d suggest an idea in a way that made you feel like you came up with it yourself. And Denise was always asking super smart questions, wondering about her character’s “intention,” “sense of urgency,” or “arc.”

On the fourth night of rehearsal, as Denise was about to sing “Stay with Me”—a beautiful, sad song that the Witch sings to Rapunzel to keep her from leaving—I confided in Jack.

“They’re both so intimidating, don’t you think?” I whispered, watching Denise and Renee discuss the scene as they used phrases like
remain active
,
raise the stakes
, and
fight
self-indulgence
.

Jack looked at the two of them, then back at me.

“Why?” he asked. “Because they use fancy actor words?”

“Because they just seem so . . .
professional
.”

As soon as the word came out of my mouth, I realized why Jack didn’t share my feelings of insecurity. He had just left a world full of professionals—he himself
had been
a professional—so people like Renee and Denise were completely familiar to him. I’m sure people in New York were even
more
intimidating.

Jack furrowed his brow like he was thinking hard about what I’d just said.

“They’re taking the work seriously, sure,” he conceded, “but there’s no reason for you to be intimidated by them.”

“I dunno,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of them
laugh
. They seem to take
everything
so seriously.”

“C’mon, they have to laugh,” Jack assured me. “They do musical theater. You can’t do musical theater and not laugh.”

“So says you,” I muttered as Denise began to sing.

Jack gave me a quick glance and what I thought was a little smirk, then settled back in his chair to listen to the Witch’s mournful appeal to Rapunzel.

A hush fell over the room as Denise’s final note faded into silence, curling like a wisp of smoke around our ears. Chills ran up and down my spine; her performance of the song had been perfect, and I was more in awe of her than ever. I looked over to see tears in Renee’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but before any sound could come out, Jack’s voice cut through the silence. Bold as a seagull swooping in on a dropped french fry at the beach, he said: “Wow, that was
so great
, Denise. I think as soon as you learn to sing on pitch and change all of your acting choices you’ll
really
have something.”

I could have fainted. Denise had probably never heard a comment like that in her lifetime. She stared blankly at Jack, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. The rest of the room followed suit in its speechlessness.
Had Jack lost his mind?
If I hadn’t been so dumbstruck, I would have asked him. What seemed like an endless awkward moment was finally interrupted by Jack’s big grin—one I had begun to know and adore. In the split second that everyone realized he was kidding, the energy of the room exploded. Tears welled up in Renee’s eyes and now ran in steady streams down her cheeks as she howled with laughter, and Denise, continuing the joke, responded with, “Thank you so much, Jack. I really value your feedback.” She then pretended to write a note in her music: “Learn. To. Sing. On. Pitch.”

As Angela tried to regain control of the room—“Okay, everybody, we should probably get back to work . . .”—Jack turned to me, an expectant look on his face.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I said, giggling.

“I know, that could’ve totally backfired,” he said, his eyes flashing. “But it didn’t, and now you know that Renee and Denise can laugh. So you don’t need to be intimidated by them anymore.”

My giggles subsided as Jack’s words sunk in.

“Wait—you did that
for me
?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, shifting in his seat. “You’re my friend, so . . .”

So? No friend, not even the ones I made at camp, had ever found such a bold way to make me feel better about something.

• • •

If I thought Jack and I had been getting along before that night, it was nothing compared to the days and weeks that followed. Our newly solidified friendship became a full-time commitment.

Even when we weren’t physically in the same room (which was rare), we were connected, texting or tweeting each other lyrics from the show:

“The carriage is waiting, we must be gone!”

“You can’t just sit here dreaming pretty dreams!”

“Go to the
wood
!”

With our phones we’d take abstract photos of things from rehearsal that were nearly impossible to identify, then post them on Instagram—a secret guessing game of sorts. My favorite picture was a close-up of our prop cow’s nostril that Jack took. I must have stared at it for at least twenty minutes before I figured out what it was.

And we’d leave voice-mail messages for each other in which we’d pretend to be Renee and give each other ridiculous notes, like when Jack left me this message:

“
Hi
,
Louisa, it’s
Renee
.
Listen, great stuff today, but I want to give you a couple things to think about for tomorrow’s rehearsal. This might sound crazy, but why don’t you try wearing some
fake teeth
?
And maybe use a Russian
accent
?”

To which I responded:

“
Hi
,
Jack, it’s
Renee
. Listen, you are doing some
terrific
work in the room, but may I suggest eating a lot of
beans
before our next rehearsal? It might connect you more to the
magic
beans in the story, and the gas you’ll get will only give you more
layers
to work with.”

• • •

At school, Jack skillfully maintained his low profile, and I continued to play along. That is, until the day Jenny got annoyed.

“Why didn’t you text me back last night?” she demanded one Friday before history. We were nearing the end of our third week of rehearsals, and I had not spent any time with her.

“I was in rehearsal until really late, Jenny, I’m sorry—” I began.

“This is like the fourth time it’s happened this week,” she said, accusingly.

“I’ve been so busy—”

“Whatever, Lou—I texted you at, like, eighty thirty, and then I saw you were tweeting at nine during your rehearsal to someone whose handle is @GetRichJack, so I know you had your phone on you.”

Oops.

“I’m really sorry—”

“Is @GetRichJack
Jack
?” Jenny asked, sliding into her desk behind me.

I took a deep breath, turned around in my seat, and leaned in close across her desk so only she could hear me.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Her eyes widened.

“Why are you tweeting Jack about
Into the Woods
? I thought he gave up theater.”

Jenny waited for a response, her lips pursed tight. She was clearly in no mood for apologies, and a lie would only make the situation worse, so I opted for the truth.

“He’s in the show with me.” I was speaking as quietly as I could. “He’s playing the role of Jack.”

Jenny scowled, piecing together recent events.

“Is that why he’s not on the soccer team?” she asked, getting louder. “It wasn’t because he ‘hurt his knee’?”

“Shh,” I said, looking around me, nervously. “His knee is fine. He just doesn’t want anyone to know about the show yet.”

Jenny squinted at me with suspicion. She did not like having secrets kept from her. Especially if they were mine.

“So, what’s the deal?” she asked, after a moment. “Is he, like, your boyfriend now?”

“No!” I hissed. “We’re just friends, I swear.”

“Well, lucky him,” Jenny said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Does he know that the only reason you like him is because you’re obsessed with all things Broadway?” She was getting louder as my heart beat faster.

“That’s not true—”

“This is sort of perfect for you, right?” Jenny said, the anger rising in her voice. “If
you
can’t be on Broadway, then you’ll just kiss up to someone who has been
.”

“Who’s been on Broadway?” Tanner Falzone’s gruff voice knocked the wind out of me like a blow to the chest. I turned to face him, my thoughts racing, and I heard Jenny’s barely audible, “Oh
no . . .”
An already unpleasant situation had just become much worse, as the very thing I had sworn to Jack I would protect was now dangling like a carrot in front of Tanner’s eager face. I prepared to answer his question by making up a distant cousin named Heidi who I only saw every other Thanksgiving, but suddenly the sound of Jack’s voice from the doorway, quiet but strong, surprised me once again:

“Me,” said Jack. “I’ve been on Broadway.”

–JACK–

What had I done?
Everyone stared at me with the blankness of a thousand unfinished work sheets. Perhaps it was the confidence of a great week of rehearsal or perhaps it was not wanting to leave my friend (the only person who’d consistently been my cheerleader) hanging out to dry. Whatever caused my lips to utter these words didn’t matter at this point. All that was certain was my cover had been blown, and I’d been the one to do it.

“I’ve been,” I repeated. “I’m not a star or anything, but yes, I’ve been on Broadway.”

The room was so silent, I could hear the scratch of chalk on a blackboard from the room next door. I’d always heard confessing a secret felt like a weight being lifted off your shoulders. Right now it felt more like being bound into a life-size rubber-band ball. I braced for a spitball or apple core to blast me in the face, but what flew through the air was worse than anything that could have been thrown.

“That’s so
gay
,” Tanner grunted.

The word hung in the air like a bad smell. For such an obvious insult it still felt like a punch to the gut. I hated that word. Not for what it actually meant, but the power it seemed to give the person using it.

“Oh, grow up, Tanner,” a voice muttered from the clump of classmates.

Everyone turned in shock, looking to see who was stupid enough to talk back to the biggest kid in seventh grade. I knew immediately whose voice it was. Tanner jerked his head back and forth in disbelief.

“What did you say?” he growled at Lou.

“Yeah, grow up,” another voice chimed in. This voice I recognized as Jenny’s. “What have
you
done in your life that’s that impressive?” she challenged in a shaky, but piercing voice. “Other than the third grade . . . twice!”

“Oohhhhhhhh!” a chorus of classmates blasted out in unison.

I wasn’t sure whether to burst out laughing or run and hide in the bathroom. Tanner’s mouth hung open, his face turning hot-sauce red. I figured I’d better step in before things got too messy.

“Hey, it’s cool,” I said, entering the room. “Yeah, guys, I used to do theater. Still do, actually.” I nodded quickly to Jenny and Lou, a simultaneous
thank you
and
I’ll take it from here
. “But, Tanner”—I cleared my throat—“I’m sure there are a lot of things you can do that are
really
impressive.”

“Yeah, like destroy you and your little ballet friends,” Tanner snarled back at me.

Oh boy
, I thought
.
My eyes darted to the doorway. Where the heck was Mrs. Lamon?

“I’m sure you could. No question about that.” I laughed nervously. This was a disaster. I’d gone from having my feelings hurt to fearing the actual possibility of broken bones. “Look, you’ve got your stuff. We’ve got ours. Isn’t it cool that we can all . . . get along?” I said, realizing how corny and Sesame Street my words sounded.

“What did you do on Broadway?” a boy’s voice called out from the group surrounding Tanner. It was Sebastian, an athletic kid I recognized from soccer tryouts. He was tall and popular and probably Coach Wilson’s first pick for the team. “Were you in
Book of Mormon
?”

Tanner turned to him in disgust as if asking
What are you saying? We need to put this kid to shame.

“What?” Sebastian defended casually. “My dad took me to see that at Playhouse Square. It’s by the
South Park
guys.”

“No, I wasn’t in
Book of Mormon
,” I jumped in quickly, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. “But, that’s cool your parents let you see it. Mine said I had to wait until I was in high school. On Broadway I was in . . .”
Oh man
, I thought. Why couldn’t I have been in a show that sounded really manly like
Rocky
or
Jersey Boys
or at least something without the word
Mary
in it? “Um,
A Christmas Story
and
Mary
 . . .
Poppins
.”

“Shut up! I love
Mary Poppins
!” a pretty blond girl named Jessica chimed in. It was the first time I’d ever heard her speaking voice. “Did you get to ride up the banister?”

“No. Well, not during the show.” I shrugged. “But one of the stagehands let me ride it on my last day. It was pretty sweet.”

“
It was pretty sweet
,”
Tanner repeated in a mocking high-pitched voice. This kid was ruthless.

“Make fun of him if you want,” Lou said, squeezing her way up to his desk, hands planted on her hips, “but when he was on Broadway, Jack was making more money . . .
than your dad
.”

Tanner looked to me and tensed his face.
This is it
, I thought. I should just surrender to two long years of swirlies and locker coffins. I wondered if my parents would actually consider moving back to New York if I came home with a black eye. “Is she for real?” Tanner asked me after a long silence.

“Um,” I murmured. “I’m not sure what your dad does. Probably something really fancy, but I guess I . . . did make a pretty big paycheck.”

Tanner’s eyes narrowed, sizing me up. “That is so”—he took in a deep breath, preparing his attack—“weird.”

Weird I could do. To be honest, I couldn’t agree more. As an actor you’re asked to dance across the stage singing in kooky costumes often wearing dead people’s hair. Not exactly a typical middle-school occurrence.

“So you got to spend all that money?” Sebastian asked, drifting away from the group of boys surrounding Tanner. Truthfully, I didn’t. My parents used some of it to pay our rent. Some of it went to my agent, and the rest they put in a bank account that I couldn’t touch until I went to college. At the end of the week I’d get an allowance of twenty dollars, which I’d usually spend on chips or candy or something sweet my parents never allowed in the house.

“Yep. I totally did.”

Okay, I lied a
little
.

“I was even going to buy a pool for my rooftop,” I continued. “But I decided they were too much work.”

Okay, maybe more than a little.

Hey, whatever! So my life in New York more closely resembled an average preteen’s than a rapper’s in a music video, but it couldn’t hurt to pretend. Lou looked at me inquisitively, as if asking
Really?

Shh, I’ll tell you later
,
my eyes broadcasted back. She nodded knowingly. I could tell we’d been spending a lot of time together. You knew you had a good scene partner when they could read your mind with a single look.

“Sorry, class.” We heard Mrs. Lamon’s voice as she came tearing in from the hallway.
Saved.
“The copy machine was broken and started spewing out hundreds of pages of . . . You know what? It doesn’t matter. Can everyone take their seats and open your textbooks to page thirty-seven
.
The Boston Tea Party.”

• • •

After school when the bus pulled up in front of my house, Lou and I hopped out together. My mother was wearing her
Christmas Story
ball cap, pushing our brand-new lawn mower across the overgrown grass. Originally my parents intended for lawn duty to be a part of my weekly chores, but a guardian angel (in the form of a sales associate at Home Depot) warned against anyone under age fifteen operating the mower. My mom waved to us, wiping her forehead with her new gardening gloves.

“I’m just gonna walk Lou to her door,” I called out.

My mom nodded and started the mower up again.

“I’m sorry your secret got out,” Lou apologized, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. “Jenny was the only person I told, and even she didn’t mean to let it slip. I was just being a bad friend to her, and then Tanner—”

“No, it’s fine,” I said, cutting her off. “I’m sure it would have gotten out eventually. It was stupid of me to try to keep it a secret in the first place.”

We walked slowly down the tree-lined sidewalk, past the lawn with the rosebushes and that creepy garden gnome. “All things considered, it could have gone worse.” Lou shrugged. “I mean, Jessica Wolfson acknowledged your existence. I’ve been in the same class as her since kindergarten, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know my last name.”

“Yeah, it’s cool. I just wonder what the fallout’s gonna be with Tanner and his friends,” I said. “I might as well start ironing bull’s-eyes to the back of my shirts.”

“I bet he’s not going to mess with you,” Lou responded. “He usually only picks on the kids with
lower
self-esteem than him. You obviously have a lot to be proud of.”

I decided not to mention that being called gay in front of my entire class made me feel pretty small.

“Besides,” she continued, “he’s too afraid one of your big-shot New York people will slap him with a lawsuit something.”

I chuckled, getting a mental image of Davina in a judge’s robe with a powdered wig, banging that hammer thingy.
Aw-duh in the Cawt! Aw-duh in the Cawt!

“Yeah, little does he know I still dig through couch cushions to find money to buy KitKats.”

We turned up the walkway to her house. “Well, I’ll see you soon,” I said, stopping just short of her doorstep. “And seriously, thank you for standing up for me. That was really nice of you.” I meant it.

She buried her fingers underneath the straps of her backpack.

“No one’s ever put themselves out there for me like that,” I said. “You’re a pretty cool girl.”

Lou smiled, and then to my surprise flung her arms around my shoulders, pulling me in for a hug. Her hair smelled nice, like apples. For a second all I could hear was the growl of our lawn mower humming in the distance. Suddenly, the sound cut out and was replaced by the bark of my mom’s voice two houses down.

“Jack, hon!” she called out.

I pulled away from the hug.

“Yeah, mom?” I asked, turning away from Lou. My mom was walking toward the edge of our yard, pulling off her gardening gloves.

“Are you gonna be much longer? Because Davina left a voice mail that I think you’re gonna to want to listen to.”

Davina? What could Davina want?
I wondered.

“Okay, Mom! Coming!” I turned quickly back to Lou. “Sorry, I should—”

“Don’t worry about it.” She grinned, shoving me playfully down the path. “Go listen to your voice mail. I’ll see you at six forty-five.” She skipped up the steps to her door and waltzed into her house without looking back.

I jogged down the pavement, sticking my tongue out at the garden gnome, leaped over a crack in the sidewalk, and ran up to our front door.

“What did Davina want?” I asked eagerly.

“The message is on the house phone,” my mom said, wheeling the lawn mower up our driveway. “She’s already out of the office and on her way back to Jersey, but we can call her first thing tomorrow.” My mom looked back at me for a second. She had an expression on her face that I couldn’t read. I knew when my agent called it was usually to deliver great news or something really bad. I dashed up the steps and pushed through the front door into the quiet of our house. I snatched up the house phone from the table by the stairs and froze, suddenly realizing I had no idea how to operate it. The idea of a landline was still new to me. No one in New York ever bothered with them. As I searched the receiver for an envelope icon, my mom popped her head in the doorway.

“Press pound and then dial your father’s birthday.”

Aha!
I stamped out the digits and pressed speaker phone, catching my breath as the familiar husk of my agent’s voice filled the room.

“Jack, honey. Listen.”