Starry-Eyed (8 page)

“Who is in the car?” Tresta says.

“Alex. I told you about him before.”

“And who else?”

“Oh, that's Hannah. She plays guitar,” I say. Hannah waves.

“I don't text you back and all of a sudden you're hanging out with some other girl? Don't tell me she's with Alex. I know he's your gay friend.”

“I'm so much more than the gay friend,” Alex says with a wave. “Seriously.”

“I just play guitar,” Hannah says, leaning out the window.

“Yeah, well that better be all you do.”

Hannah rolls her eyes. I like this!

“So why all you all here again?” Tresta says.

“Here's the thing,” I say. “We're going to protest at the school board meeting on Tuesday. Guerilla theater! Hannah is going to play guitar, and we were going to ask you to sing. . . .” (I am hoping here that Alex and Hannah would just roll with it.) “But since you're grounded, we're wondering if maybe you could see if maybe Javon was in town. He's a graduate
of this theater program too. Maybe he could . . .”

“Shit!” Tresta says. “I think I just saw my mom's car up the street. She must be looking for parking. I gotta get inside! Text Javon, tell him I gave you the number!”

She shouts out Javon's number and slams the door. Gone again.

I keep repeating the number out loud, over and over, so I won't forget it. A little voice in my head is like “Hey, why does she still have his number memorized?” I try to drown that voice out. I don't want to forget the number.

. . . . .

I scramble into the car and duck down so Tresta's mom can't see me. I hunch low in the passenger seat like a felon fleeing the police. All the while I'm saying the number over and over again, staring up at the ceiling. I feel the car pull away from the curb. I am trying to make a plan—what do we say when we text Javon? Then I hear Alex start to talk.

“Hi, Javon Harris,” Alex is saying into his phone in a singsong voice.

“Dude!” I say. Alex shushes me.

“You don't know me but I'm a friend of Tresta's. Friend-of-a-friend really. Anyway, she gave me your number. Don't worry, I won't share it with TMZ or anything. . . . I'm just calling to see if you happen to still be back in your old hometown this Tuesday. We're doing a protest to save the theater department and would just love you to come. Call or text me back. Okay, thanks. Love you. Bye.”

“What the hell?” I say.

Alex has a huge smile on his face. “Well, not like
literal
love. It's just a Hollywood thing to say. Everyone knows that.”

“I can't believe you just called him,” Hannah says from the back.

“Ain't nothing to it but to do it,” Alex says. “Now we just wait.” He drums on the steering wheel with his thumbs. His phone chirps loudly. He ignores both the law and common sense wisdom against reading a text while
driving and checks his phone. “Dude!” I jump up and grab the phone.

I read the text. It does indeed appear to be from Javon! It takes a bit of time to decipher the rapper lingo, but it appears to read upon being translated to regular English: “Tresta is a great girl. I happily accept your invitation. Please instruct me via text message as to what time and location to arrive and you have my word that I shall attend.”

Alex pulls the car over. The three of us sit in stunned silence until Hannah speaks.

“I can't believe that worked.”

“Me neither,” Alex and I say in unison.

He grabs the phone back and starts texting furiously.

In just a few seconds Javon texts back.

“He's in,” Alex says. “He's in.”

. . . . .

The day of the big school board meeting is finally here. It's a Tuesday, hardly a good time for a show. These people know nothing about theatrics. They are about to learn.

Alex picks me up, and swings by Hannah's house. She's pacing on the street out front, her guitar and amps sitting on the curb. As soon as she sees the car, she sprints toward us so fast that her ball of red hair shoots out behind her, waving like a flag in the wind. She leaps in, throwing her guitar and a crate with our microphones and amps in beside her.

“Slow your roll, Senko,” I say. “We don't go on for like an hour.”

“I know. I'm just excited!
Weeeee!
” She literally says
weeeee
. I try not to judge. Preshow jitters do different things to different people.

“You have everything we need?” Alex asks.

She points to the guitar and the crate o' gear. “Now we just hope Javon shows up.”

After that, no one says anything. We don't talk about the plan anymore. We don't practice the song anymore. We just sit quietly, almost meditatively.

When we finally reach the nondescript school district administrative building on the east side of town, Alex parks the car and says two words.

“It's showtime.”

. . . . .

We have to be a little sneaky about our presence. These meetings are open to the public, so we have every right to be here. There is a part at the beginning where anyone who wants to can sign up to speak. So we signed up. Only, of course, no one is expecting microphones and rock guitars.

The plan is for Alex, who really looks the part of the clean-cut-all-American boy when he wants to, to wait in line for his turn to speak. A minute before it's his turn, he'll text me. This will alert me, Javon, and Hannah—waiting backstage—to burst out, guitars-a-blazing.

The only problem is that Javon Harris is nowhere to be seen. We are hanging out in the parking lot, watching people arrive, trying to be relaxed. It's easy for Alex—he is one of those guys who gets just super cool and icy before a show. He turns his big eyes to me and says, “It's fine. He said he'll be here so we have every reason to believe that he'll be here.”

I wish I could share his confidence. We wait. I pace. Hannah paces. Alex stays cool.

“Well, could you at least just text him to see if he's coming?” I say.

“Don't you think I thought of that?” he hisses. His eyes bug out huge for half a second; his face flashes panic. Maybe he's not as confident as I thought. “I've texted him like a million times. No response.”

“Dude,” I start to say, then I hear a guy yell to some other guy hustling across the parking lot. “Gavel comes down in two minutes. Get in here, Walt!” He laughs.
Walt Peters
. He opens the door and closes it behind him. It thuds like the end of a sentence.

Alex follows Walt, and we follow Alex. Alex takes his place in the auditorium while we wait down the hall. I peek into the auditorium. Rows of dark chairs face the stage. On the stage are seven seats—one for each
member of the school board. Behind them are more American flags than could possibly be necessary. I watch as the school board members assemble, like an Avengers of evil. I see Walt Peters, that bastard. My heart is pounding in the region of my shoes. Where is Javon? I text Alex:
still no javon
.

I can see him, smiling and happily waiting his place in line. Somehow he texts back without even looking at his phone. I don't think he even takes it out of his pocket.

“What did he say?” Hannah asks, looking over my shoulder.

“He said,” I say with a gulp, “the show must go on.”

The meeting starts with the public comments, but there are a handful of people in front of Alex in line so we have to wait. I crane my neck every five seconds to try to see the parking lot like I'm waiting for the Great Pumpkin to arrive. The Great Pumpkin is never going to arrive!

My phone beeps. It's our turn to go on. No Javon. What the heck are we going to do? There will be a big awkward instrumental part in the middle that is supposed to have a rap part. The whole thing is going to suck!

Hannah and I walk into the room. She turns on her guitar and lets out a massively loud minor chord. Alex starts to sing. Then my phone beeps again. Another text. This one is Tresta.
Break a leg,
it says.

I look up. She is in the audience! She must have snuck out! She broke curfew
and
she snuck out of being grounded! For me! Or did she only come for Javon. . . .

I see a few other kids from theater: Claudia, Tanner, even Ann Nekin. Me and Alex sort of let it slip that something was going down tonight. We couldn't tell them
exactly
what because then they'd be jostling for stage time and stepping on our lines. . . .

Hannah smacks me with her guitar. I'm supposed to be following her. The song is starting!

The school board guys just look confused. Hannah is strumming her guitar loudly and Alex is singing his Bob Dylan-ish best, “You say the money's gone . . .”

I scramble to sing my part. “You say your hands are tied . . .” And then
it clicks. The performance instinct kicks in, and I'm lost in the moment. Our harmonies are tight. Our melodies are strong. The crowd isn't in an uproar. If I had to describe their reaction, I would pretty much say “polite bemusement.” We hit the breakdown. The time for the rap to start. No Javon. But it's clear. I know what I have to do.

Wax O'Donnell has to freestyle rap.

I take a deep breath and step to the center of the stage. Hannah plays this jerky little rhythm thing she's been practicing that is perfect for rapping over. Okay. Deep breath, Wax . . .

INT.—SCHOOL BOARD MEETING, 6:30P.M.

Wax struggles to come up with words. He is not a good rapper.

WAX: (haltingly) Aw, yeah, the budget is cut? That . . . judge . . . is a slut.

Okay, not the best first line. What judge? Doesn't matter. It rhymes with budget. Sort of. What rhymes with slut
?

WAX: (cont.) Put a horn in your . . . butt.

What am I saying right now? Time to bring it back to at least something somewhat relevant
.

WAX: (cont.) East Atlantic Bank killed theater, and I hate their silly faces!

Hannah stops playing. Mouths drop open. Do I hear crickets? I know I hear laughter. Just a little at first. Then a lot more. Rapping is hard! Shut up!

I run offstage, never to be seen from again.

. . . . .

I run right out of the school board building and head back to my house. It's a long walk and it takes forever, but I don't want to face anyone. I can't stop replaying the scene in my mind.
I hate their silly faces
? Oh, for all that is holy and just, please just kill me now. I run into the house, slam the door to my room, throw myself on the bed, and decide to hide for a few thousand years.

Not only have I failed to save theater, but I have made an ass out of myself. In front of my friends, in front of Tresta, in front of Walt Peters and a dozen American flags. And—oh no—my heart sinks further if that's even possible. There is no doubt that someone recorded it. You can't bust out a hard rock school board guerilla theater anthem and not have someone whip out a cell phone. I try to remember the audience—did I see anyone with a phone? I can picture Walt Peters's face, which was pretty epic. And Tresta's, which was . . . not.

Why did I have to try to rap? Why did I try to be Javon Harris? Why did Tresta have to mention Javon's rapping in the first place? Why didn't Javon show up? Why couldn't I be eloquent?

I had my one chance to say what I know to be true. That this theater department means everything to me, to all of us. You can't put a price on that.

. . . . .

When I wake up the next morning, it's not to Dad rustling his newspaper. It's to my phone, going crazy. It's beeping a million times, like an extended beep solo. I debate throwing it out the window, but I really like this phone.

I look at the screen. It's worse than I expected: 47 million missed calls and 863 billion text messages.
Slight
exaggeration. I don't even want to read any of them. Then the phone rings again. It is Alex.

INT.—WAX'S BEDROOM, WEDNESDAY MORNING.

Wax O'Donnell has bed head but looks adorable.

ME: Hello?

ALEX: Hello? That's all you got is hello?

ME: Was it as bad as I think it was?

ALEX: How bad do you think it was?

ME: Like the stinkiest stink to ever stink up earth?

ALEX: Worse.

ME: Thanks.

ALEX: But dude, something amazing happened.

ME: Don't tell me: Someone filmed it. The video exploded. Nine million views overnight.

ALEX: Yup.

ME: You're joking.

ALEX: Nope.

(Wax contemplates suicide.)

ME: I—I was joking.

ALEX: It gets better.

ME: Could it get worse?

ALEX: It gets much better! I've been reading the comments. Most everyone just laughs at you. But one of them is from a bank.

ME: What?