Forgive Me (11 page)

Twenty-two

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM

Last night was opening night. I was nervous, but it was really fun to be backstage with all the other actors, getting ready for the show. Some of the other boys refused to wear makeup. Amateurs! I even knew what I was doing—I’ve tried out Mom’s lipstick. The eye shadow was new: all Mom has in her travel bag is lipstick and some crusty mascara. Maybe I’ll give her a makeover for Christmas, instead of a Whitman’s Sampler. Mom could totally use a makeover. People always talk about how glamorous she is (probably because she’s not from Nantucket) but I wish she’d get permanents at Hot Locks Salon and Spa, the way the other mothers do.

And finally, showtime. My heart was aflutter. My fedora was askance (new vocab from the Word a Day calendar). I peeked out at the audience and let me tell you, the Nantucket Elementary Auditorium was packed. I didn’t see Malcon or my parents, but basically the whole island was sitting on folding chairs. And suddenly, I wasn’t nervous anymore. I knew I was going to be fantastic. I was—as Malcon said—a star.

Gerald Smith said, “This doll has captured my attention,” and I knew my cue was coming. The lights were hot on my face, and my eyes burned. I said my favorite line with all the feeling I could find: “Polka dots! In the whole world, nobody but Nathan Detroit could blow a thousand bucks on polka dots!” and the audience laughed. It was so awesome.

The show went by fast. “Sue Me” brought down the house, but in no time the final curtain fell. All that work, and opening night was over. When I took my bow, the applause thundered over me. I didn’t even mind how sweaty my suit was.

So there,
I thought, as clapping rang in my ears.
So what if you pick me last for medicine ball. Who cares if no girl asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance and I had to get all dressed up and hide out at Mr. Mullen’s? I’m not different, I’m special.

I had imagined all the jocks would be in the front row, crying because they were so sorry they punched me in the stomach when I walked by them in the hallway, but I wasn’t disappointed that the front row was full of old ladies from the Nantucket Senior Care Center. I bowed again and again.

And I mean, if I was excited about opening night, imagine how I’m going to feel at the Oscars. Or when I win
American Superstar,
or at least rock the house at the Mashpee Mall Regional Auditions.

We all went outside in our costumes and ate cookies in the hallway and Mrs. Jelly gave the girls bouquets. What is the deal? Boys can’t get roses? I was really jealous of freaking Louisa, who doesn’t even enunciate but got a sweet bunch of long-stems.

And then came Mom, all smiles in one of her weird-o outfits, complete with some sort of cape. Sometimes, I do wish she’d wear a nice pair of slacks and a cardigan, like everyone else’s mom, instead of shopping in Boston and New York. But anyway, she was so happy. I said, “Where’s Dad?” and she got that line between her eyebrows.

“There was an important call,” she said.

“It’s opening night.”

“He’ll be here tomorrow night, honey. In fact, he could be arriving any minute.”

“I know,” I said. “I just really wish he had seen me.”

“I can’t wait to tell him all about it,” said Mom. “You were astonishing.” She tried to gather me in but I pulled away from her. For some reason, I was totally bummed. I guess the excitement of the night wearing off and all.

I said I had to go get changed and she said, “Of course, honey.” She looked sort of lonely there in the hallway, and I told her there was cider and she said, “Oh cider? Great!” But Mom is no actress.

I
n the backstage dressing room mirror, I stared at myself.
I should dye my hair,
I thought:
a nice chestnut, maybe, or platinum like Marilyn Monroe.
While I was putting on my sneakers, Mom came in. She smiled, and sat down on the floor Indian-style. “Come here,” she said. I sat on her lap and she wrapped her arms around me. It felt nice. She rested her cheek on the top of my head. “I’m sorry about your dad not being here,” she said. “He loves you, baby. I love you.”

I was just starting to feel okay again when Bret Williams burst into the room. “Whoa-ho,” said. “Looks like I’m interrupting something!” He said it in a creepy tone, like Mom and I had been making out.

“Dude,” I said. I stood up really fast, my shoulders still warm from my mom’s hug. “We were just—”

“Whoa-ho,” said Bret. “I can
see
what you were
doing
!” He left, letting the door slam behind him.

“Wait,” I said, to the door. I looked at Mom, who was sitting on the floor looking confused. All of a sudden I was angry at her, in her fancy outfit. Who did she think she was? “I’m not a
baby,
” I said. I pushed the door open and ran into the hallway. “She’s such a loser!” I said loudly, but no one was listening.

And what do you know, but I felt a hand on my back. I turned around, and it was Malcon Bridges.

He said, “Hey kid,” and then he handed me a rose. It was a little bit wilted—I think it was one of the ones they sell at the checkout lane at Stop & Shop—but it was a rose all the same. Malcon moved his hand to my shoulder and said, “Fine job.”

“Thanks,” I said to Malcon. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

T
his morning, Dad was waiting for me in the kitchen. “Son,” he said. “I heard you were great last night.”

“You look tired,” I said.

“It was a late night,” said Dad.

“Then why are you up?”

“Thought maybe we could get some doughnuts,” said Dad. “And then take the boat out? We could even head to Muskeget, bring your mom home a bass?”

“Right, Dad,” I said. “That’s a great idea. I’ll eat a bunch of fattening doughnuts and then go get all wet and cold and lose my voice before I have to go fit into my costume and sing the part of Nathan Detroit. That’s a
brilliant
plan.”

“What’s that around your eyes?” said Dad.

I looked at my reflection in the microwave. “Mascara,” I said.

“Oh,” said Dad.

“I don’t think you understand one thing about me,” I said.

“That’s not true,” said Dad. “I understand that I let you down. And I’m trying to apologize.”

We stared at each other, and then I got up without saying a word. I knew if I started crying, he’d say that I was just like my mom, prone to histrionics, one of his favorite expressions. I left him in the kitchen and came up here to write. Mom says it feels so great to write in your journal and get it all out, but I don’t feel so great.

Twenty-three

W
hen Nadine woke, it was the middle of the night, and she stood on the balcony under the stars. The mountains looked sharp, and below, the city was quiet. Signal Hill was outlined against the sky, a slow swell. Lion’s Head was a rocky thimble. Nadine could smell the ocean. On her room phone, the message light was steady.

It was midnight. Nadine thought of Hank, handing her a cold beer after a long walk on the beach. They’d made love and then eaten Triscuits and sharp cheddar cheese.

Back in her room, Nadine turned on the bedside lamp. She summoned her courage and dialed Hank’s office. His receptionist told Nadine to hold, and then he came on the line. At the sound of his voice, joy coursed through Nadine. “Hey!” she said. “Did you get my message?”

“I did. I had no idea how much that article would inspire you,” Hank said coolly.

“I’m in Cape Town,” Nadine said.

“So I hear.”

“This story is amazing. The
Boston Trib
is going for page one. I told you about Evelina…about Maxim…” There was only silence.

“I told you on the beach?”

Hank did not respond.

“Well, thank you,” said Nadine. “Thanks for the article. The
Whaler
of all things.”

“You’re welcome,” said Hank. “I guess I thought we’d talk about it when I got back.”

“Oh.”

“A little dinner conversation.”

“Jesus,” said Nadine. “It’s more than dinner conversation to me.”

“Clearly.”

“Are you angry?” said Nadine. “I don’t get it.”

“Nadine,” said Hank, “I’m speaking to you as a doctor. You shouldn’t be walking around, much less walking around in South Africa.”

“I feel fine.”

“I doubt that.”

“Jesus,” said Nadine again.

“All right,” said Hank. “Where does this leave us?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you don’t know what I mean,” said Hank evenly, “I’m going to hang up this phone.”

“What did you expect?” said Nadine. “Did you think I would live quietly on Nantucket for the rest of my life?”

“For the rest of the week, maybe.”

“Well, I guess you misjudged me.”

Again, Hank was silent. Finally he said, “I guess I did.”

“This is an important story,” Nadine said, hollowly.

“I know.”

“I’m staying at the Hotel Victoria,” said Nadine, “if you need to reach me.”

“I already tried,” said Hank. “Looks like I wasn’t the man for the job.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Good-bye, Nadine,” said Hank. “And you can pretend you don’t get this, either. I fell in love with you. I don’t know how it happened so fast, but there you have it. I miss you, and I’m sorry you had to leave. I wish you had chosen me, tried to give this a chance. But you clearly want something else. I wish you the best, really.”

“I,” said Nadine.

“Good-bye,” said Hank.

“Listen,” said Nadine. “Please.”

“I’m listening,” said Hank.

“This doesn’t mean it’s over.”

There was a silence, and then Hank spoke. “No,” he said, “you’re wrong. In fact, Nadine, this does mean it’s over. I don’t want to love someone who’s always packing her bags. That’s not a life.”

“I packed your bag, actually,” said Nadine, trying to sound jovial. “The green duffel.”

“It’s yours,” said Hank. “A parting gift. Take care.”

“Hank,” Nadine said, but the line was dead. Nadine slammed down the phone. Then she changed into clean jeans and a clinging silk top Hank had insisted she buy on Nantucket. In the bathroom, she pinned her hair awkwardly with her good hand. Breathing hard, she applied lipstick. The bar at the Vicky was a hangout for established journalists, and Nadine hoped she could still charm some leads, even in her bedraggled state.

She rode the elevator downstairs. The Planet Champagne Bar was located on a screen porch overlooking the gardens. Nadine went inside and looked around. South Africa might still be segregated, she thought, but at the exclusive Victoria wealthy blacks, whites, and so-called coloreds mingled freely.

Outside, clusters of fashionable people sat under the trees, smoking and talking softly. Nadine felt lonely and far from home, her wrist and head aching. A waiter in a tuxedo approached and handed her a cocktail. “What’s this?” Nadine asked.

“A diamond fizz,” said the waiter, who had a pale goatee. He placed the drink on a Victoria Hotel napkin. “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar.” He inclined his head gracefully.

Nadine looked over and saw the back of a man’s head above a button-down shirt, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. One hand was on his knee, long fingers white against the dark fabric of his jeans. He sat with two other men, both of whom looked scruffy and intense. As Nadine watched, he turned and smiled, lifted his chin, as if to say,
Come closer.

Nadine gasped. The ponytail was gone, but she recognized him in an instant. It was George.

Twenty-four

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM

Sorry, it’s been awhile since I’ve written. I’ve been super busy, but today something happened that I need to write down.

I’ll start with last week. Dad came to the Saturday-night, Sunday-matinee, and Sunday-night performances of
Guys and Dolls,
and then framed the review in the
Gazette,
which said I “channeled Sinatra right before the audience’s eyes.” I tried to stay annoyed at him, but after every performance he was waiting in the hallway with a huge bouquet of flowers. (Daisies, irises, a dozen roses for closing night.) Mom bought some vases and my room looked like a freaking flower shop. It was like sleeping in an awesome-smelling garden. When I’m famous, I’m going to have fresh flowers delivered to me every single day.

But the week after the show ended was rough. I wasn’t a busy big shot anymore, just my usual self wandering around the hallways hoping no one would trip me or write
FAG
on my locker with Wite-Out. Mom says all the bullying will end and my time will come. I’m ready for that to happen.

Am I a fag because I like flowers and lipstick? What is a fag? I don’t get it. I just know I’m not the same as everyone else. And my parents are always worried about me, always saying,
But maybe you’d like soccer
and
No you cannot have leather pants.

Malcon has shown me something, something I always hoped was true. Maybe there’s a whole world outside Nantucket where I do belong. Maybe my loserness is actually something great, and I don’t fit in because I’m better. I decided I would discuss this idea after school with Joe and Kyla, my best friends and also the head stylists at Hot Locks Salon and Spa.

On Monday, Mom said, “See you at three,” as she was dropping me off.

I took a breath and said, “No you won’t.”

“What?” said Mom.

“I have
plans,
” I said. “I have my own plans, Mom. I’ll be home at five.”

I figured she would worry, or at least ask what my plans were. But instead she shrugged and said, “Okay, honey.” She pulled away from the curb without even looking back.

Kyla was busy with a frosting when I arrived at Hot Locks after school, but Joe poured me a cup of tea and listened as I outlined my theory about Nantucket being the loser, not me. I knew that Joe had his own issues, what with his wife and the guy who plays piano at the Jared Coffin House, but he listened to me like my problems were new and interesting. When I was finished talking, he said, “I think you’re absolutely correct. I do. There’s someplace in the world where every man feels like a king.” I smiled, and Joe stood up. “Check out the new
People,
” he said, tossing me the magazine. “You will not
believe
what Madonna is up to.”

I
threw myself into practicing for the
American Superstar
auditions. Sometimes I wondered if I should sing something a little more modern, like “Shake You Rump” or “Nigga in da House.” In the end, I decided I had to trust Malcon’s judgment.

I figured I could tell my parents I had a Drama Club meeting on Saturday, or I was hanging out at Murray’s Toggery, which I sometimes did, trying to suss out what the summer people were wearing. I was also a member of the fake Human Rights Club, which I made up as a way to explain all the afternoons I went to Hot Locks Salon and Spa after school. My parents liked Joe and Kyla, but always said they wished I would spend time with kids my own age.

You can imagine my horror when Dad came home with tickets to a Red Sox game for Saturday afternoon! He was all proud and excited, handing me a catcher’s mitt wrapped up in a box and pretending to be something good, like a leather jacket. And as I was trying to muster some excitement for the mitt, Mom and Dad, their faces lit up like birthday cakes, handed me the baseball tickets.

Could he get me tickets to the traveling company of
Streetcar Named Desire
? No, he could not. How about
Cats
or
A Chorus Line
? No, sir, Dad spends his hard-earned money on tickets to some baseball game. Then he goes on and on about hot dogs and all the soda I can drink.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, trying to look like I was. “But the Human Rights Club is having a rally on Saturday. We’re protesting child labor.”

“Oh well,” said Dad. “I guess I’ll have to take your mother.” He smiled at her, and then she surprised us all.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “But I have plans on Saturday. I’m meeting a friend in Boston for lunch. Maybe I can see you after the game.”

“A friend?” said Dad.

“Yes,” said Mom. Her face was all red, and I realized with a shock that Mom—who I thought I could read like an open book—was hiding something.

What is going on? My hand hurts, so it’s time to go. Kyla gave me an Alberto VO5 hot-oil treatment, wish my hair luck.