What a to-do to die today at a minute or two to two; a thing distinctly hard to say but harder still to do.
The tech weekends when we basically lived at the theater, all of us hanging out in the hallway, everyone coming with lattes and donuts in the morning. Homework and card games to pass the time as the lights were tweaked, cue by cue, the way we’d get a lunch break and would bring back pizza or Rinaldi’s and eat it sitting on the floor, sprawled in a circle. The inside jokes and routines from every show, the way you could never even really explain them to someone who wasn’t part of it.
The way we’d all hold hands in a circle before opening night.
The feeling I had when we got our first laugh, the way we always stepped on it at first—not because we weren’t ready, but because of the heady surprise of it, that something that had only existed with us was now out in the world.
The way that it felt like you were part of something—that you’d been selected, that you were special. That Mr. Campbell had seen something in you, chosen you, and let you be included in this.
And most of all, the way that I’d gotten to do all of it with my best friend. That Stevie had been there, with me, at every show, as we rose up from nameless, lineless people in the background to the leads of the productions and how we’d done it together.
I looked over at Cary and realized I had no way to try and tell him all of this. “It’s been my whole life,” I finally said slowly, finding the words one by one. “The last four years. It’s just the best—you get to make something with your friends, and put it in front of an audience, and then do it again. It makes everything else…” I paused, trying to think about how to put it. “Everything else just doesn’t measure up. It’s like summer camp, all year round. It’s the only place you want to be.”
“Do you want to do it in college, too?”
I nodded—because of course I did. This was what all the fights with my parents had been about. I thought back to the one we’d had earlier today—had it just been today?—screaming at them in the kitchen about how unfair it was that they wouldn’t let me apply to the colleges I wanted. And I suddenly felt utterly ashamed of myself as I walked next to Cary, currently working six jobs to try and defray the cost of NYU. Like it had back in the lobby, it was hitting me, somewhere deep in the center of my chest, that I’d never even understood until right now what a privilege that was. To have never even considered in anything but the most superficial way what it was like for almost everyone else. It was as though the bubble I hadn’t even realized I’d been in was slowly cracking open to let in the light.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Cary asked.
I shook my head. “There’s some conservatories I want to apply to; I’m still narrowing it down. But I know it’s what I want to do.” But even as I spoke, it hit me, for the first time, that all these people I’d done theater with all these years—Stevie, Mr. Campbell, all the other thespians—wouldn’t be there. This was obvious—of course they wouldn’t—but it was like in that moment, it was the first time I’d considered that a college acting program wouldn’t just be the Stanwich High program, but bigger and with more swearing. I wouldn’t be doing this with all my friends next year. It would be something totally different, with all new people.
Which was okay.
It was fine.
It just hadn’t really occurred to me until right then.
“I’m impressed,” Cary said, smiling at me. “And I hope you get this part you want. I assume it’s King Lear?”
“Actually, it’s the storm.”
Cary laughed just as the jazzy guitar sounded again. He stepped to the side of the street, closer to the buildings, and I joined him, careful to avoid the open doors of what seemed to be a sidewalk cellar—there were stairs but a steep drop and what looked like a storeroom below. Wasn’t this super dangerous? Did New Yorkers just instinctively know to avoid these?
“It’s my uncle,” Cary said, looking relieved as he answered the phone. “Hi, Uncle G!” he said, taking one more