TWO WEEKS into the school year and Truman had pretty much forgotten all about the boy, because he’d yet to see him a second time. Of course, he’d looked and looked for him at Alicia’s bus stop every day for at least the next six mornings, but then he got involved with homework, fear of gym class, and the routine of his school days. The boy slipped from the prominent place he’d held in Truman’s head. Almost. Once in a while, especially if Alicia was late and missed the bus, he’d picture him all over again, imagining him coming aboard the bus, replaying the first day of school in his head. In Truman’s fantasies, he’d sit next to Truman, even though there were other seats available. And, with a smile that would melt granite, he would meet Truman’s gaze and shyly say, “Hi.” They’d ride the rest of the way to school together, their legs barely touching, but intent on that touch and the heat generated by something as simple as two thighs pressed together.
But most mornings lately, there was gossip to attend to with Alicia. There was last-minute homework to read or write. There were taunts and jeers to deal with now and then.
But it was this morning, near the end of September, that would transform a ho-hum senior year into a remarkable one. And the change was brought about by something as simple as a flyer tacked to the bulletin board opposite the main entrance to the school.
CASTING CALL, the flyer shouted out in bold all-capital lettering.
It went on to say:
The senior class play this year is a classic. Harvey by Mary Chase is a comedy about Elwood P. Dowd and his best buddy, an invisible six-foot-three-inch tall rabbit (called a ‘pooka’) known as Harvey. The play won the Pulitzer Prize!
There are a total of twelve roles available, six male and six female.
Auditions are next Wednesday immediately after school in the auditorium. Mr. Wolcott will direct and cast the play. Email or see him for an audition package. He’ll give you sample scenes and a synopsis of the play.
All roles will be cast by Thursday, and rehearsals will start directly after school the following week. The play is scheduled to be performed the first and second weekends in November.
Please come and try out! Note: the role of Harvey will be played by an invisible actor. LOL.
Below the announcement was a drawing of a pair of rabbit ears.
Cute, Truman thought. He walked away from the bulletin board, thinking not about the play but about his first-period class, the hated geometry with Ms. Rosemary Hissom, who lacked even the slightest sense of humor. Truman wished she were more likable, because he harbored a sneaking suspicion she was a lesbian, and anyone on the LGBTQ rainbow really needed to be fabulous and not a drone like Ms. Hissom. In class he daydreamed about her getting up to all sorts of shenanigans with other female teachers in the teacher’s lounge. She was a mistress of depravity everyone called Butch.
And then, as though he’d been tapped on the shoulder by an invisible rabbit, Truman was seized by a thought that came completely out of nowhere but was so irresistible that he couldn’t ignore it.
You have to do it. The play. You simply have to.
The thought wasn’t so surprising, because Truman had secret dreams about being an actor and had since he was about six years old, but the insistence and unexpectedness with which this current thought came was, well, kind of shocking.
It was as though it was imperative that he try out. As though the universe, and not his own subconscious, was speaking to him….
TRUMAN RUSHED from his last class the following Wednesday to get to the auditions early. He wanted a chance to grab a seat at the back of the auditorium to see who his competition might be. Last week he’d dropped by Mr. Wolcott’s room to pick up the audition package.
Truman loved Seth Wolcott. Not in that way, of course, but more as someone to be looked up to and admired. Unlike poor Dane Bernard, Mr. Wolcott had never—at least as far as Truman knew—struggled with coming out and being gay. He was simply out and proud, confident in who he was. Being gay was just an integral part of him, neither good nor bad, and Truman admired how he never made it central to his being. He looked up to the man and hoped one day he could be as easygoing about his own orientation.
Plus, if he were being totally honest, Truman would be forced to admit to maybe the tiniest of crushes. With his tight, fit build, curly hair, and fondness for jeans and sweater-vest combinations, he always put Truman in mind of Mr. Schuester from Glee, which Truman had watched faithfully growing up.
“Which part should I try out for?” he’d asked Mr. Wolcott.
“That’s hard to say,” Mr. Wolcott told him as he handed him a sheaf of stapled pages. “Read through the audition scenes I put together and see which one speaks to you the most. A good actor can find an ‘in’ to almost any part.”
Truman wanted to ask him other questions, things that might give him an edge, but Mr. Wolcott was preoccupied. His next class was starting up in just a few minutes, and already the students for that class were streaming in, skirting Mr. Wolcott and Truman as they headed for their seats.
Now, as Truman sat in the cool dark of the empty auditorium, he tried to psych himself up for his audition. He was going to read a scene from almost the end of the play, when a taxicab driver talks about how the fares he brings to Chumley’s Rest, a sanitarium, are changed for the worse. Going to, they’re easy, happy, big tippers. But coming back, they’re “normal;” they don’t tip, they’ve got no time. He even says what “stinkers” normal folks are. There was a kind of yearning about the taxicab driver’s speech that Truman identified with—in his own humble way, the driver celebrated being different, being an outcast, following the beat of your own drum. Truman identified with that.
It also gave him his best chance, he believed, to show off his thespian skills. The winsome longing the driver displayed for a more easygoing world would be, he hoped, riveting, profound. The speech was one of the best, too, from the sample scenes Mr. Wolcott had put together.
And speaking of Mr. Wolcott, he was just now coming into the auditorium. Truman sucked in a breath, realizing he didn’t see him sitting there in the shadows.
Mr. Wolcott wasn’t alone. Mr. Bernard, his husband, walked beside him, one hand on his arm. They were laughing and whispering. The couple still didn’t realize Truman was sitting there in the dimness of the last row, which was why, Truman thought, grinning, they felt free to have a totally inappropriate conversation.
“Both kids are gone tonight,” Mr. Bernard said. “We have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Oh? Whatever shall we do?” Mr. Wolcott pulled Mr. Bernard close, hand wandering down to his ass.
Truman bit his lip. He wished there was now a way for him to discreetly draw attention to himself, or that he could put on a cloak of invisibility for just a moment and slip soundlessly from the room.
“Yeah. Think we can shake up the routine a little bit?” Mr. Bernard yanked Mr. Wolcott even closer and kissed him.
The kiss didn’t last long.
Mr. Wolcott was eyeing the double doors to the auditorium over Mr. Bernard’s shoulder. “Maybe we can christen that new dining room table that was delivered over the weekend,” Mr. Wolcott said, a little breathless, breaking away.
And then he spied Truman sitting there.
Mr. Wolcott leaped back even farther, putting at least a foot between himself and Mr. Bernard. “Truman! Buddy, I didn’t see you there.” He gave Truman one of the most sheepish smiles Truman believed he’d ever seen. It made him want to laugh. It made him want to cringe in empathy.
Even in the dim light, Truman could see that Mr. Wolcott’s face was beet red, the flush rising from his neck on up to his cheeks. “Clearly,” Truman said. He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Your secret is safe with me.”
As he said the words, two more kids, a boy and a girl Truman was only vaguely acquainted with, entered the auditorium. They were giggling, the girl shoving the boy.
Mr. Wolcott hurried to the wall and flipped several light switches. The stage illuminated, along with the sconces along the wall.
“I’ll see you at home!” Mr. Bernard called. “I’ll stop at the deli and pick up some of that rotisserie chicken you like, some Jo Jo potatoes, and a salad. Okay?”
Mr. Wolcott first glanced over at Truman, as though searching for approval on the menu. “That sounds great. I should be home no later than six thirty.”
God. Please eat before you put that dining room table to other uses. Truman suppressed a snicker at the thought. He started to let his mind wander to an extremely pornographic image, one in which Mr. Wolcott’s legs were astride Mr. Bernard’s shoulders, but he forced himself to stop. The swelling in his loose-cut pants would be far too apparent when he stood.
Mr. Bernard left, and about twenty other kids milled into the auditorium in groups of twos and threes. Truman searched in vain for Alicia, who’d said she was going to come to try out for the ingénue role of Myrtle, but she must have gotten cold feet.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and texted You coming?
She immediately texted back. Nah. Theater is for sissies and losers. Like you.
Very funny, Truman keyed in, then turned off his phone because Mr. Wolcott had moved to the front of the auditorium and clapped his hands a couple of times to get everyone to settle down.
He cleared his throat and said, “I’d like to thank all of you for coming today. It’s great to see so many familiar faces. We’re going to get started right now, because I don’t want to draw the process out any longer than we have to. As you may or may not know, each of you will have five minutes to audition, whether you read from my suggested scenes or not. I’ll be making up my mind and casting tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll post the cast list on the main bulletin board. It looks like we’ve got more folks than parts, but rest assured everybody here can do something in the show if they want to, whether you’re onstage or behind-the-scenes. Next to the cast list I put up, I’ll also add a sign-up sheet for stage crew.”
Truman rolled his eyes. If he didn’t get a part, no way was he being reduced to stage crew. If he couldn’t be in the spotlight, he wouldn’t be caught dead offstage operating that same spotlight for some other kid. It would simply be too cruel, too hard.
Besides, he’d get a part. He just knew it.
He glanced down at the scene he planned to do again. He read it over as Mr. Wolcott answered questions about—again—how long they’d have to read, when they’d know if they got a part, would there be understudies, and so on. Hadn’t anyone read the flyer… or even better, listened to Mr. Wolcott as he spoke?
No, they were probably busy looking at their Facebook feeds or texting on their phones. Truman was convinced his generation would have permanently downturned faces from staring at handheld screens all day.
Just as he had that thought, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Probably Alicia. He resisted the phone’s siren-call imperative and let it remain in his pocket, especially since he’d just been mentally chastising his peers for their obsession with smartphones.
“And is there a difference in pay between a leading and a supporting role?” Jason Abner asked, snickering.
“Yes,” Mr. Wolcott replied, his face and expression serious, earnest.
Some of the chatter died down. There was pay involved?
“Leads get double the amount that supporting players will receive.”
The chatter started up again.
“Who can do a little math?” Mr. Wolcott asked.
Stacy Timmons raised her hand. She was a dark-haired girl who put Truman in mind of a young Natalie Wood. He knew most of his generation didn’t even know who Natalie Wood was, but he had several DVDs of her movies at home: Gypsy, This Property is Condemned, and his favorite, Splendor in the Grass. Poor Alicia, Truman thought, would never stand a chance against Stacy Timmons for the female lead.
“Stacy?”
She nodded.
“Can you tell me what zero times two is?”
Truman smirked. The poor girl actually had to think about it. Then she grinned and rolled her eyes. “Oh, okay. Zero.”
Mr. Wolcott nodded, smirking. “So let’s get started. Who wants to go first?”
Everyone shifted in their seats, almost in unison. Almost also in unison, everyone stopped talking. The silence went on until it felt like an unwelcome extra presence in the auditorium.
Truman stared down at the floor, noticing the subtle pattern in the brown-and-beige tiling. He was ready, but he wasn’t so ready that he’d volunteer to go first.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Stacy Timmons, at last, raised her hand.
“Stacy!” Mr. Wolcott clapped. “Thank you for stepping up to the plate. Make your way on up to the stage.” He watched as she mounted the set of stairs at the side of the stage and then turned to the kids assembled in the third and fourth rows of the auditorium. “You guys? If you’re afraid to get up and audition, how are you gonna get out in front of a whole bunch of people when this theater is filled to capacity? Because it will be. Your families alone will guarantee that.” He chuckled. “So, I expect no hesitation when Stacy’s done with her reading.” He smiled, looking at each of them in turn. “Okay?”
He turned his back on the crowd and sat down. “Stacy? If you’re ready, go ahead.”
Truman looked at the young woman standing in the spotlight. She was obviously terrified, and in a way that made Truman feel better. A whole fleet of butterflies had taken wing in his gut, now that this process was becoming real. She coughed. Shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Flipped a mass of dark hair over one shoulder. Peered into what Truman knew was only darkness beyond the stage lights.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Wolcott urged in a soft and gentle voice.
Truman thought Stacy had nothing to worry about. Like Natalie Wood, she was stunning, with thick mahogany hair and big brown eyes that seemed larger than the average person’s. She was petite yet had an exuberance about her that almost made her glow, made her seem larger than she probably was, which Truman would guess was around five one or five two, weighing in at no more than a hundred pounds.
Truman surmised that, no matter how good or bad she was, she’d get a part, maybe even the part, that of Myrtle Mae Simmons, a young debutante. Stacy’s beauty was mesmerizing, and Truman was young, but old enough to realize the treasures the world bestowed on the young and beautiful.
Stacy began to read, and as she read, Truman realized she had something. She stumbled over a couple of words and kept her head bowed over the script pages a bit too much, but a small transformation took place as she read—she became Myrtle Mae, a little older than Stacy’s actual years, maybe not even as smart, caught up too much in appearances, with a kind of vintage charm about her.
The thing Stacy managed to do—and what Truman hoped he could do when his turn came—was that she made you forget where you were, made you forget too she was a teenaged girl reading a part from some old play that had originally debuted long before his mother was born, maybe even before his grandma was born.
He was surprised when she finished.
Everyone in the auditorium applauded, and Stacy smiled. It wasn’t a smile full of guile, as though she were getting the accolades she deserved, but one of genuine surprise and gratitude. She walked quickly off the stage to Mr. Wolcott’s words, “Thanks, Stacy. Very good.”
He stood again. “Next?”
And again, it was as though he were asking who would be next to mount the gallows. No one raised his or her hand, and it also seemed no one could be bothered to meet Mr. Wolcott’s gaze. Truman couldn’t allow the poor man to suffer again, not when he knew what Mr. Wolcott had waiting for him at home.
And Truman was not thinking of Jo Jo potatoes!
So he stood up. “I’ll go.”
“Thank you, Truman.” Mr. Wolcott sat down as Truman headed toward the stage. His spine stiffened a bit as he very clearly heard someone whisper—someone anonymous, it was always someone anonymous—“Who’s she trying out for? Veta Louise?”
There was snickering, and Truman tried to pretend the cutting remark didn’t bother him. But it did—it always did, no matter how secure he became in his own skin. It wasn’t so much the assault on his masculinity that hurt—even Truman had to admit he was about as masculine as Miley Cyrus—no, it was more the fact that it felt like someone wanted to hurt him. On purpose.
Why? Why do they want to do that?
Now’s not the time, Truman. Get up there and do the one thing you need to do—act well your part.
A hush again fell over the cavernous space as Truman approached center stage. He cleared his throat and tried to relax. He knew the paper with the lines he was about to say quaked, right along with his trembling hand.
He allowed himself the luxury of shaking out his arms, wiggling his fingertips.
“Whenever you’re ready, Truman.”
“Or Tru-woman,” someone shouted out, to snickers.
Mr. Wolcott shot up and turned around. “Mr. Keller, you can exit through the rear doors.” He paused for a moment, and when nothing happened, he said firmly, “Now.”
Truman, because of the bright lights shining in his face, couldn’t see anything, but he heard quick footfalls, the slam of the auditorium door.
Mr. Wolcott said, “Sorry, Truman. Even in the theater, we do not escape idiots. But at least we can have a say in whether or not we tolerate them.”
“Thank you,” Truman said, feeling unexpectedly choked up. He drew in a quivering breath.
From out of the shadows, a female voice: “Go, Truman! You got this.”
And now Truman was ready to burst into blubbers. Kindness, when it was simple, genuine, and real, never failed to touch his heart. He turned away for a moment, trying to compose himself, and then began his audition, looking up a little as though he was thinking, and started talking about how he’d been driving this route for fifteen years.
When he finished, there was silence for several long seconds, which the scared Truman interpreted as a sign of failure.
But then, as he walked off the stage, the applause erupted, and someone even whistled. Should I bow? Should I acknowledge? No, this is a tryout, for crying out loud. Still, the clapping warmed his heart.
He hurried from the stage, and his performance was quickly eclipsed by the next person waiting to audition.
LATER, THE sky was beginning to darken just a tiny bit as dusk fell. Truman looked up to see how it was navy blue high up, but as his gaze came down, he took in the change of colors as the sun set behind the hills. There was gray, then lavender, and the tops of the hills were touched with a kiss of tangerine.
Beautiful. Sometimes, Truman thought, living in this little burg wasn’t so bad after all. He still longed to get out to bright lights, excitement, some city that never slept, but in moments like these, with the hush, the cool breeze, the silhouetted hills and trees against the darkening sky, he believed Summitville might not be such a bad place to return to when he came home to see Patsy.
He reminded himself to never forget that his roots were here. There’s no place like home….
“You did great,” a voice called from behind, startling him. Truman tensed, not so sure he wanted company on the long walk home. But a nice compliment like that deserved to be acknowledged, right?
He turned. Stacy Timmons stood there, just above him on the long drive that sloped downward to the valley. The school was situated on a hilltop, from which one could view the whole little town and the brown-green Ohio River as it snaked through, dividing Ohio from the northern panhandle of West Virginia.
He didn’t really know Stacy, other than being as familiar with her face and her name as he was with the other faces and names of the one hundred and three other kids in his class. She’d always been on a different plane—one of the popular kids, a cheerleader, National Honor Society, student council. She was never without a posse of cool kids around her.
She was from a different world, one Truman didn’t exactly aspire to, but one in his weaker, lonelier moments he envied.
She’d never given him attitude, never teased him. Yet Truman was surprised she’d spoken to him, because he wasn’t even sure she knew he existed.
She hurried down the hill toward him. When they were face-to-face, Truman smiled slightly and bowed his head a bit. “Thanks.” He stared for a moment into those wide brown eyes and then told her, “You were great too.”
She curled a lock of hair around one finger, let it go. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Get out! You were!” Truman said. “For a while I completely forgot who you really are. You, uh, what’s the word? You inhabited the role.”
A smile spread across her features. “Wow. Thank you. That’s high praise. I appreciate that.”
Truman vainly hoped she’d say the same about him, but those hopes were quietly dashed when she said, “Are you walking home?”
“Yeah, all the way down to East End. I live down by the river.” He rubbed his arms and shivered, hoping she’d get the message he wanted to be on his way.
“I know where you live.” Stacy started walking, and Truman joined her. It was getting dark fast. He honestly had no idea where she lived. Maybe one of the old mansions that lined Park Boulevard?
“You do?” Truman couldn’t imagine why she’d know that. And immediately he felt a little embarrassed. Their house was tiny, run-down, and right now it seemed like the best description of it would be a shack. He knew Patsy did her best to make their little home presentable, and Truman wanted to kick himself for the momentary shame he felt when he realized Stacy knew where the house was.
Surely Stacy lived under much grander circumstances, although he had no basis for the belief.
“Sure. The cute little house up the hill from the river. You always have such nice flower beds out front in the spring.”
They continued on down the hill. A cool breeze picked up. Stacy said, “I hope you don’t mind my walking with you. It’s scary for a girl, especially at night.”
“Not at all.” Truman was quiet for a moment, and then he couldn’t resist. “I have to ask. How do you know where I live?”
Stacy giggled and elbowed him. “Come on, Truman! There’s—what?—nine thousand people in Summitville? Everybody knows where everybody lives.”
Truman blurted, “I don’t know where you live.”
“I’m about ten blocks from you. I’m in the green-and-white two-story on Ohio Street.”
Truman knew the house. It was right at the bottom of the highest hill in town—and on the busiest street. People exiting off the bridge over the Ohio would race down that hill way faster than they should go. Stacy’s house was big, on a corner lot, but it was run-down, with rusting aluminum awnings over the door and picture window at the front, weeds choking the brick sidewalk outside, a dirt driveway at the side of the house, and at least four broken-down heaps, a mix of trucks and cars, flattening what grass there was in the side yard. But all Truman did was nod and say, “Okay.”
“Besides,” Stacy said. “My grandma lives just two doors down from you.”
“Lula Stewart?”
Stacy nodded. “Yeah, didn’t you know? I’ve been over lots of times.” Stacy laughed. “I used to watch you on your front porch, playing Barbies.”
Scalding heat rose to Truman’s cheeks. Truman had a flash of the black patent leather trunk he kept the Barbies and their clothes in—and how Patsy, bless her heart, had never once given him shit about wanting them. And then he realized something—there was no trace of ridicule or judgment in Stacy’s voice either when she mentioned him playing with dolls. He expected her to snicker, but her face and voice stayed impassive. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say there was a touch of envy in her voice; she might have wanted to join him.
“Oh God, that was a long time ago.” They were now away from the school, and Truman led Stacy down the road that would come into the valley where they both lived, gallantly keeping her on the wooded side of the road so she wouldn’t be at risk from the cars whizzing by. There were no sidewalks leading down to their neighborhood.
It was now full dark.
“Your grandma’s nice,” Truman said, thinking of the woman with the dyed jet-black hair who always sat out on her porch on an ancient aluminum glider, simply watching the world pass. Her husband, Welcome, had passed away when Truman was ten. He’d drowned in the Ohio. Lula contended to everyone he was swimming, and everyone nodded sympathetically, but they all knew it was suicide. Who went swimming in the Ohio in October?
“She’s sad,” Stacy said. “She’s never gotten over Pap’s death.”
They were quiet for a bit, and then Stacy said, “But at least she’s not quite as lonely anymore. Her boy moved back in with her a few weeks ago. George? He’s a mechanic at the Shell station downtown? He and his wife got a divorce last summer. His boy, Mike, lives with his mom, over on First Avenue.”
“My friend Alicia lives on First.”
“Then you’ve maybe seen Mike. He lives just a couple houses down, in the duplex? Big boy, dark hair? Gorgeous.”
And Truman’s mouth got dry. Could Mike be the boy he’d seen on the first day of school? The handsome, quiet boy?
Truman pressed her. “Is he, uh, like really tall? Kind of football-player build? Black wavy hair—” Truman stopped himself before he blurted out “And the most beautiful blue eyes.”
“That’s him. Do you know him?”
I wish! “Nah. I just saw him at the bus stop that first day of school.” Truman shrugged like he didn’t care. And realized he was acting. “I haven’t seen him lately, though.”
“He’s terrible. He oversleeps all the time. Misses the bus every single day. His mom? Carly? Well, I shouldn’t talk, but she’s a little, um, loose? And she’s, well, let’s just say she’s not often home in the mornings to get her boy off to school. Mike pretty much has to fend for himself. He’s real quiet. My uncle George is trying to get custody.”
Truman wasn’t sure what to say. He was thinking that if Uncle George got custody of Mike, then Mike would be his neighbor.
“I think this is where you and I have to part ways.” Stacy stopped abruptly. She pointed down Ohio Street to where Truman now knew she lived. “I’m down there.” She smiled. “Sorry I talked your ear off. I tend to do that when I’m nervous.”
Truman laughed. “You don’t need to be nervous around me.” The thought that anyone would be nervous around him was just about incomprehensible.
“Well, you should come sit by me at lunch or something sometime. I liked talking.”
And you can tell me more about Mike. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” It’ll save me from hiding out in the library at lunch.
“Well, bye, Truman. I hope you get a part.”
Truman had almost forgotten about Harvey in his excitement over learning about Mike.
“Yeah, I hope you do too.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Stacy said. “But I appreciate your nice words.”
“They weren’t nice words. They were the truth. You’re a shoo-in.”
“Thanks, Truman.” She turned and walked away. Truman stood in silence as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance until she disappeared into the run-down house at the bottom of the hill.
Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.