“OH MY God,” Truman whispered to Rex Lucas, who’d done such a wonderful job in the lead as the charming and whimsical Elwood P. Dowd. Truman thought Rex was easily just as good as Jimmy Stewart in his iconic film interpretation. He should have been, because he’d confided in Truman that he simply aped Stewart’s film performance and had watched the movie version of Harvey more than a dozen times. Out of the corner of his mouth, Truman said, “We’re getting a standing ovulation.”
Max snickered. “And curtain call’s not even over yet. Wait until they see—” Max stopped, Truman supposed because he noticed Mr. Wolcott in the wings, pressing a finger to his lips.
The crowd roared when the entire cast parted, their single line forming into two. The door at the back of the set opened mysteriously, as if by an invisible hand or paw. (Actually, the stage crew had rigged it to some fishing line so it could be pulled open from offstage.) The effect was that the last member of the cast—the rabbit, or pooka, more properly—Harvey, was entering the stage to take a bow.
They all waited as Harvey made his way to the front, and then each cast member bowed to him.
The crowd loved it. The applause was almost a deafening roar, seeming to go on for minutes. There were whoops and cheers. The accolades rose up in Truman’s mind like a bunch of helium-filled balloons.
And Truman, with tears in his eyes, heard not a single catcall or anything derisive.
When they’d all taken a second and then a third bow, Truman squinted a bit to try to see out into the audience. It was too bright to see anything more than silhouettes or dim figures, but he was touched to know that there were several people he truly cared about among the nearly full house. It didn’t matter whether he could see them or not. He knew they were there, cheering, and they were more than visible in his heart.
He could see Stacy in his mind’s eye. He hoped she in particular was pleased with his performance and that she had no bitterness toward him, since the part was originally hers.
Alicia, of course, had shown up. He’d seen her earlier, and she was with her new boyfriend, an older guy who went to the Summitville branch of Youngstown State University. He was a dark-haired, brown-eyed Italian hottie from Wellsville, just down the river from them, and he seemed to adore her. The way he looked at her made Truman think of the term “puppy-dog eyes.” She certainly dragged him around like he was her personal Yorkshire terrier, leashed by her clutching red-nailed hand. And maybe he was. And happy to be so….
And Truman pictured his bedrock, his best friend, his biggest supporter and protector—his mom, Patsy, grinning and clapping, her joy uncontained. He knew those wolf whistles were coming from her. She was a tiny woman, but she could make a big sound by putting just two fingers between her lips and blowing. He imagined the joy on her face, the vicarious pleasure and pride she must have witnessed in her son’s artistry. He couldn’t help being proud of his performance but knew Patsy was ten times prouder.
He was happy to add a little joy back into her life. She pretended like the breakup didn’t matter, but he knew that, however justified it was, she still hurt. Although she’d never say it, he realized she wondered if it might be her last chance at love. The higher our hopes, the farther we fall when they don’t work out.
Truman let out a little laugh as he thought of Mike, at last. Mike, dressed like a woman just to support him. He knew Mike, who passed under the radar with his deep voice, John Wayne gait, muscles, and stubble for days, had made a real sacrifice tonight. He’d effectively come out. Not so much by cross-dressing—that could have easily been done to make fun of Truman, rather than to support him—but by taking a chance and even kind of humiliating himself to underscore his caring for Truman and to make a point about how we’re more than how we dress and, really, even more than our gender.
Just before the curtain went down, Truman closed his eyes for just a moment, allowing Mike’s face, not the made-up one but the true one—with a shadow of stubble, full lips, eyes half-mast with a drowsy yet intense lust—to rise up before him.
Truman’s pulse, already racing because of the postshow adrenaline and exhilaration coursing through him, jumped.
He opened his eyes just as the curtain closed.
All around him, his castmates and even the stage crew were jumping up and down, whooping and hollering. High-fiving each other.
They’d done it.
They had a hit on their hands. Truman thought, if not confined to the limits of a high school production that held them to two consecutive weekends, they might have run for years.
He took in everyone who’d pulled together to make the show such a success and felt a rush of affection for each and every person on the stage. Each for a different reason, Truman thought, they’d remember this night for the rest of their lives—this pure innocent joy, unfettered by judgment.
Mr. Wolcott slid up behind him. His strong hands grasped Truman’s shoulders and gave him a quick little massage. The touch was momentary, but Truman felt swept up in it, a rush of warmth coursing through him. Mr. Wolcott spoke softly into Truman’s ear. “You were terrific tonight. I mean it, really good. Above and beyond what I’ve seen high school kids do—and I’ve seen a lot. I think you have a real future as an actor. I really do.” And then, just as suddenly, he drifted away.
Truman basked in the warmth for a moment. How did he know what’s in my heart? What my deepest dreams are? A real future on the stage? Really? A sort of giddy joy rose up inside him.
Amber Wolfgang, who’d played his mother, Veta Louise, to comic matronly perfection, sidled up to him, smiling. “You did great.”
“Thanks. So did you.”
“You are coming to the cast party at my house tonight, right?”
Truman’s breath caught.
He was as far from popular as probably anyone in the school. Although he’d never admit it to Amber, this was the first time in his whole high school career anyone had ever invited him to a party—or to anything social, really. There was a reason he considered Patsy and Odd Thomas his BFFs.
“So get your little butt over to my house, huh? My ma’s ordering pizza and meatball subs from D’Angelo’s. And there’s a rumor Kirk’s going to smuggle in some beer and wine.” Amber giggled. “More than a rumor, actually, so you gotta come.” She took off toward stage right but stopped to call over her shoulder, “And Tru? Wear whatever you want.”
Truman laughed and gave her a thumbs-up. He knew she wasn’t teasing him or making fun. And yet…. As excited as he was to go to his first high school party, he thought he just might have other plans.
He thought of Mike in the lobby, waiting. The notion of him, wearing not the feminine attire he’d donned for him tonight but nothing at all, left Truman with a delicious feeling of anticipation.
He slipped quietly backstage, where there were two crude dressing rooms set up with just a couple of stage flats separating the boys from the girls. One thing Truman appreciated—no one had ever given him shit about which one to use.
He entered the boys’ dressing room and slipped out of the dress, the hat, the heels, and the white lace gloves. He rubbed at his face with cold cream and then used tissues to remove the makeup. He put his blonde wig on its Styrofoam head.
Behind him he could still hear everyone chattering excitedly onstage. He knew he had a moment alone—but only one or two—and he would use them to consider the young man staring back at him in the full-length mirror propped against the cinder block wall.
There he was, a skinny boy shivering in a pair of black boxers with yellow penguins. The outline of his ribs shone through his pale skin. His legs, if he were being honest, were little more than twigs, crowned with a little covering of golden hair.
He wondered what Mike saw in him, scrawny and runty as he was, and then immediately chastised himself. It’s just that kind of thinking that can hold a person back. It’s just that kind of thinking that lets morons like the ones from earlier tonight get inside your head and your heart and make you believe you’re less than. Don’t.
He looked back, turned a little in the mirror. Where before he saw scrawny, he now saw lithe. Skinny and bony morphed into trim and maybe even, if he would allow it, boyish. Yes, he was a pretty boy. But pretty boys can rock pretty—and they can be fierce.
He then considered the face looking back at him—with its silky, limp, straight blond hair tumbling down over his forehead, his oversized but penetrating eyes. And those full lips….
It was the same face he’d started the night with—and it wasn’t. Maybe tonight, after all that had happened, there was change. Just maybe… there was something a little more mature in those features, something kinder and a little more compassionate, despite being hurt by others who seemed to lack those same qualities. Truman’s face, in the mirror, reflected back the ability to rise above those who would seek to wound him.
And that, he thought, is what will make me a fearless and uninhibited actor—not only on stage, but in life.
He heard the patter of many footsteps, along with laughter, coming toward him and hurried to dress in his street clothes.