Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: Love Ya
Date: November 3
Time: 11:13 p.m.
Listening 2: “Che Gelida Manina” (hallway scene from La Bohème)
Feeling: Tired
Weight: 115 lbs.
Or was it, I love you?
One of the group numbers in Welcome to New York is “Christmas Bells” from the musical Rent. That’s good because there’s no dancing but bad because it’s a rock opera. I started out playing a homeless person, but Miss Davis said my voice stuck out too much on the high parts (Story of my life), so I got switched to playing a junkie, belting out, “Got any X, any smack, any horse?” My mom would be so proud. I haven’t even told her the performance dates yet. Gigi’s a junkie too, and Sean has one of the leads and stands near us. We listen to Gus and Rex, who play two gay lovers, making homophobic comments. I start to whisper something to Gigi, but she isn’t paying any attention to me.
“What are you staring at?” I say.
“Would you just look at that?” She gestures at Gus.
“What?” But I think I know. Gus has on these tight sweatpants which make, um, certain things very … and I mean very apparent.
“Someone should tell him to buy a jockstrap,” Gigi comments.
“Oh, okay, why don’t you tell him?” I joke, before I realize that she might actually do it.
Gigi nudges Sylvanie, and Sylvanie nudges the girl by her, and soon, we’re all pretty much staring at Gus’s crotch. In fact, we do it any time Miss Davis yells “cut!”
“We should give it a name if we’re going to talk about it so much,” Gigi says.
“Woody?” Sylvanie suggests.
I say, “There was a comic who used to call his thing Mr. Happy. Maybe we should call Gus’s Happy?”
“How about Doc?” Gigi suggests.
“Definitely not Bashful,” I say, and everyone laughs.
My mouth’s still moving when Miss Davis notices us. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are drug addicts in desperate need of a fix. No giggling.”
Which sends us diving to cover our mouths with our hands. Except Misty, who isn’t in on the joke. She says, “I think that’s very unprofessional.”
You would. Misty’s playing a homeless person. When I got sent to the junkies, she got my solo line. Oh, well. I’m happy to stand with my friends.
When Miss Davis looks away, Gigi whispers, “Happy it is. Pass it on.”
The last group number is in the “classic Broadway” section of the show. It’s from A Chorus Line, and it’s all dancing. After a few rehearsals, Ms. Wolfe says maybe the non-dancers can sing by the side of the stage. I pretend not to know she means me. I am not dancing by the side of the stage with this girl Anastasia who weighs over two hundred pounds and got a doctor’s note to get out of Dance because she doesn’t want to wear a leotard. I can do this.
When I tell Sean this after rehearsal, he says, “Of course you can.”
“Oh, of course,” I say. “I’m a legendary talent in dancing.”
“I can work with you. Our duet’s coming along. Maybe if you’d deign to let me go to your house Sunday after church, we could go over the steps.”
“Really? You’d do that?” I feel like busting a cheerleader move, and I tell myself it’s because I’m excited about getting some dance help, but I know it’s really because I’m excited about seeing Sean on a weekend. We’ve become really good friends, but I wonder if I want it to be more than that.
That night after rehearsal, I’m in my bedroom. Mom’s not home, and I’ve been Googling opera trivia. I found this cool website about the opera legend Maria Callas. I want to send Sean the link, but he hasn’t answered my last e-mail, and there’s a limit to how many e-mails you can send a guy without looking stalker-ish. I log off so I won’t send it, even though I know I’ll be back on in five minutes.
Other than Sean, my e-mail box has been pretty much empty. I never hear from my old friends. I don’t know why that bothers me. What’s the use of outgrowing people if they don’t even notice you’ve outgrown them?
But the phone rings. It’s Sean. “Hey, I just got home and I thought I’d call you.”
“Cool. I found this really cool Maria Callas site. I’ll send you a link.”
We talk awhile, me wracking my brain trying to think of stuff to say so he won’t hang up. But finally, it’s time, and that’s when he says it:
“Love you.”
What? But I heard him. I remind myself that love you (or was it even love ya?) isn’t I love you. Not at all. I shouldn’t read too much into it, like in that Tom Cruise movie where all the girls are talking about how he says Love ya when he can’t commit.
So I say, “Love you too,” trying for the exact same inflection.
Then I hang up.
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: Love Ya
Date: November 3
Time: 11:13 p.m.
Listening 2: “Che Gelida Manina” (hallway scene from La Bohème)
Feeling: Tired
Weight: 115 lbs.
Or was it, I love you?