“You got robbed,” Reach says in the Cave during the break. “I can’t believe it. He took credit for your work.”
I shrug.
“No reaction? Righteous indignation? Nothing?”
“I got the light into the show. That’s what’s important.”
“Who are you, Lighting Board Gandhi? On a selfless mission to bring light to the untalented?”
“I’m thinking big picture.”
“I’ll tell you the big picture: you got shafted, and I don’t like it. You’re my boy. I’m supposed to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“It doesn’t sound like nothing. It sounds like you’ve got something on your mind.”
I imagine telling Reach how I feel. But I’m not even sure what I would say.
So I change the subject.
“The car thing was a good idea,” I say. “It got me the spot job.”
Reach looks at me, suspicion on his face. Then he smiles.
“Admit it. I’ve still got it,” he says.
“You’ve got something.”
“I’ve got it. Genius. Evil-plan genius.”
“You’ve got it,” I say.
Reach wipes a fake tear from the corner of his eye.
“I love tech,” he says. “Where else can you get this kind of male bonding in high school?”
“Sports,” I say.
“Sports guys have to shower together,” Reach says. “Which is not cool in any way, shape, or form.”
Something large blocks the light in the doorway. It’s Mr. Apple. He stands there cradling Carol Channing.
“Mr. Apple, we don’t often see you backstage, sir,” Reach says.
“If you’re going to kiss my ass, Mr. Patel, it’s a largescale undertaking.”
Reach clears his throat.
“Well, the props table isn’t going to reset itself,” Reach says, and he slips out the door.
Mr. Apple enters the Cave. “Was it you who changed the gel?”
What do I tell him? I could throw Derek under the bus like he did to me after the blackout. But why risk it? I’ll gain an enemy in Derek, and maybe have a small chance of impressing Mr. Apple.
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “It was on the light plot. Derek just forgot.”
Mr. Apple nods and scratches Carol Channing’s head. We stand there for a while, so long that I start to feel uncomfortable.
“I think the show is going better,” I say.
“It’s a disaster,” Mr. Apple says.
He starts to breathe hard, his chest rising and falling. He slips a hand into his pocket and I hear paper crinkling.
“My paper bag,” he says. “Better to have and not need than need and not have.”
He holds a finger to his nose and makes a shhhhh sound.
“Our secret,” he says.
“Mr. Apple, things are usually bad during tech, aren’t they? But they get better when the show gets closer to opening.”
“In most circumstances that is the case.”
“You don’t think it’s going to happen this time?”
“You don’t understand. It’s not just the acting or the design. It’s me.”
“What about you?”
“I’m losing it,” he says. He holds his hands over Carol Channing’s ears. “Not that I ever had it to begin with. I’m not a director. I’m a failed actor. I’ve just been faking it in Montclair High School for fifteen years. Most people have career trajectories. Mine is like an oil rig. Straight down.”
“I think you’re a good director,” I say.
“And you’re basing that on what? Your years of professional experience?”
I look at the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Apple says. “Forgive me, lad. I’m more worried than Julie Taymor in a hospital waiting room.”
“What are you worried about?” I say.
“What do you see when you look at that stage?”
“I see light. What do you see?”
“I see disaster waiting to happen,” Mr. Apple says.
“But light can make the show better.”
“Is light that powerful?” he says with a grin.
“To me it is.”
Mr. Apple sighs. “I need a little of what you have, lad.”
“What do I have?”
“Youthful naïveté.”
“You’re still young,” I say.
“I’m forty-three years old,” Mr. Apple says. “That’s one hundred and seven in gay years.”
“But you can still fix the production,” I say.
“I’m somewhat lacking in inspiration right now. It’s what’s known as phoning it in.”
“You mean you’re not trying.”
“I’m trying to try,” Mr. Apple says. “You have experience with that?”
I think about life since Dad died. The way it feels empty, but it keeps going anyway. And I have no choice but to keep going with it.
Trying to try.
“I do,” I tell Mr. Apple.
“Isn’t that interesting,” Mr. Apple says.
He holds Carol Channing in one hand and swings her back and forth like she’s flying. She yelps and kicks her little legs, but I can’t tell if she’s terrified or enjoying the adventure.
“It sounds like we’re both in need of inspiration,” Mr. Apple says.
“Where do we find it?”
“Discover that,” Mr. Apple says, “and you’ve solved one of life’s great mysteries.”