Even with my pillow covering my face and pressed against my ears, I can still hear my phone vibrating against my nightstand. It’s the third time it’s done this dance this morning. I would have buried it in my sock drawer before bed if I thought anyone might try to get in touch with me today. But no one ever tries to get in touch with me. And anyway, if there was ever a morning where I didn’t want the world to find me, this is the one.
I suppose the universe has shown me some small mercy by making yesterday’s assembly fall on a Friday, which means I don’t have to show my face at school today. Disturbing images from the event flash in my memory. My index cards flying everywhere. Dropping down to my knees. The deafening silence. But one thing that I can’t recall is what I actually said up there.
I didn’t even wait to see how the assembly ended. The thought of having to face people, especially the Murphys, sent me fleeing. In a blind panic, I walked right out of school and skipped my last few classes. I couldn’t bear the idea of riding the bus home, being trapped with my classmates as they offered reviews of the travesty they had just witnessed onstage. I know it wasn’t supposed to be a comedy, but I thought parts of it were hilarious. The name Evan Hansen shall hereby be used as a verb meaning “to crash, to burn, to meet with disaster.” No thank you.
I walked home and when I got here, I crawled right under the covers. I left my sneakers next to the bed, laces loosened, just in case I had to take off running in the middle of the night. For weeks now, I’ve been waiting for the worst to come, thinking it would be something unexpected and beyond my control, and in the end I basically chased it. I walked right onstage wearing Connor’s tie directly into the worst thing that could happen.
My phone is still vibrating. I remove the pillow from my face. It’s Alana calling. If I weren’t so busy hating myself, I’d be hating her instead. It was her idea to have that assembly. She should have never encouraged me in the first place when I told her about the Connor Project. She should have been straight with me. Sorry, Evan, but you should drop this immediately. It’s way beyond your skills as a human being.
“Where have you been?” Alana says when I finally pick up. “You haven’t responded to any of my emails or texts.”
I give no response.
“Hello?” Alana says.
I drop an Ativan into my mouth and flush it down with two-day-old water. “I’m here.”
My speech lasted twelve hours. That’s how long it felt, standing on that stage, under those blazing lights. I couldn’t make out their faces, but I knew they were out there. I’ve never almost-drowned for such an extended period of time. I’m exhausted. I might never get out of bed again.
“Have you seen it?” Alana says.
Here we go. Why did I pick up the phone? “Seen what?”
“What’s happening with your speech.”
Now it’s too late. Now I need to know. “What’s happening with my speech?”
“Someone put a video of it online,” she says.
“My speech?” I’m awake now. Every cell in my body is wide awake. It’s officially over for me.
“Evan, it’s totally insane. People started sharing it and now it’s everywhere. Connor is everywhere.”
“What do you mean, everywhere?”
“This morning, the Connor Project page had fifty-six people following it.”
That’s not bad, actually. Last I checked we were in the teens. “How many does it—”
“Now it has over four thousand.”
“Did you say four…”
“Thousand,” Alana says.
That’s more people than we have in our entire school.
I sit up and open my laptop. Alana is still talking, but I’m barely listening. I refresh my browser. She’s not lying. Actually, we’re almost at six thousand now. What is going on?
I see a message from Jared waiting for me.
Dude. Your speech is everywhere.
“I’ll call you back,” I tell Alana.
My inbox is brimming with new emails. I find the first one that Alana sent and click the link to the video. I stop the video before it plays. I don’t need to see my speech.
Under the video, though, is a long string of comments and I can’t stop myself from looking. A few of the posts are from names I recognize, but most are from strangers. Some of the comments have links to other pages. I click on those links and I wander over to other websites and to new conversations among more people who I definitely don’t know. I’m bouncing through space, from star to star, drawing lines that form a picture. I’m starting to see the picture as a whole, but I don’t understand what the picture means, or how it came to be. It’s not what I expected.
Oh my god, everybody needs to see this
I can’t stop watching this video
Seventeen years old
Take five minutes, this will make your day
Share it with the people you love
RePost
The world needs to hear this
A beautiful tribute
Favorite
I know someone who really needed to hear this today
Thank you, Evan Hansen, for doing what you’re doing
Yes, yes, yes
I never met you, Connor. But coming on here, reading everyone’s posts
It’s so easy to feel alone, but Evan is exactly right, we’re not alone
None of us
We’re not alone
None of us is alone
Like
Forward
Share
Especially now, with everything you hear in the news
Why can’t there be more of this kind of thing?
Share
Sending prayers from Michigan
Richmond
Vermont
Tampa
Sacramento
Kansas City
Forward
Thank you Evan Hansen
Love
The best
I’m so in
Why do I have tears in my eyes?
I feel like I’ve been found
Thank you, Evan
Watch until the end
Thank you, Evan Hansen
This video is everything right now
Thank you, Evan
All the feels
This is about community
The meaning of friendship
Thank you, Evan Hansen, for giving us a space to remember Connor. To be together. To find each other. To be found.
Thank you
Thanks to Evan
Thank you Evan Hansen
It’s true. My speech is everywhere. And not just that. People like it. They really like it.
A ringing startles me. It’s the front door. The doorbell.
My mother will get it. I return to my inbox. It’s full of emails from actual people, not companies. Here’s one from my English teacher. And somehow Sam from lunch got my email.
The doorbell rings again. I crawl out of bed. I hear the shower running and my mom saying, “Evan, I think someone’s at the door.” I look out her bedroom window and see a car in the driveway. A blue Volvo.
A quick glance in the mirror. My hair is unacceptable, but I have no means to correct it. The one time when I could use a little moisture on my hands, they are completely dry. Conveniently, though, I’m already fully dressed.
Why is Zoe here? She can’t be here right now. My mom has no idea what’s been going on with her and the Murphys. I didn’t intend to keep it all a secret. It just happened that way.
I’m already running down the stairs and opening the front door before I realize I should have at least taken a second to gargle some mouthwash.
The sun roars behind her.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” she says.
She looks as exhausted as I feel. Somehow it looks good on her.
“I would invite you in, but my mom is really sick and I’m taking care of her. I’m sorry. Why are you here?”
She lowers her eyes.
“That sounded rude,” I say. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Great, I did it again. She won’t even look at me. I Evan Hansened it.
She wipes her eye.
“Wait. Are you crying?”
Zoe nods.
“Why? Why are you crying?”
She shakes her head. Because she can’t speak. Or because she doesn’t know why she’s crying. Or because it doesn’t even matter.
“Everything you said in your speech. Everything you’ve done for all of us, everyone. My family. Me.”
“No, I…” What am I trying to say? I don’t even know. My brain has shut down. Do I want to apologize? Do I want to tell her the truth? Do I want the ground to swallow me?
She looks up. She takes a step. And then, my lips and her lips, again. Only this time it’s not my doing.
She pulls back and exhales.
“Thank you, Evan Hansen,” she says.
She turns and walks away, leaving me alone on the doorstep, exploding.