Today I’m passing by The Zone in the cafeteria and I hear my name. I’m not sure who dubbed it “The Zone,” but it’s the row of tables near the middle of the room where all the notable people in school sit. If an eighteen-wheeler happened to drop from the sky and land on this one spot, the entire upper crust of this school would be wiped out in one fell swoop. (I do happen to know, after reading Macbeth last year, where the phrase one fell swoop comes from.)
Sitting front and center in The Zone is the new powerhouse couple known as Roxanna. Roxanna is composed of Rox and his new girlfriend, Annabel. Poor Kristen Caballero has been banished to one of the outer tables. It’s just natural selection, I suppose. As I pass Roxanna, Rox nods and says, “Hey, Hansen.” Annabel looks me in the eye, which she’s never done before in the three years we’ve been in school together.
All I do is stare back at them in dumbfounded silence. I’m still getting used to how this whole not-invisible thing works. A lot has changed since I made that speech. I’ve finally escaped the indifference of meh. I am now, exclusively, eh. I am Evan Hansen.
I make it through The Zone and proceed to Jared’s table. He’s chomping on a calculator-sized (and -shaped) hash brown. I squat down next to his chair.
“We need more emails,” I say. “Can you meet me after school?”
“Not today,” Jared says. “I have a dentist appointment.”
“Okay. How about tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
I don’t have time to screw around. As a budding capitalist, Jared knows that it’s a fatal problem when you don’t have enough supply to meet demand. “Unless you just want to show me how to do it,” I say. “I’ve watched you enough. I bet I could figure it out.”
“Oh really?” Jared scoffs. “You think so? Well, be my guest, brother.” A wicked joy materializes on his face. “And don’t forget to add the offset for GMT, or else all the time zone conversions are going to totally freak out.”
Maybe not, then. “Well, can you meet me tomorrow or what?”
Jared straightens his posture. “Sir, yes, sir. Reporting at seventeen hundred GMT-minus-four.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Jared rolls his eyes. “Five o’clock.”
“Let’s make it four, actually. I have plans at night.”
I leave Jared as he’s savoring his last bite of hash brown and finally arrive at my new home base: Zoe’s table. It’s an eclectic mix of people here. A few musicians from jazz band. A kid from the golf team, which I wasn’t even aware our school had. A mildly, sort of half-committed Goth girl. The backup goalie for the girls’ soccer team. (Ms. Bortel was permanently replaced as varsity coach and gym teacher; apparently she had been caught on video savagely ridiculing, by name, a number of generously proportioned students.) And finally, Zoe’s friend Bee, who as far as I can tell is her closest friend. I’m not positive about that, though, and I get the feeling that Bee isn’t always sure, either, where she and Zoe stand. I’ve learned that Zoe’s opaqueness isn’t only directed at me.
Bee is the first one to acknowledge my arrival. “Are you dressing up, Evan?”
I check my clothing. I’m pretty sure, unless I’m missing something, that I’m dressed the way I’m always dressed.
“For Halloween,” Bee clarifies.
Oh, right. I forgot that Halloween is coming up. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I never dress up. I don’t have a reason to. I’m too old to trick-or-treat and the school has a strict no-costume policy.
Zoe leans over. “We should come up with something together. A famous pair. Bonnie and Clyde. Mario and Princess Peach.”
I look down at her plate. “French fries and ketchup.”
She smiles. I wonder which one of us would be the ketchup, and where we’d go in our costumes, and what it means when she refers to us as a pair. It doesn’t matter what we dress as. We could be anything. SunButter and jelly. Netflix and chill. American Gothic. Whatever it is, for once, I’m in.
• • •
The following afternoon Jared and I are at Workout Heaven. As soon as we sat down, Jared tore into a candy bar and now he’s really taking his time with it, as if purposely tempting the miserable, sweating bastards around us.
“How about this?” Jared says.
Dear Evan Hansen,
They tried to make me go to rehab and I said no, no, no.
“That’s a song,” I say.
“A great song.”
“Change it.”
Dear Evan Hansen,
I don’t want to go back to rehab. I don’t mind the yoga, and the group meetings are all right. But people share some scary shit, like about sucking dick for meth.
“Jared!”
“It happens. I saw it on TV.”
“Take it out.”
Dear Evan Hansen,
I have to find a way to kick this. I don’t want to end up back in rehab. It’s just no fun.
“That’s fine,” I say. “New paragraph.”
“What’s with your arm?” Jared says.
“I just got my cast taken off.”
“I see that, genius. I mean, why do you keep squeezing it like that? It’s creeping me out.”
I look down. It’s true. My right arm is clutching my left. “I don’t know. Whatever. Can we just keep going?”
We fight our way to the end of one email and generate a response wherein I’m being the best friend everyone expects me to be—positive, supportive, generous. It’s a role I’m committed to. When Connor needs a purpose, I give him one. When he’s teetering, I straighten him out. When he’s ragging on his family, I remind him that they love him and they’re only trying to help.
We crank out ten emails. We’re in such a flow that I almost don’t catch one of Jared’s inspired inventions.
Dear Evan Hansen,
You know that insanely cool guy from school Jared Kleinman? What am I saying? You obviously know who Jared Kleinman is. Everybody does. What do you think about inviting him into our awesome friendship and making this thing a trio?
“No, Jared. Obviously not.”
“Why? What’s the problem?”
“You weren’t friends with him. That’s not part of the story.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to expand the story,” Jared says. “It’s getting kind of stale, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think that. Not at all. I was his only friend. You know that. You can’t just make things up.”
Jared removes his glasses and cleans them with his shirt, letting his pale stomach wave hello to all of the gym’s patrons. “You’re totally right, Evan. I mean, what was I thinking, just making things up in a completely fabricated email exchange that never happened?”
It’s like dealing with a child. “Just, please, don’t change the story, okay?”
He returns his glasses, businesslike, to his face. “Well, if you want me to redo this email, you’re going to have to wait until next week, because I’m busy the rest of the week, and this weekend I’m hanging out with my camp friends. Or, as I like to call them, my real friends.”
“Actually,” I say, scrolling up the screen, “I think we’re good on emails for now. Let’s call it a day.”
We pack up our things and zigzag through the obstacle course of workout machinery. On our way to the exit, Jared urges me to look over at one of the moms running on a treadmill. I refuse, but he won’t let up.
“Seriously,” Jared says. “I think she’s waving at us.”
He’s not lying. The woman is calling us over to her treadmill.
Against my better judgment, I follow Jared over to the woman. She lowers the speed on the treadmill so she can breathe enough to get the words out. “You’re the guy from the video,” she says. “The Connor Project guy. Evan, right?”
I nod.
“I knew I recognized you. I love your speech. So much. So do my kids.”
It’s crazy how many people the Connor Project has reached. I get emails and messages from people every day from all around the world telling me how their lives have been affected by this thing we’ve built. We started a movement. Touched a collective nerve. And now I’m seeing it in the flesh, beaming on this woman’s face.
I thank her and we finally leave Workout Heaven. “Dude. You’re a hit with the MILF crowd.”
“Stop.”
“Just saying. Honestly, though, I should be getting some of that screen time, too. It’s only fair. How about I do a few man-on-the-street videos for the orchard campaign? I got a dope new camera for my birthday.”
“I think Alana and I have the fundraising thing covered. I’ll let you know if I think of anything, though, definitely.”
“Got it,” Jared says, looking down at the sidewalk. “Hey, I bet Zoe’s happy that your cast is gone.”
“I guess.”
“I mean, talk about killing the mood, right? Having to see your brother’s name written on your boyfriend’s arm all the time?”
“I’m not her boyfriend. I don’t know what we are.” I mean, I’ve wondered about what we are, obviously, constantly, but right now all I have are just wild guesses.
“Don’t even worry about it, bro,” Jared says, removing his car key from his pocket. “The only thing you should be worrying about right now is building that orchard for Connor. Because if there was one thing about Connor, the guy loved trees. Or wait, you love trees. That’s weird. Isn’t that weird?”
By now I’m used to Jared’s blunt humor, but this latest jab feels more brutal than normal. And that feeling only gets validated as he hurries off to his car without me. I guess he won’t be giving me a ride home.
I walk away from Workout Heaven and toward the bus stop, trying not to think about what Jared said and how he said it, but failing miserably. In no time at all, that ugly heaviness returns, spreading through my body, making it difficult to drag my legs along the sidewalk.
And then, in this spiraling state, I feel a sudden chill—the sensation of being followed. I whip my head around and check behind me. But all I find is the empty night.