10. Bryce
TEN
brYCE
Portia accompanies me on my walk home from jazz class. Neither of us got cast in The Sound of Muscles . (Whitney did. Ughhh.) We danced out our feelings vigorously.
“I reckon the original Sound of Music isn’t even that good.
I tried watching it for research and fell asleep.
I prefer Julie Andrews in The Princess Diaries ,” she says, her arm linked in mine as we stroll down the sidewalk.
Our size difference makes me look like her bodyguard.
Her eyes are hidden behind large round sunglasses that likely cost more than my rent.
Anthony’s rent. Emerson’s rent. Whatever.
“I can’t believe Whitney got cast in the chorus. May she perpetually be one second off her moves.” Portia lets out a sigh.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to maintain conversation though my mind is elsewhere.
“What is going on with you? I’ve been monologuing for our entire walk. When you have a chat with friends, it’s typical for one person to say something, and then the other.”
I stare ahead and let out a sigh of my own. “I’m not in a chatty mood. ”
“That is highly unlike you, Bryce Derrickson. Did you pull a muscle in class?”
Thoughts bounce around in my head, daring me to say them out loud. “Do you ever feel yourself … getting tired? Like, with the whole grind?”
As a performer, I’ve just vocalized something we’re never supposed to say out loud.
Pessimism spreads like wildfire. We have to project optimism.
We’re supposed to love the hustle and believe that our big break is just around the corner.
“I worked my ass off to prepare for that audition, just like I worked my ass off to prepare for all the auditions before it. And yeah, once in a while I’ll hear a maybe, but those sporadic maybes aren’t adding up to a yes.
” I stare down at my feet walking over the cracked pavement.
I’ve always prided myself on being positive, but I’m starting to wonder if hopefulness is a non-renewable resource.
“We’re always one audition away from everything changing,” Portia says.
“Well, I’d like to know when that life-changing audition will happen. I’ve got bills to pay and a dog to support.”
Portia flushes slightly. I don’t talk about my economic struggles with her because it can make things weird between us, upset our delicate friendship balance.
“Sorry,” I say after a quiet beat.
“Don’t be sorry. This is tough. Really tough. But we’re daring to do great things.”
“Dancing?” I ask skeptically.
“We are artists, and our bodies are the brushes!”
Portia’s enthusiasm gives me a boost. I remember that I came to New York because I wanted to be on Broadway. If I wanted a safe life, I could’ve stayed in Pennsylvania.
“Portia, when you’re right, you’re right.” I squeeze our linked arms, and we continue down the street. There’s still a niggling frustration and wondering if my time dancing is coming to a close, but I block it out with laughter and Carly Rae in my head.
We stroll a few more blocks until we reach my building.
“You didn’t have to walk me home,” I tell her.
“I wanted to get a glimpse of your hot professor roommate.” Portia rubs her hands together. She may be younger than Emerson, but she is in full cougar mode.
“He’s at class,” I tell her.
“Disciplining a student,” she says with a sly smile.
“I doubt that.”
“Don’t interrupt my fantasy.” She kisses me goodbye, and I head up the front steps.
Data and Marsh are by the mailboxes. We don’t actually have a mail room.
It’s more of a small corner where the boxes are crammed in like sardines.
It’s nothing fancy, but we get our mail.
Most of the time. There’s a long, low table in front where the usual mix of junk—ads, flyers, and menus—collect until Carl, the super, recycles them.
“Hey, Bryce!” Data says with his usual grin. He’s holding a bunch of kale in one hand and a bag of potatoes in the other. They always look like they just stepped out of a magazine about gay city living—hashtag couple goals.
“Hey!” I nod, offering a smile, but it’s the kind of smile that’s still more about the mail than anything else.
I grab mine and shuffle through the envelopes, trying to hide that I don’t even know where to start with the bills.
Water. Electricity. Internet. They all still have Anthony’s name on them.
“Anything good?” Marsh asks, his voice warm. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the one that looks like it’s a size too big but suits him. He’s got a carton of eggs tucked under one arm.
“Same old,” I mutter, shaking my head as I flick through the stack. “Mostly junk.”
“No million-dollar checks?” Marsh raises an eyebrow. “How’s Anthony?”
I freeze for just a second, and my heart skips a beat—damn, I haven’t seen them since he left. They were away, and then I was too embarrassed to reach out. “He’s … gone,” I say, trying really hard to sound like I’m okay. “He got a movie.”
“A movie?” Marsh perks up. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, except it’s in the outback. The one in Australia, not the steakhouse.”
“But he’s coming back?” Data steps forward, placing his hand on my forearm.
I shake my head and bite my lower lip. “No. We’re over.”
“I never liked Anthony,” Marsh says. “Great cheekbones but no soul.”
“You can do better.” Data rubs my shoulder. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I thought I saw a cute guy move in the other day. Like a nerdy linebacker.”
“That’s my new roommate.” Data opens his mouth, but I continue before he or Marsh can say anything. “Anthony sublet the apartment to some … guy. A professor of music history or theory or something like that.”
“So that’s who I saw leaving the building the other day,” Marsh says. “He’s cute. You guys should hook up.”
Heat flashes on my face. “What? No. Just because we’re two guys living together, it’s assumed that we should have hot, sweaty sex?”
“I only said hooking up. You were the one who made it hot and sweaty.” Marsh holds up his hands in defense, and I turn even redder.
As we talk, I hear the familiar creak of Horton’s door opening.
I glance over just in time to see him—tall, slightly hunched—reach down and grab a large box from his doormat.
Camilla, his little gray parrot, wobbles out from between his legs, her tiny feet dragging as she totters down the hallway, chirping loudly.
Horton looks down at her, his face lighting up with his soft, almost fond smile. “Camilla, get back here,” he mutters under his breath, but before he can corral the bird, she squawks, “Cracker! Cracker!” in her raspy, almost comically human voice.
“Oh, sweetie, I wish I had a cracker for you,” I say. “You don’t happen to like organic beer?”
Camilla stares at me with her little bird eyes and squawks. “Fuck you!” She juts her head out like the miniature raptor she is as Horton carefully picks her up.
“Camilla!” Horton admonishes her.
“Camilla, I don’t understand why you don’t like me,” I say, staring into the bird’s overly alert eyes.
“Fuck you!” she squawks back.
“I am a person! With feelings!”
Data puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re yelling at a bird, Bryce.”
“She started it.”
I’m actually getting used to sleeping on the sofa. Sure, it’s a little like cramming a foot-long hotdog into one of those mini pastries for pigs in blankets, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. There’s a roof over our heads, and Bobo and I are safe.
Which is a good thing, because tonight there’s a storm raging.
There’s something peaceful about heavy rain in Manhattan.
It serves as a reminder that, regardless of how busy and developed the small island may be, Mother Nature remains firmly in control.
The thunder wakes me, and I stare out the window, waiting for the lightning to light up the sky as the rain pounds against the glass.
I reach down to comfort Bobo, but the bed I made for him from the back couch cushions is empty.
And then I hear it.
Scratching. Claws on wood. He’s at the bedroom door, clawing with his massive paws. That’s going to leave a nasty mark. And wake Emerson up.
I roll over, pushing the blanket aside, and squint at my phone. 3:17 a.m. Jesus. I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. Bobo is relentless, desperate. I try calling to him, my voice still thick with sleep.
“Bobo, it’s okay. C’mon, buddy.” I pat the sofa, hoping to lure him over.
I’ll sleep sitting up and let him lay his head on me.
But he doesn’t stop. He keeps clawing at the door, the sound sharp and annoying.
I groan, throw my feet over the edge of the couch, turn on the lamp, and shuffle to the door.
I kneel next to him, and he pauses to stare at me. With his enormous eyes wide and tail tucked between his legs, the poor thing looks like he’s about to crawl out of his fur. I reach to pet him, but he squirms away and goes back to trying to force his way into the bedroom.
“Bobo, I know, the storm is scary, but we don’t sleep in there anymore.”
I grab his collar, hoping to gently pull him over to the sofa so he can settle down with me. When I apply light pressure, Bobo does something he rarely does—he barks.
Now, besides the storm raging, my one-hundred-twenty-pound dog, who has only barked thrice in his two years on earth (twice times when workers on the roof banged against the window as they did some repairs and once the night Emerson arrived), stands at the door, growling low, his body tense.
The storm outside is nothing compared to the unease in his eyes.
He’s never been afraid of thunder, but tonight …
something is different. Something has him on edge, as if the winds have carried a warning, and he knows something I don’t .
“It’s just a storm, Bobo,” I murmur, tugging a little more.