Chapter Twenty #2
It dawned on Danny that A Chorus Line wasn’t a typical musical, but a musical about auditioning for a musical.
The dancers on screen were hopefuls just like him, all dreaming of landing a job on Broadway.
Danny leaned closer to the screen, and the longer he watched, the more he forgot he was viewing a wobbly black-and-white movie.
Each hopeful auditioner shared their life story, and with every dance and song, Danny began to forget that he was sitting on a swivel chair in a library on Sixty-Fifth.
No, he was in a hazy theater, crammed in next to people with big hair and spicy cologne and leather jackets that smelled like stale cigarettes, watching as one guy tap-danced and another tried to sing and three of them confessed that the only happy moments in their childhoods were when they were at the ballet.
The final number ended with a row of resplendent dancers decked out in shiny tuxedos, kicking in unison, kicking into nothingness, like they’d continue kicking forever even after the audience crammed back onto subway cars and into their tiny apartments.
On the second day Danny cut class, he watched Guys and Dolls.
“Back again, huh?” said the man, now wearing a blue-and-yellow-plaid sweater vest.
“Uh-huh,” Danny said. “I was hoping to see another show.”
“They’ve got you pretty busy at Juilliard, huh?” Sweater Vest said, pulling out a sheet of paper from the stack on his desk. “Two papers in one week?”
“Yup,” Danny said brightly. “This next one’s about…um…gambling?”
Sweater Vest set down his pen and looked at Danny with a you-gotta-be-kidding-me look.
“Guys and Dolls?”
Danny nodded sheepishly. “If it’s available.”
“We have the 1992 version with Nathan Lane and Faith Prince,” the guy said, beginning to fill out the form. “Instead of a paper, I’m going to write that you’re directing a student production of it and you wanted to see how Jerry Zaks staged the ‘Crapshooters’ Dance.’ ”
On the third day Danny cut class, he watched Big River.
“Big River?” Sweater Vest pondered, though today he had traded his sweater vest for a chunky cable knit. “Let me guess, you have an audition for the production that they’re doing at Paper Mill Playhouse and you wanted to see how twangy you should be with your Southern accent?”
“That’s it,” Danny said, grinning.
On the fourth day Danny cut class, he watched Once on This Island. Rather, Sweater Vest had decided on his behalf that he was going to watch Once on This Island.
“You’ll love it,” Sweater Vest said, not even waiting for Danny’s approval. “And I already have you set up at booth two. You’re writing your Columbia master’s thesis on depictions of colorism in American theatre.”
And on the fifth day Danny cut class, he watched Merrily We Roll Along. Danny had asked to watch Into the Woods, but Sweater Vest had informed him that there was a better version that you could just rent at Blockbuster, so Danny went with dealer’s choice.
It was nearly three o’clock by the time the last reel of tape had finished spinning on Danny’s TV screen.
For a moment, he sat in a sort of stunned silence, the final notes of Stephen Sondheim’s score still tinkling in his head.
He slipped off the headphones, slightly damp from his sweat, and set them on the table.
Danny had killed enough time that morning, thumbing through old scores and cast albums while waiting for his screening to be set up.
He could have easily caught the train home at his usual hour.
But the musical seemed to have knit a web around him, trapping him in its sticky threads.
He suspected the only way to untangle himself was to return to the concrete building half a block away.
Danny read 3:01 off his calculator watch. There was still time to catch them. He turned west on Sixty-Fifth, back toward LaGuardia.
What Sweater Vest hadn’t mentioned was that Merrily We Roll Along was a musical about friendship—specifically, about how a friendship crumbles.
Told in reverse, it began at the friends’ lowest point and moved back in time to when they first met.
Over the course of the show, Danny watched where each friend had stumbled, what conversations failed to materialize, and what truths were left unsaid.
Danny had no idea what he’d say once he got to school, but he knew that if he did nothing, he’d end up like those friends in Merrily We Roll Along, watching his life pass by with regret.
He quickened his pace, timing each step with a lyric from the show’s catchiest song.
We could have kept on going, instead of just kept on.
Danny leapt off the curb, dashing across Amsterdam Avenue as the oncoming rush hour traffic clipped at his heels.
We had a good thing going…
Students were already pouring out from the entrance. Danny swam upstream through the throng of exiting kids and charged to the staircase that led down to the basement.
Going…
Danny darted down the corridors, his footsteps pounding against the tile, until he skidded, breathless, to a halt in front of the black box theater’s door. He pushed it open only to find the room empty, the cubes pushed against the walls, the lights dimmed. He was too late.
…Gone.
Danny looked over to the piano and saw that he wasn’t alone.
There was Ms. Mellon, organizing a stack of scores, her back turned to him.
Her improvised bun of curls was piled haphazardly atop her head, held together with an erasable pen that threatened to tumble out at any moment.
She hummed softly to herself—a tune Danny couldn’t quite place but found oddly comforting.
He considered slipping away before she noticed him; the last thing he needed was a lecture about skipping class.
“Come on in, Danny,” she said without turning around.
Christ, it really is true that teachers have eyes in the back of their head.
“How did you know it was me?”
She glanced over her shoulder with a faint smile. “I can see you in the piano reflection.”
“Is Nina still around?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“You just missed her,” she said, sliding the last piano score into place. “Class let out a few minutes ago.”
“Right,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, an awkward silence settling between them.
Ms. Mellon crossed her arms, her expression shifting suddenly, a flash of concern, or irritation, in her eyes.
“Danny, where the hell have you been? You’ve missed my class twice this week and Madame C and Mr. Davenport said you haven’t been in theirs either.
I was seriously starting to get worried. ”
“I’m sorry,” Danny said, avoiding her eyes. “You shouldn’t have been worried. I’m fine.”
“You’re really not, though, Danny,” Ms. Mellon cut in. “One more absence from my class and I’ll be forced to give you an incomplete. You could get kicked out of school, Danny. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Danny said, grinding his heels into the floor. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back in class on Monday. No more skips. I promise.”
A long pause passed between the two of them, neither one knowing exactly how to proceed.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” he replied quickly. Too quickly. “Just needed some time.”
Ms. Mellon studied him for a moment, then uncrossed her arms. “Sometimes taking time for yourself is necessary. But disappearing acts tend to worry people.”
Danny frowned at the ground. He had a hard time believing any of his friends were approaching anything resembling worried.
“Look,” she said, leaning against the piano. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can promise you, shutting people out usually doesn’t help.”
“I’m not shutting people out.”
Her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly as if to say, “No?”
He sighed, the fight leaving him. “It’s complicated.”
“Most things are,” she said, her voice softening, a shadow of guilt passing over her face. “Look. You’re not the first student to hit a rough patch. Trust me.”
He glanced at her, curiosity piqued. “Are you talking about…yourself?”
She laughed softly. “Let’s just say I wasn’t always the model of perfect attendance when I went here.”
Danny blinked, caught off guard. He’d never really thought of her as someone who’d once sat on these same painted cubes.
“But I learned pretty quickly that skipping out on problems doesn’t make them go away. It usually just makes them bigger.”
He glanced at his reflection in the glossy piano lid, his own eyes searching back at him.
“What if…” He hesitated. “What if I don’t know how to fix it?”
“Well,” Ms. Mellon said, seeming to consider this. “I think starting the conversation is usually the hardest part. But the rest tends to unfold from there.”
He looked up, meeting her eyes. “And if they don’t want to hear it?”
“Then at least you tried,” she said gently. “But you’d be surprised how often people are willing to listen when you’re honest with them.”
“Maybe.” He nodded, absorbing her words.
“So,” she sighed, adjusting the pen in her bun. “See you in class next week?”
“For sure.” He offered a faint smile. “I promise.”
“Good,” she replied. “And if you’re looking for Nina, maybe check the Winter Showcase upstairs in the lobby.”
Danny had been so eager to get to the basement that he hadn’t noticed the lobby’s transformation.
A banner hung from the rafters: “Fine Arts Winter Showcase.” A makeshift maze of display boards had been set up, each tacked with paintings, photographs, and charcoal sketches.
Folding tables lined the room, adorned with pottery and sculptures made of clay and wood.