Chapter 39
Morning sunlight streams into Tony’s garage.
Andi bends over a long plank of wood on the ground, carefully tracing with bright green paint the words they’ve already penciled in: THE GREENROOM .
Christy sits on the low stage hunched over her phone, setting up social media accounts.
Tony moves index cards on a corkboard on the wall to determine the best monthly order of events for comedy, storytelling, poetry, and his new podcast.
“How’s this?” I step away from the pile of particleboard I’m attempting to turn into a podium.
I read from my phone, “Thank you for talking last night. I wanted to reiterate that I’d like to be someone you can rely on.
Someone you can trust. Even if only as a friend.
Would you be open to talking more sometime? ”
Christy gives a nod. “Good.”
Andi shakes their head. “He hasn’t written back to my texts, so don’t ask me .”
Tony types furiously. “I’m asking my online sources.”
“Please stop,” I say. “I’m interested in your opinion.”
He looks at me as though the universe has grown a fifth dimension.
“It’s a little formal, but that may be correct given the circumstances, however, in putting everything out there in a single text, and ending with a call to action, you’re setting the bar high for engagement, and if Elijah doesn’t reply, then the conversation is dead, so it’s worth considering a lower stakes message, like casually mentioning a shared interest, for example a dance performance you happened to have heard about, that may be more likely to get him to bite, although my instinct is he would find that route disingenuous, a vocab word I recently learned that I believe I’m using correctly. ”
He gasps as if he’s coming up for air.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate these ideas.”
“You’re not going to use them, though, right?” he says.
“I don’t think so.”
I reread the message and send it. I shouldn’t stare at my phone to watch Elijah’s lack of a reply, but I can’t help it.
Last night I drove back to the Vanderbilt in time to catch the end of Joe’s set.
When he walked offstage he asked me to follow him through the hallway while we exchanged phone numbers.
Then he pushed open the exit and left. I tried my best to be present while talking with everyone in the lobby, but at the diner afterward, while Christy and Andi and Tony brainstormed ideas for The Greenroom, all I could think about was Elijah.
He’s all I think about for the rest of the morning, as we slowly turn the garage into a place people will want to go.
Christy and Andi climb ladders and hang the sign from the ceiling.
Mr.?Z wraps a mini fridge in a green plastic cover.
I somehow finish the podium, and Tony ceremoniously places a tablet on it for checking in guests.
“Now, back to more immediate matters,” he says, and motions to new index cards on his bulletin board. One says, Research towns in New Jersey. Another says, Research how to stalk.
“He told me he wants someone reliable,” I say, “but how can I show him I can be there if he isn’t even here ?”
“Can you write him a letter?” Christy asks.
“I don’t have his address.”
“But if you send it to his mom,” Andi says, “wouldn’t she bring it to him?”
“That’s true.”
“Here’s a strategy,” Tony says. “Send him a link to an event and then say, ‘Sorry, I meant to send that to someone else.’?”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Inviting someone to have fun is more effective than inviting them to talk.”
“Saying you meant to send it to someone else isn’t an invite.” I take out my phone. “But, fine. I’ll check to see if there’s an upcoming show I can actually invite him to. Only because I never listen to your advice, and I want to prove to you that it won’t work.”
Tony moves his cards around the board as though divining a missing piece. “Couples like to do things together. Is there a dance class you could take him to?”
“He already takes ballet.”
“Where?”
I look at him. Christy and Andi look at me.
“A place called Steps. Steps on Broadway. He mentioned it once.”
Tony pulls out his phone. “It’s in the city?”
“I texted him late last Monday and he was awake because he’d just gotten home.”
“So he’ll be there tomorrow.” Tony loads up the website. “Ballet is at six o’clock.” His mouth falls open. “The classes are drop-in.”
“What does that mean?”
Christy comes closer. “Anyone can take one.”
“I’m anyone,” I say.
Tony looks me in the eyes. “You’re someone.”
I feel like I should be breaking into a run. “What do I do until tomorrow, though?”
He puts his fists on his hips and squares his jaw like a drill sergeant. He growls, “You rehearse.”
Quickly, he moves the podium against the wall and angles the tablet so it faces us.
Andi backs out of the garage. “What’s going on?”
Tony loads up a video of an older woman wearing what I think would be called a leotard. “This one has the second-highest number of views,” he says, and makes very serious eye contact when he adds, “Never trust the highest.”
Christy carries away chairs. “I’ll make space.”
Andi moves across the driveway. “Me too.”
Tony points at Andi with a fully extended arm. “Do you want Sean to win Elijah back?”
“Enough to dance?” They don’t have to think for long. “No.”
It’s not clear whether we’re joking or serious, but Tony, Christy, and I lift our legs and move our arms along with the instructor in this introductory ballet class.
Mostly we stumble and laugh, but soon Andi crouches nearby and takes photos.
They don’t laugh or even smile. And something about them taking photos allows me to recognize the sacredness of this moment, the four of us in our last year of high school, no idea what’s coming next, who we’ll be or even where.
And it’s true that I don’t want to wait for tomorrow, but I don’t want to let go of today either.
When the class ends and Tony says, “Bring it in, team,” even Andi joins the hug.