“Wait, seriously?” I ask. We’ve had classes in musical theater history at Cornelia that have touched on some of the racism of early Broadway shows and issues with casting that went on for years after that, but it was always something I assumed was just that—history. Something we learned about so it wouldn’t happen anymore. Especially not by now.
Oliver shrugs. “She’d get called back for stuff, but not the parts she went out for. People in the industry are always saying it’s super inclusive, but when it comes down to it, it’s just not there yet.”
I think of my list of dream roles, the rotation I’ve kept in my head for so many years that going through it every night is basically my version of counting sheep. The question was always whether or not I was talented enough to do it. I’ve never had to wonder whether or not there were other factors that might get in my way.
“That’s so messed up.”
Oliver nods. “Yeah. I mean, Broadway’s come a long way. But parts of it really need to catch up still.” He stares out the window at the street like the conversation has reached its natural end, but then he pulls in another breath. Like he’s already said this much to me without planning to, so he feels like he can tell me the rest. “And I know stuff like that could happen to my brothers, too. I think that’s why my mom’s always been on board with me trying to manage them. I think maybe that’s why she told me about all that in the first place, because I don’t know if she ever told them.”
I don’t doubt that’s part of the reason, but I think it might be more than that. Oliver’s always had this way about him—he’s easy to talk to, easy to trust. It’s why Mrs. Cooke basically told him every secret of the inner workings of the arts department before sophomore graduation, why all the freshmen come crying to him when there’s a problem. He doesn’t just tell people how to fix problems. He makes them his problems, too.
I guess Oliver and I have been too busy being each other’s problems for me to really appreciate that. But seeing he’s the same way with his family doesn’t surprise me one bit.
“What’s your mom doing now?” I ask.
Oliver blinks, pulling himself out of a thought. “Actually, she got so busy with the Midtown Chorus that it just kind of took over.”
I shove my tray to the side, leaning in so fast that anyone who didn’t know me so well would flinch. “Your mom’s in the Midtown Chorus?”
I’m not big into choir stuff, but the Midtown Chorus is legendary. They have a three-month season in the city every year with performances every weekend, but scalpers descend on the ticket sales so fast I’ve never been able to so much as hit “Add to cart.” Their arrangements are so tight and their soloists so breathtaking that it gives you chills to listen, and that’s without all the ethereal lighting and stage smoke I hear go into their shows.
“Wait,” I realize. “Is your mom on my Spotify?”
Oliver can’t even pretend to be exasperated by my theatrics, biting down a proud smile. He pointedly pulls my tray back before my grilled cheese makes its acquaintance with the floor.
“Probably. She’s one of the co-presidents now. And she loves it. It’s a lot of international travel and performing in cool venues, so she always invited us to come backstage, and I just … it blew me away, everything it took to bring her shows to life. My brothers always wanted to sit in the front row with our dad, but I always liked watching from the wings.”
I can hear an echo of that awe that was in his voice at Carnegie Hall, at Cornelia the first time. It’s just that this time I don’t only hear Oliver in it. I hear some of myself, too. In that way you can love something so much but never fully explain it no matter how hard you try.
“Huh. So that’s your origin story,” I muse, using his ketchup to dip another one of my fries. “Where this whole stage managing thing began.”
Oliver’s been staring out the window, so I’m not prepared when he turns and the full force of his passion is directed at me. He’s looser, less guarded. A little less like Oliver the Adversary and a little more like the Oliver he was when we first met.
“I know people don’t like the idea of all the work that goes on backstage because it kind of takes the magic away from it all. But I’ve always thought that was the best part,” he says. “Getting to see the end result and knowing everything and everyone that went into making it happen.”
Only after he finishes does it seem to occur to him that I might use this as ammo, the way we historically have with any information we’ve gleaned about each other’s lives. He stiffens almost imperceptibly. But now I’m as caught up in what he’s saying as he is—the rush of it all. The satisfaction of the lights coming up and seeing everything we’ve worked on for weeks come together in a few hours. We may be on opposite sides of the stage when it does, but looking at him right now, it’s impossible to imagine that we aren’t feeling the exact same magic. That we haven’t been all along.
“Bet that’s going to feel a whole lot better once you have a budget that isn’t largely based on hawking cupcakes to parents during intermission,” I say.
Oliver loosens up, letting out a laugh. “Yeah. Even just seeing Carnegie Hall for a few minutes was pretty wild.” He stares down the street in the direction we just came from. “My mom’s gonna flip when I tell her about it tonight.”
I shoot him a wry smile. “That must be nice,” I say, swirling my drink with my straw. “I’m pretty sure my dad thought Carnegie Hall was an arcade before I brought him up to speed.”
“Yeah.” Oliver is still for a moment. Reflective. “I mean—I know your situation is different. Since your mom is…”
He lets the sentence trail off like he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to end it, or if he regrets bringing it up in the first place. To be honest, I’m a little surprised he did. We know a lot of things about each other by virtue of hearing about them from our ocean of mutual friends, but we’ve never actually talked about them before.
“Oh.” I shake my head. “Well, uh—it’s not a situation, really. I never knew her.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“She didn’t like, die or anything. She just sort of, uh. Pulled a Dumbledore and dropped me off at my dad’s door and pretty much took off.”
The joke is tired, because I’ve told it a thousand times now. I figured out at a young age that saying “my mom abandoned me at birth” will bring most conversations to an awkward, shrieking halt. But this greases the wheels on it a little bit. Makes people less uneasy and gives them a chance to laugh through the awkwardness of it all.
But Oliver doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even do the thing most people do, flashing one of those nervous, sympathetic smiles. He’s just watching me, like he heard what I said and what I didn’t say, too.
“I never knew that,” he says after a bit. And by now I know him well enough to hear what he didn’t say, too—that he’s glad to know. That he understands it’s more complicated than whatever it looks like on the surface.
“I mean—I’ve got my dad. And my aunt. We make a good team.” I take another very large bite of my grilled cheese, so I can fill my mouth with cheddar instead of any unintentionally revealed secrets.