“Are you sure?”
I’m not, but I don’t say that. “I’ll be there, whenever you need. Text or e-mail or even a phone call.”
He lays his head on my chest. “I’m going to miss you so much, though.”
“Me too.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
When the curtain rises, I swear I can feel all my internal organs rising with it, trying to get out through my mouth and only failing because all of them get stuck in my throat at once. Every year before, I’ve been backstage, waiting in the wings, rehearsing my lines in my head, going over which face went with which lyric, my body shaking as I peek out to see the audience, wondering if I’ll flub a line or miss a dance step or go flat.
This is so much worse than that.
I have no control, I realize. If I miss a dance step, that’s my fault, and I can take responsibility for it. But this is everyone’s dance steps. Everyone’s acting and singing and if even one of them messes up, I know that’s on me. For not directing them well enough. For not giving them what they needed to make it work. I look over at Mark, in the seat next to me in the front row, who is chewing on the edge of his thumbnail. A nicotine patch peeks out from under the arm of his counselor shirt.
“Is this how you feel every year?” I ask him. He nods. “No wonder you need so much therapy.”
He barks a laugh and stops chewing his nail. “Thanks for that.” He pats me on the leg. “It’ll be fine, Randy. It’ll be great.”
I look over at my parents, who are watching this exchange with the usual look of “we don’t understand, but we’re proud of you, honey” that they wear whenever they come to camp. I love them for trying. Behind me is Hudson, and his parents, whom I met briefly and were exactly who Connie said they’d be—looking around like they were in enemy territory, their eyes always darting left and right, looking for exits, or maybe weak points. When Hudson introduced me as his boyfriend, his mother turned away to try to hide rolling her eyes and his dad’s smile went hard and forced as he reached out to shake my hand. He had a tight grip, too, as he said, “Well, I guess you must be the girl, since you’re shorter.”
I wanted to tell him that’s not how it works, but I smiled and pretended I hadn’t heard it, instead. Because I didn’t want Hudson to get in trouble. Hudson looked over at me, his eyes wide with amusement. It was easier than I thought, actually, the pretending to be Del again, or some variation of him, because I knew Hudson knows the real me, and I know the real him. It’s like we were sharing a secret, one his parents will never know.
His parents felt more at ease when I introduced them to my parents, and they all talked while Hudson and I found a tree to hide behind and take kissing selfies with our newly returned phones. There’s a great one where behind us you can see the tops of trees from underneath, and the shadows look like space and the light look like thousands of stars pressed together, and there we are, floating in space, kissing each other. I immediately made it my lock screen. We traded numbers and texted and settled everything we needed to stay in touch the rest of the year.
And then we all walked down to the theater and took our seats.
The whole show, I can feel Hudson behind me, like a reassuring presence, just as strongly as I can feel Mark’s edginess, his involuntary winces at every almost-missed cue or whenever we come to a moment we’d been having trouble with. But nothing goes wrong. The show is amazing. Seeing it all together with the lights down and a full audience makes it different somehow. Now the actors get to work with someone—the people in the audience, play to them, play WITH them. You can see it in their eyes, the way they come to life when there’s a laugh or people clap. And the way Mark directed—his vision, if you will—is stunning. It is the queerest I’ve ever seen one of his shows. Bye Bye Birdie is supposed to be about the war of the sexes, maybe. Kim’s right to kiss Birdie without making her boyfriend jealous. Rose wanting Albert to honor his promise to marry her. The fact that these men don’t seem to respect these women enough to do what they promised or trust them. But with the cross-casting, a few lyric changes, and playing with the acting, it’s become something different. Now it’s about daring to be yourself, even when the world is telling you to be something else. Sure, Albert still won’t commit to Rose, but now it feels like that’s because his mother might be homophobic. Hugo still doesn’t want Kim to kiss Birdie, but it’s about the symbolism of their relationship in a different world. And George knocks it out of the park. He’s a gay man now, but a family man, and one who maybe would have belonged to the Mattachine Society—one who believes it’s best for queer people to blend in … until the Ed Sullivan number when he joins the rainbow choir. That’s his moment of transcendence. Sure, he comes crashing back later, not understanding the kids and their new-fangled ways of looking at queerness, but in that moment, George gets to be all of us, finding our best selves through love.
I’m the first one up to give him a standing ovation, and he spots me in the audience and winks at me, and nods his head slightly. I turn around. I wasn’t the first one up. Hudson was. And Brad was right behind him and then the entire audience rose as George and everyone else bowed.
“What a show.” I breathe the words out as the curtain comes down.
“I think we did pretty good this year,” Mark says, hugging Crystal on his other side, and then me. “Pretty damn good. Oh! Maybe we should do Damn Yankees next year?”
“Might be a bit adult,” Crystal says. “And it’s less of an ensemble piece.”
“What do you mean less of an ensemble piece?” Mark says. “It’s absolutely an ensemble piece!”
I turn away from them to my parents, who are beaming with pride and confusion.
“I loved those costumes, honey,” my mom says. “Did you pick those out?”
“I helped,” I say.
“So great, kiddo,” Dad says, giving me a hug. “I didn’t understand half of it, but I know good work when I see it.”
“Thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes. Behind me, Hudson’s parents are already headed for the door, but Hudson is smiling at me.
“That was amazing,” he says. “I don’t know if I got all of it … but it was special. I could feel it was special.”
“That’s what I said!” my dad cried, clapping Hudson on the back. “I like him.” He and Mom start walking for the exit, and Hudson gives me a hug.
“Thank you,” Hudson says, his arms wrapped around me.
“You don’t need to thank me. Thank you,” I say. I can feel the tears coming. We’re about to be apart for nearly a year.
“Babe, don’t cry,” he says softly. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and if I cry, my parents will get mad.”
I take a deep breath and break the hug, nodding. No crying. Not now anyway.
“We still have lunch first, anyway,” I say.
He nods, and we go backstage to congratulate everyone on the show. Mark and Crystal are radiating joy, Ashleigh and Paz are dancing to music only they seem to hear, and George and Brad are making out in the prop closet. It really is the perfect end to a perfect(ish) summer.