His bag made a soft thud on the carpet as he slipped it off his shoulder and lowered himself to the floor slightly more gracefully, ignoring the couch and opting to lean against its side.  He pulled his laptop onto his lap, checking his email for the umpteenth time that day.  Casting and crew assignments were supposed to have been emailed at 4 pm that day and it was now 6 pm.  He knew he wouldn’t get play crew.  He never did, instead always assigned to “help out” one of the tech crews or costume design.  He knew he wouldn’t get it, but that didn’t stop that last grain of hope jump up and down in his throat and hands.  He opened his email.

And sighed.  And tried not to cry.  Or throw things. 

Again. 

Sound crew, with the possibility of having to assist costuming.

Pull yourself together. This isn’t even a real show.

But he could afford one moment of weakness, of feeling sorry for himself because his dreams were not ever going to come true at this rate, not if he couldn’t even land a part for a showcase.  He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the soft fabric of the cushion behind him. 

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths turned into soft, nearly silent cries as the pessimistic part of his brain took over, snaking tendrils of despair through his thoughts and pulling out memories of every rejection in recent history, taunting him with what could have been. 

We thank you for your application but regret to inform you that we cannot offer you a place at this time.  We invite you to resubmit you application for next fall…

We thank you for your interest but cannot…

Your application has been rejected…

His dream schools, gone.  A state school would be better than nothing.

Yeah.

Then came the auditions.

Crowd #1

Chorus

3rd understudy for actor who has never been sick

Sound crew (don’t worry, we’ll teach you everything you need to know).

This was not how college was supposed to go. 

He had been expecting to get minor parts his freshman year.  He had not expected to be forced out of the picture altogether. 

No one tells you being successful in theater can be so difficult.  When you come from a small-town high school (especially if you are one of their strongest, if not the strongest, singers) you think you have a chance.  You think “yes, I’m talented enough.  No one has told me otherwise.  Talent is what really matters, not pedigree or training. 

Well, those people telling you that you are great and talented and amazing, where are they teaching?  What did they do with their lives?  He knows it’s unfair of him to think this.  Life is hard and the adults around him told him those things because they didn’t know any better. 

The reality of the world outside the safety of high school is a stark contrast.  Sure, sometimes the stars align and things happen for small-town stars.  Unfortunately for him, most of those small-town dreamers don’t get the magical alignment.  The powers that be don’t interfere and let the cruel world run its course.  It’s only when you are picking your dreams and your heart off the ground, dusting yourself off, and preparing to be broken by yet another rejection that you realize raw talent can only get you so far. 

The real key to success, to seeing your name in lights on Broadway is raw talent trained to be the best.  There was no denying his raw talent, even with his unique voice.  He lacked the training. 

He lacked a name, a name that people would remember. 

Of course they wouldn’t remember him.  No one had seen him yet.

 His applications had been summarily rejected from all his dream schools.  So he got into a decent state school with a respected, though not famous, program. 

Then came the downward spiral—even in this school you need a name.  He still didn’t have one.  And you can’t make one unless you have one or have the money to make the friends you need to get one. 

So he had done what he could to make himself a part of the department.  A part they needed and relied on.

Excuse me, ma’am, but

He knew, one day soon, the rejections might break him. When they wouldn’t give him a practice room, he begged and pleaded until the secretary felt bad for him and gave him a key but no official time slot.  When that wasn’t enough he audited courses for the carillon on campus, his secret escape.  When they wouldn’t give him run crew he threw himself into what he did get: he was now the best at sound and could hold his own on choreography.  And yet, he wasn’t doing what he loved.  It was close, but it still wasn’t enough.  And they knew it.  They knew being denied his love might break him—that one final rejection that would forever bury his dreams.  What they didn’t know was that when and if they did, he would go out with a bang.  Each senior at the school could do a thesis project with nearly free-reign.  All he would need is a faculty advisor.  And he had one.  And he had a plan.

I have a plan.  I have a plan.  It has been approved, and nothing can go wrong. I have plenty of time to organize and finish preparations, and when I’m ready they won’t know what hit them.

Moment of weakness over, he closed his laptop, reaching above his head onto the couch to place it on the cushion.  Glancing at the clock on the wall (he was old-fashioned and was one of the seemingly few who could still read an analogue clock without an aneurism) he decided his favorite practice room would probably be free. 

He stood in front of the old music building, parts of which had been taken over by the theater department.  It currently housed the musical theater section of the department.  Staring in awe of the red brick, hard concrete, and soft grass surrounding it, he still couldn’t believe he was here.  That this was not an off-limits enigma any more, wasn’t a completely guilty pleasure. 

In high school he had led his glee club for four years, occasionally acted when he had the time and was needed.  He loved performance in a way he didn’t know loving anything was possible.  Being onstage, sharing his love for his work, brightening the audience’s day (or at least making them forget the banality of day to day life), that was what he loved.  And his work could always be perfected—choreography cleaned, notes hit on the first try, verses and lines learned.  There was always something to become better at—you could never get bored, and he would never tire of it.

“Performance is admirable, but there is no money in it, there is no stability.”

“Yes, sir.  I know.”

“Your mother and I would be happier if you were to choose something more stable.  Perhaps you could indulge by going to performances in the future.”

“Yes, sir.  That would acceptable.”

That earned a quiet chuckle, “And your mother thought that you wouldn’t see reason.”

But he would always see reason.  He would do nearly anything to make his parents proud.

The summer before his freshman year, his parents found him a small apartment a short walk from campus.  It was nicely furnished, and combined with the allowance for pets and the location, way outside the normal college student’s budget.

He spent the weekend before classes organizing his life and ensuring he had all the books he would need this semester, including the optional texts (if the professors had taken the time to point out the extra readings he should take the time to read them).   The walls, a bland beige he was too lazy to paint, were quickly covered by posters.  The beige, he decided, contrasted nicely with the dark wood of his desk and coffee table.  The springs in the couch had a penchant for stabbing the rear unlucky enough to sit in the wrong place, but it was otherwise stylish (if one could have a ‘stylish’ couch.  But, most of all, it was his (just because he wanted to please his parents didn’t mean he wasn’t reveling at the freedom). 

He was to be a lawyer.  International law, to be precise.  He needed to be fluent in French, proficient in Latin, and perfect at written and oral communication.  Naturally, then, he was doing his undergrad work in History and French.  This drew stares from the History majors intent on graduate school and professorship—a “true” History major.  If a professor required them to share their plans for the future, his were met with scoffs and eye rolls.  If he showed his face at a study group, he would be scorned. 

He was doing this for his parents, yes.  But he liked History.  He enjoyed his classes.  French gave him little bits of trouble (sometimes he got confused with Spanish, the language he took in high school).  For the most part, it wasn’t as bad as he thought it could have been.

Freshman year was as fine as could be expected.  He made Dean’s list (although that was distinctly not President’s list).  He started making friends—Wes didn’t mind that he was copping out and going to law school; David didn’t care he rolled his r’s with his tongue and not in his throat. 

Turns out, Dean’s list was good, but not good enough.  President’s list was better.  His father, never saying anything outright over their family dinners, made it clear he believed his son could do better.

His freshman year he had picked up his guitar on Sunday mornings, blowing a few hours playing.  He had gone out twice a week with his new friends.

He could do better. 

He knew he could. 

So he did. 

He sat and scheduled out his weeks, leaving room for unexpected things.  Wake up at 5, run until 6:30, shower, eat, skim notes and tweak homework from the night before.  Class from 8 until 3, quick coffee break, then study in the library until dinner.  After dinner, back to library or the student union for meetings with various study groups or his French conversation group.  Cup of tea while unwinding, perhaps with a dog-eared paperback, then bed.  Repeat.

Every once in a while, on his way out for class or a study group, he would glance at the guitar leaning against the wall, fingers itching to pick it up and let his mind rest.  Occasionally he would finger the pick he kept in his wallet—he couldn’t bear to take it out.  That would be too final.  Once a month he would cave to David’s and Wes’s pleas to go out—they would end up at a bar for amateur night (hands stamped to show they were underage).  But his father wanted President’s list, so these outings were kept to a minimum. 

At the end of the fall semester of his sophomore year, his father was proud—his youngest son had gotten President’s list.  He preened under the attention.  His father was proud of him.  He had done enough.

Then the gavel fell.  He had proven he could do it.  Now he had to maintain it.

“Of course I can keep it up, sir.”

“Your mother and I only want to go to the best law school.  We only want the best for you.”

“Yes, sir.  I won’t let you down.”

And so began his third semester.  Same tune, different day.    And re-settled into his apartment and classes began.

Until one boy turned up in two of his classes, French Grammar and his History Research Seminar.  Until they were in the same French conversation groups, and shared a study group, and needed caffeine at the same time in the afternoon.

He wondered, if it hadn’t been for that boy, would he be standing here, in front of this particular building the Saturday before classes start? 

No.  He wouldn’t.

He met the boy in the normal way—class.  It wasn’t unheard of to have someone in multiple classes.  Normally, however, they did not span departments.  They had the same French and History Research classes.  If that wasn’t enough, they unknowingly signed up for the same conversation block.  And then the same study group. 

And then, a month into the semester, running a little late for his daily caffeine pick-me-up, he noticed who he was standing behind.  This was getting ridiculous.  Obviously whatever powers that be wanted them to know each other.  So when the other boy got his coffee, he noted his order (medium drip, no room, three sugars) and after procuring his own (small double non-fat cappuccino with 2 pumps of sugar-free mocha) he introduced himself sharing the other’s classes and asked if he could sit with him.

The coffee shop was small, attached to the library, so there was always a crowd: his classmate had, by a miracle, secured a corner table.  His chair was uneven, the coffee beans had been burnt (that’s what you get for convenience) and the music was a touch too loud.

The boy blushed lightly and closed his book, indicating the chair opposite him.  They introduced themselves and started talking about the homework for that week and the next week’s topics in conversation group. 

This quickly became a weekly thing.  He would intentionally get there at the same time the boy would appear, they would share a table and talk.  Their friendship grew, until neither jerked his knee back when they brushed and the first one in line would buy the other’s coffee that day. 

Everything was fine, approaching great, even, until midterms started.  Then he would get a text saying his coffee date couldn’t make it that day, and if they could reschedule.  And then he saw the boy—bright, caramel eyes tired, dark circles, four day scruff.  He told the exhausted boy to take a break.  He got a nod of ascent paired with a noncommittal shrug. 

I will when midterms are over.

But things only improved a little.

I didn’t do as well as I should have. 

He rubbed his friend’s shoulder sympathetically, offering any help he could.

Three weeks before finals (where had the semester gone?) he confronted his friend.  They were sitting in their normal spot, the corner table with that hellish uneven chair.  The boy across from him was staring blankly at his cup of (burnt, oversweet, too bitter) coffee rapidly cooling on the slightly (and revoltingly) sticky table between them.  He looked like he had pulled everything inside himself, curling up even smaller inside his already small form.

He sighed, picked up his things, and stood up, holding out his hand. 

“Come on, let me walk you home.”

“What? No.  I’m fine.  I…I have things to do here anyway.  Studying that needs to be done.”

“No.  You haven’t touched your coffee.  You look like you’ve been bitten by a zombie.  You need sleep.  Let me walk you home.”

The boy just blinked at him.  He touched his friend’s shoulder, then moved his hand to lightly grip his forearm, pulling up gently.

“Come on.”

He watched the other boy drop his head for a moment and, giving in, lean to pick up his bag before sliding out of his seat, grabbing his coffee with his free hand as the other hiked the bag up onto his shoulder.  He led the way out of the shop, sneering slightly while weaving between heavily caffeinated sorority girls, then dropped into step with his friend, following the shorter boy through the nearly silent campus (it was during a class period).  It wasn’t the first time he had gone to his friend’s apartment before, so he was only leading to make it seem like his friend had some choice in this (he would have dragged him into the apartment, kicking and screaming if it was necessary).  But he knew his friend was too tired to fight right now, and the sense of control might be beneficial. 

They finally arrived at the apartment, his friend digging his keys out and barely managing to get them into the lock, turning the wrong way and withering slightly as he realized his mistake. 

He stayed until his friend, now swaying on his feet, made it into bed without killing himself, said he’d call later and let himself out, closing the door softly.

He called the next day (Friday) after his friend didn’t appear for classes.  He made up an excuse to the professor of the research seminar, saying that he hadn’t been feeling well and had looked like he was coming down with something when he had seen him yesterday, and that yes, he knew that without a doctor’s note the absence would count against his 3 allowed classes.    He said he would relay the message. 

He slid his phone out of his pocket, dialing with one hand as he strode across campus towards the nearest place for caffeine. 

I’m sorry about yesterday.

I’m stopping for coffee and I want to see you. Want me to bring you some?

No, I have here.  You…come over whenever, if you want.

I’ll be there in 15.

He slid the phone back into his pocket, turning the corner sharply and nearly ran into a boy dressed nearly as well as he was.  Brown hair styled up and away from his face, well-fitting black oxford with hairline threads of glimmering silver, sleeves neatly rolled up to show strong, thin forearms and the first few buttons undone to reveal a tease of pale skin and the slight dip of his collarbone.  All of this was over perfectly-fitting jeans.  His black bag cut a line across his chest, making it seem broader.  The pale boy cocked an eyebrow, giving him a once over, then stepped around him, making his way out as he muttered to himself.  He gave the pale boy’s rear an appreciative glance, then stepped in line for coffee.  He purchased his normal and a brownie for his friend (he was a sucker for anything chocolate). 

He finished his coffee on the way over to the apartment.  He knocked twice, then leaned against the doorjamb as his friend opened the door.  He was less haggard today—he still sported several days of scruff and hadn’t gelled his hair down, the short curls springing up in an oddly pleasing mess, but his eyes looked less sunken and the circles less black against the olive of his skin.  Not his normally dapper self in an old t-shirt and sweats, but not the zombie from the day before.

“I’m sorry to say this, but you look dead.”  He held out the bag with the brownie as a peace offering.

“Thanks.  I know.” He opened the door wider and gestured, closing the door behind the taller boy. 

“So.  You want to tell me what’s going on?  You’re not sleeping, you probably aren’t eating.”

“I’m not doing well enough and I’m working on fixing that.”

“By working yourself to death?”

“My father wants President’s list again.  I didn’t do well enough on midterms.  So now I am working harder to get my grades back up.”

“You have grades most students would probably kill for, and they would definitely fuck a few teachers to get them.  You need a break.”

“I need to get my grades up.”

He watched his friend collapse on the couch, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees and bend his head down.  He sits next to him, rubbing his friend’s back.

“Want to tell me about it?”

He gets what is probably an abbreviated version.  Demanding parents, forced choices, pushing and giving until nothing is left.  And worse, his friend doesn’t see the problem.  Like a beaten puppy he just goes back, seeking attention and getting beaten again for his problems. 

“You said you were considering music of some sort.   Why don’t pick it back up?  It would be a way to de-stress.”

And that was how he found himself talking his friend through a conversation with his father.

Who, with conditions, agreed.

Starting in the fall, as a means of relieving stress, he had paternal approval to audit music and/or theater classes, as long as he kept up Dean’s list (his father had been comforted by the reminder that law school would be impressed with his grades—consistent Dean’s list was better than sporadic President’s list, and a little variety looked good on transcripts). 

Who ever said he wasn’t a good person?  It didn’t really matter the things he might get out of it.  His friend was happy, grateful to have music and performing back in his life with, albeit grudging, parental approval. 

No.  His friend’s happiness was certainly the most important part.

Definitely.

Again.

He was still here.

Maybe he would learn his place this semester.

He wasn’t cut out for this.  He needed to accept that.  Only certain people got the spotlight.

He would get the message, this time.

He was close enough to breaking.  He had to be.  Just a little longer, one more push into the obscurity and he was sure to crumble and pull his remains into the background. 

She tidied up her personal practice room (someone of her caliber shouldn’t be expected to have to share her space for perfecting her performance).  Everyone would, and must love her.

This would be a good year, she was sure of it.  She waved goodbye to the poster of Barbara on the wall and headed out for the evening.  The weekend before her sophomore year of classes—a day in her studio (as she fondly referred to it), and a date with the equally talented love of her life at the vegan restaurant downtown.  Then a day of relaxing her voice before wowing her professors (more than she had during auditions the week before).  There was a returning-students mini-show each year to welcome in all of the freshmen.  And then there would be lots of these mini-shows (a scene here and there from assorted musicals, to test everyone’s ranges and accustom them to the audition process and all the emotions and stresses involved). 

“Now, are you sure about this?”

“Of course I am.  It’s brilliant.  Even you have to admit it.”

“It is certainly a statement…”

“That’s the point.  Isn’t the point of what we do to make people think?”

“Yes.   But this…”

“Will be the slap in the face they need to realize what they have been doing.”

“It could get you in trouble.”

“How?  I am not doing anything wrong, as long as you sign off and no one gets hurt.”

He pulls the paper towards him, scribbling his name on the line.

“Thank you.”

“Just…be prepared to deal with the backlash.  There will be.  You know it as well as I do.”

“Which is why no one will know about it.”

“You are going to keep this—he gestures vaguely at the space over the paper—a secret.”

“For an entire semester, yes.”

“Good luck.  If you can pull this off, you’ll certainly get someone to listen.  And if anyone can pull this off, it would be you.”