A burst of conditioned air batters my face. I hesitate only a second before entering.
He follows. Tugs the door closed silently.
“I can’t see anything,” I whisper.
Click. A flashlight illuminates our path. “Always be prepared.” Joshua steps in front and leads the way.
Everything is black. Black floor. Black walls. We pass two rolling racks stuffed full of colorful costumes. In one corner a web of cords and wires spills from a box. A mirror leans against one wall, along with a cart containing everything from makeup palettes to eyedrops.
When we reach the stage, I stop. This is it. Am I really standing here?
Joshua thrusts the flashlight into my palm. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” His voice is low, his breath hot in my ear.
The lyrics to “Kiss the Girl” scream across my brain.
His footsteps dwindle as he flees into darkness.
I take light steps, angling the flashlight in different directions, exploring this very off-limits first date venue.
Wait. Is this a date?
Technically, yes. He picked me up at my door, bought me a tofu dog, and took me to my favorite place in the city, aside from Central Park. Sounds like a date to me.
Above, a catwalk hovers. Ropes, lights, and metal poles surround it. I shine the beam downstage, toward the orchestra. Surreal. I half expect the Phantom of the Opera to leap from the curtains and whisk me away.
Flick, flick, flick.
Blue, purple, and green channels of cool light inundate the stage. I squint against the luster, blinking, letting my eyes adjust. Row upon row of empty cushioned seats slide into focus. They slope upward, the mezzanine leaning over them like an anxious onlooker awaiting a climactic scene. I twirl in slow motion, breathing in the once-in-a-lifetime atmosphere. The stage. The lights. Broadway.
A backdrop of a giant Ozian clock all green and towering gives me the illusion I’m floating, defying gravity. Sold out within hours, we couldn’t get tickets to the one-night reunion of the original cast of Wicked, but this is so much better. I continue revolving, living in the moment, imagining hundreds of people applauding, begging for an encore.
When I face downstage again, I spot Joshua, sitting front and center, beaming. Even from this distance, his cerulean eyes invoke a soft gasp from my lips. Has he been watching me this whole time?
“Sing to me.” His melodic voice echoes. Rises to the rafters.
I inhale, unable to shroud the chagrin expanding to my ears. I trace a circle on the floor with the toe of my Converse sneaker. “Okay, but on one condition.”
Joshua laughs, full and deep. “Anything.”
We both share a passion for music and quickly connected on that note. The roof of my brownstone has become our personal haven. We go up there afternoons and weekends, sharing an iPod, a pair of earbuds connecting us. He teaches me guitar chords, and we practice singing harmonies. Mom always said we sounded like we were born to sing together.
“Sing with me?” I ask. At his hesitation, I add, “Come on. It’s just like on the roof. Just us.” He brings out a confidence in me I’ve never known.
He runs his fingers through his recently cut hair, scratches the back of his head. “I can’t say no to you.” He ascends the stairs two at a time and meets me center stage. “What should we sing?”
I gesture toward the backdrop. “What else?”
He rolls his eyes. “Should’ve known. I guess all those times you forced me to listen to the Wicked soundtrack are going to pay off.” He takes the flashlight. Sticks it in his back pocket.
I smile. “Guess so.” I withdraw my iPhone. When I tap the screen, a candid shot of Mom stares up at me. I scroll until I find the duet. The haunting melody drifts through the tinny speaker, and I begin to sway.
As I start the first verse to “As Long as You’re Mine,” my cocoon falls away. I spread my vocal wings, testing their strength, belting the notes. I’m no longer the ugly girl from the Upper West Side. I’m the bold and tenacious Elphaba of Oz—and I’m flying.
Joshua hits his cue flawlessly. He’s the perfect Fiyero. Charming. Funny. Handsome. He holds my gaze, his eyes alight. For a moment I forget we’re only acting. The way he’s looking at me . . . it’s as if he wrote those lines himself. Words meant for my ears alone.
Our voices intertwine, meld into one. Mom’s right. We do sound like we were born to sing together. And that’s when I know. This boy who moved next door three years ago is more than just a friend.
So. Much. More.
Somewhere between our first encounter and becoming friends, he stole my heart. No. Scratch that. I gave it to him.
And then the magic ends. Poof. I’m out of breath. Gravity triumphs, hauling me to earth.
“Thank you.” I slip my phone away.
He’s quiet. I’ve never known him to be speechless. His mouth twitches as his gaze flutters below my nose. Is he looking at my lips? Is he going to—?
“Hey, you!” A man with a napkin tucked into his white undershirt jogs toward us from the rear of the theater. His overshirt is white, too, unbuttoned, with some sort of patch on the right breast.
Looks like the security guard isn’t too happy we interrupted his break.
We bolt for our exit, my heart nearly pulverizing my sternum from the thrill. We don’t stop running until we’re two blocks away, safe within a streetlamp’s yellow blush.
I bend over, breathing deep, reining in my hysterics. I can hardly see through my tears of laughter. When I straighten, Joshua’s wiping his own eyes, stretching his jaw. One look at each other and the snickers start all over again, lasting the entire cab ride home. The cabbie probably thought we were drunk.
Best. Night. Ever.
Once we’re climbing the steps to my front door, the mood shifts. The air grows heavier, the way it gets just before it rains. I hold my breath in hopes of calming the boom, boom, boom resounding from my chest.
I turn to him, fumbling with my house key like in the movies.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he rubs the side of his scruffy cheek.
“I had so much fun.” Insecurity crawls over my arms, spiraling up to my face. Not now.
“Me too.” He coughs, moves his left foot down a step.
I shove my key in the lock, flip it. The dull tick of the dead bolt counts another second closer to our evening’s end.
“So . . .” I turn the knob, crack the door.
“So . . . good night.” He jogs down my steps and then crosses to his own. Before he goes inside, he gives me one last crooked smile. Then, as is his custom, he’s gone.
“I found snacks.” Ky’s voice wrenches me from the memory—dream.
I suck in a breath, open my eyes. My head rests on a pillow, and little wet spots pepper my sleeve. Did I cry myself to sleep? I roll my neck. Ack. Knots. How did I get back to our room?
Oh. Right. Ramped up from the nonmoment with Joshua, I stormed inside. Ky must’ve sensed my irritation because he was more than happy to give me some space. I paced the tiny room until my energy drained. Then I curled up on the mattress and waited. And cried. And dreamt.
The bed gives beneath Ky’s weight. “I found rolls and cheese. It’s not much, but it’ll do till morning.”
I sit up. He passes me a cheese sandwich, and I bite into it. Yeasty bread almost evaporates on my tongue, the sharp cheese sticking to my teeth. My taste buds throw a party as the much-needed sustenance jives around my mouth. I inhale the thing in two more bites, and before I can ask, Ky hands me another. We eat three each, and by then I’m already full. Funny. I used to eat three monstrous slices of New York pizza and still want more. Did my stomach shrink? I couldn’t handle another nibble now if I tried.