used to; it should have felt like a lot, but the rhythm of his heart was beating Four times will never be enough, never be enough, never be enough. If only he had some money of his own—a college fund to borrow against, a grandma to float him a loan, a second parent to help support the family, pancakes for breakfast instead of cold pizza or sometimes nothing . . .
Emily, meanwhile, was reeling. The option of going to the show by herself had simply not occurred to her before, but now, of course, it had. Talk about an ethical dilemma!
If my life were a musical, Emily thought in a rush, I would do what Aurora would do, and before she could change her mind she said, “I would not want to go without you, Philip.”
It sounded incredible. It sounded like the kind of thing someone would say right before bursting into song.
“Emily, don’t be dumb,” Philip said bravely. “Of course you should go.”
“And I am telling you, I’m not going,” Emily said, straight-faced.
“Dreamgirls.” Philip looked deep into her eyes. “1981. Music by Henry Krieger, book and lyrics by Tom Eyen.”
Emily grinned, though she felt shaky inside. “It wasn’t a show question,” she said. It was 2:43, and they were about to make their final approach to the Rialto Theatre.
Philip had made a last sweep of the Broadway message boards as well as the official Aurora blog before leaving the school library, and though the morning’s Internut rumors had grown both more numerous and more outlandish—the idea of Beauty and the Beast closing to make room for a musical version of Napoleon Dynamite seemed farfetched, even by Broadway logic—none of the rank-and-file gossipmongers was pinpointing Aurora as the show whose head was on the block. As far as Philip and Emily knew, they, Lester, and apparently SAVEME were the only people who knew—or at least, believed—that Aurora was closing.
“Do you think,” Emily asked as they turned the corner of Broadway and West Forty-fourth Street, “that SAVEME could be Lester?”
“Huh,” said Philip. “That kinda makes sense, actually. How could we find out?”
“We’ll ask Ian to tell us something about Lester, some personal detail, and then we can—we can—” But the words died in her mouth.
It was 2:45. The box office opened in fifteen minutes, and the mob scene outside the theatre extended all the way down Forty-fourth Street to Eighth Avenue and who knew how far around the block.
Stupefied, speechless, they froze in midstep. Emily started to totter on her feet and grabbed Philip’s arm.
Something has gone wrong, so very, very wrong, thought Philip. Reflexively he tried to quantify the disaster—three, four, five hundred people, he guessed, with streams of newcomers arriving by the minute. And that wasn’t counting the unseen hordes on Eighth Avenue.
“Can you believe it!” screamed Daphne, the costumed rush line regular. She waved her funky knit scarf in the air like a flag as she spotted them. “Can you believe it can you believe it can you believe it!”
Maybe Daphne was repeating herself, or maybe sounds were echoing inside Emily’s head. She couldn’t tell; nor could she tell if she was pulling Philip over to where Daphne was standing—there seemed to be an actual line snaking through the mob, and Daphne was on it—or if Philip was pulling her.
“Oh my God I can’t stand it I can’t stand it I can’t stand it,” Daphne was saying. “I can’t believe Aurora is closing!”
Hearing Daphne say it aloud made something inside Emily’s head pop, like her ears did on planes during takeoff. “Where did you hear that?” she demanded, hanging on to Philip for dear life and trying not to shriek. “Who told you that?”
“Who told me is the same person who told everybody here!” cried Daphne, gesturing dramatically with her fuzzy Aurora -style mittens. “She posted it on the Aurora blog about”—Daphne pushed up one mitten so she could see her
Emily, meanwhile, was reeling. The option of going to the show by herself had simply not occurred to her before, but now, of course, it had. Talk about an ethical dilemma!
If my life were a musical, Emily thought in a rush, I would do what Aurora would do, and before she could change her mind she said, “I would not want to go without you, Philip.”
It sounded incredible. It sounded like the kind of thing someone would say right before bursting into song.
“Emily, don’t be dumb,” Philip said bravely. “Of course you should go.”
“And I am telling you, I’m not going,” Emily said, straight-faced.
“Dreamgirls.” Philip looked deep into her eyes. “1981. Music by Henry Krieger, book and lyrics by Tom Eyen.”
Emily grinned, though she felt shaky inside. “It wasn’t a show question,” she said. It was 2:43, and they were about to make their final approach to the Rialto Theatre.
Philip had made a last sweep of the Broadway message boards as well as the official Aurora blog before leaving the school library, and though the morning’s Internut rumors had grown both more numerous and more outlandish—the idea of Beauty and the Beast closing to make room for a musical version of Napoleon Dynamite seemed farfetched, even by Broadway logic—none of the rank-and-file gossipmongers was pinpointing Aurora as the show whose head was on the block. As far as Philip and Emily knew, they, Lester, and apparently SAVEME were the only people who knew—or at least, believed—that Aurora was closing.
“Do you think,” Emily asked as they turned the corner of Broadway and West Forty-fourth Street, “that SAVEME could be Lester?”
“Huh,” said Philip. “That kinda makes sense, actually. How could we find out?”
“We’ll ask Ian to tell us something about Lester, some personal detail, and then we can—we can—” But the words died in her mouth.
It was 2:45. The box office opened in fifteen minutes, and the mob scene outside the theatre extended all the way down Forty-fourth Street to Eighth Avenue and who knew how far around the block.
Stupefied, speechless, they froze in midstep. Emily started to totter on her feet and grabbed Philip’s arm.
Something has gone wrong, so very, very wrong, thought Philip. Reflexively he tried to quantify the disaster—three, four, five hundred people, he guessed, with streams of newcomers arriving by the minute. And that wasn’t counting the unseen hordes on Eighth Avenue.
“Can you believe it!” screamed Daphne, the costumed rush line regular. She waved her funky knit scarf in the air like a flag as she spotted them. “Can you believe it can you believe it can you believe it!”
Maybe Daphne was repeating herself, or maybe sounds were echoing inside Emily’s head. She couldn’t tell; nor could she tell if she was pulling Philip over to where Daphne was standing—there seemed to be an actual line snaking through the mob, and Daphne was on it—or if Philip was pulling her.
“Oh my God I can’t stand it I can’t stand it I can’t stand it,” Daphne was saying. “I can’t believe Aurora is closing!”
Hearing Daphne say it aloud made something inside Emily’s head pop, like her ears did on planes during takeoff. “Where did you hear that?” she demanded, hanging on to Philip for dear life and trying not to shriek. “Who told you that?”
“Who told me is the same person who told everybody here!” cried Daphne, gesturing dramatically with her fuzzy Aurora -style mittens. “She posted it on the Aurora blog about”—Daphne pushed up one mitten so she could see her
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