Page 26 of What You Own
“I hear you folks are making great progress with the planning.”
“Yes, we had a very productive meeting the other night.”
“Good, good. Well, I won’t keep you from the rest of your day. A good-looking boy like you must have plans needing to be gotten to.”
“Actually, I was hoping to check out Ryan’s theater class and see what they’re planning to perform for the benefit.”
“Excellent. He’s down the other hall in room three.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
Music was thundering from room three before I even opened the door. Chairs had been pushed up against the wall, creating an open space where a dozen teenagers, mostly girls, stood in a cluster. Ryan held court next to a laptop computer he’d attached to a set of speakers, and I recognized the tune before he began to sing.
Newsieswas one of those little-known cult films that made me want to sing and dance as a child. When it went to Broadway, I didn’t have the guts to go see it. I’d missed a lot of great shows over the years because Broadway was the thing I did with my mother, and she was dead. But I downloaded the album, and I watched clips online, and it was awesome.
Ryan was singing “Santa Fe” and nailing every single note, every nuance of emotion inherent in a song about longing for something better. He was caught up in it until the bridge, and then he spotted me at the door. His notice caught the attention of the students, most of whom ignored me after a fast glance. Ryan stared, and he almost missed his cue. He continued the song, and somehow I got the feeling his dream of Santa Fe had just become code for something else. Something between us.
The fact that the character he played inRentleft New York City for Santa Fe, just like theNewsiescharacter of Jack Kelly dreamed to do, was not lost on me.
I hear Santa Fe is nice this time of year.
Ryan hit a key on the laptop. “Now obviously if I was performin’ that for an audience, I’d have added some theatricality to it. Hand movement is just as important as facial expression, probably more important to the people in the way back rows.” He jerked his head in my direction. “It also appears we have a guest performer this week.”
My stomach turned inside out. “I’m just here to watch.”
“No such thing in this class. Guys, this is Adam Langley. He’s helpin’ out with the center’s fundraiser next month.”
“Does he sing too?” a girl with blue streaks in her hair asked.
“He sure does. Think he should do a number so you can hear someone with a different range than me?”
A chorus of agreements and cheers went up. I contemplated bolting out the door. Ryan retrieved me before I could, dragging me by the elbow to stand near the laptop. His amusement at doing this to me was nothing compared to my sudden case of knee-shaking stage fright. Rehearsals were one thing, and maybe these were a bunch of high school kids, but they were strangers. My brain blanked out, and I couldn’t think of a single song.
“Any preferences?” Ryan asked. “Broadway? Pop music? Tribal chants?”
I gave him a withering glare, then hip-checked him away from the laptop. Someone behind me giggled. I searched until I found what I wanted. I’d always lovedMiss Saigonand I thought the song was fitting, after Ryan’s performance. I hoped he got it.
The soft strains of “Why, God, Why?” began to play over the speakers on an orchestral arrangement, and I put the churning, mixed-up feelings I had for Ryan into my voice. The lyrics weren’t a perfect fit, but they were sung by a man who’d found love he didn’t expect in a war-torn place he was preparing to leave behind. My voice broke a little on the final few notes, because I’d reached without warming up.
The students cheered anyway, and I blushed bright red, a little out of breath from the performance. Ryan slammed the laptop shut with surprising force, his face bizarrely blank. I hadn’t expected hugs and kisses, but I’d hoped for more than the neutral look he turned onto the cluster of students.
“Okay, guys, pair up with your fundraiser partner and start brainstorming songs,” he said. “I want your final decisions next week, so we can start getting music and costumes together.”
“Are you going to have a duet prepared too, Mr. Sanders?” one of the few boys in the class asked. “You and Mr. Langley?”
It sounded strange for a kid maybe five years younger than me to call me Mr. Langley. Ryan glanced at me, then nodded. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“Excellent.”
I stifled a groan.
They broke apart and scattered around the room. Some left completely, so I guessed class was officially over. I hung back while Ryan packed the laptop and speakers into a black bag, which he slung over his shoulder—his stuff, apparently. For a split second, I thought he was going to walk right past me, and I panicked. I didn’t know what I’d done to bring out this silent, stoic side of him, and I didn’t like it.
He stopped, thank God, and he smiled. “You wanna grab some hoagies for lunch, then go back to my place and pick out a song for our duet?”
Hope hit me hard in the chest. “Is Ellie home?”
“Working all night.”
