Page 98 of My Own Kind of Person

I go behind the curtains to the dark backstage and follow the fluorescent tape on the ground through a heavy door to a bright hallway. Framed photos along the white walls tell how the theater was converted into three movie screens in the 1980s, shut down when a multiplex opened nearby, and recently reopened and restored to its original state.

A metal door from the lobby opens. I watch for Elijah, but it’s Mom.

“I just wanted to say break a leg,” she whispers.

Tony bursts through the door, out of breath, and immediately slows his pace.

“A small film crew is here,” he murmurs out of the side of his mouth. “Quite a bit of press as well. My online sources say the creator of the gourmet pizza bagel is here. Culinary isn’t our target market, but…” He raises his eyebrows.

The metal door opens again, slowly, and this time it’s Andi.

“Whoa. Backstage party.”

I can’t help it, I keep watching the door.

Andi looks down. “Elijah told me he’s not coming.”

I fake a smile. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

“No, it’s—” But what is it? This is exactly what I don’t want to avoid. “I guess I was still expecting him to come.”

Andi turns their eyes to mine, and I try to figure out if their silence means they understand.

Tony stamps his foot. “That guy is not a patriot!”

Mom makes a sound of agreement. “I’m glad I never met him.”

I definitely prefer the silence.

“Thank you all for being here. I appreciate you.” I put my hands together like I’m praying? “And now I’m going to take some time alone to prepare.”

“Your dressing room is the second door on the left,” Tony says.

He gives me a fist bump, Mom gives me a hug, Andi gives a nod, and I stumble away as they go through the metal door to the lobby. When I get to the second door on the left, I keep walking. I pace up and down the hallway, telling myself to practice my set but never getting past the first few words. Eventually my face starts to twitch and I figure that’s a sign to move somewhere private. I duck into the dressing room, close the door behind me, and close my eyes. A sharp pain cuts across my chest.

I was really hoping Elijah would come.

“Nice to—”

I open my eyes.

“Sorry.” Joe Johnson, in his classic blue T-shirt, holds out a hand. “Nice to officially meet you. I’m Joe.”

“Hi.” I stick out my numb arm. “Sean.”

The room is shabby and luxurious. Puffy armchairs sit beside a dining table with rows of fancy snacks and a bouquet of drooping flowers. A lamp with a tilted shade stands beside an ornate gold mirror. There’s a long couch so big and fluffy it could be a bed.

Joe’s light hair is neatly combed, but his eyes and cheeks are red. He turns to the wall and turns back. “Sorry, I’m kind of having a…”

His lips keep moving.

I can’t help but ask, “Why don’t you talk onstage about feeling like this?”

He laughs. “Because I don’t find it funny.”

“Valid.”