Attack of the Theater People Read Online Free

Internationally Recognized Signal for “Light me, darling.” Or, to be more precise, “I’m too pretentious to light it myself.” Or maybe, “I refuse to let you wallow in self-pity. It’s not good for you, and you know how excessive displays of emotion make me uncomfortable.”
    I pick up her lighter and increase her chances of lung cancer. “You should quit, you know.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, exhaling a long stream of exhaust. “No one likes a quitter.”
    Ziba.
    “Besides,” she continues, “if I’m going to quit anything, it’ll be the Fashion Institute. You don’t know how lucky you are to be out of school, Edward.” Her voice drops an octave as she adds, “I’m so bored.”
    I remind her that her rigorous schedule of partying with other expat Persians actually prevents her from attending classes.
    “That’s why I’m so bored,” she says. “I need a project. I called Nathan to see if he has any ideas, but his roommate said he was at home and his parents said he was at school. Have you heard from him?”
    Of all of our high school friendships, none is more unlikely than that of the five-foot-twelve Persian lesbian and her five-foot-four Jewish sidekick. It’s the Ayatollah Khomeini’s worst nightmare. “I haven’t seen Natie since New Year’s,” I say, nor do I want to think about what kind of trouble he’s gotten into. Nathan Nudelman is like a headline—all bad news. “Maybe he’s been recruited by the CIA.”
    Ziba exhales a dragon’s breath of smoke. “No, he’d tell me if he were.”
    Just then, Kelly appears, breaking through Ziba’s cloud like the sun.
    “There you are!” she says, giving me an I-haven’t-seen-you-since-you-got-kicked-out-of-school-but-I-love-you-anyway-even-though-you’re-a-loser hug. Or, at least, that’s how I interpret it. She brushes my bangs out of my eyes, which is hard to do when they’ve been moussed into submission, and gives me a moist, soulful gaze. Her eyes are made up to camouflage her heterochromia, a condition that causes them to be two different colors, one favoring blue, the other brown. Kelly read somewhere that Vivien Leigh didn’t actually have green eyes and that the effect in
Gone With the Wind
was accomplished through skillful makeup and lighting, so now she’s got this complicated Bloomingdale’s-makeup-counter regimen. Even with Monet’s
Water Lilies
on her eyelids, there’s no mistaking her pity. And I won’t be pitied by anyone. Except, of course, myself.
    From the other room the band starts up again. “C’mon,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. “I love this song!” I don’t, but I’ve got to get out from under the weight of her kindness. Grasping Kelly’s hand like a lifeline, I squeeze into the back of the room, where we watch Doug perform with acrobatic abandon—jumping up on the amp, sliding across the stage on his knees, leaping into the crowd—and my body begins to ache. Not just for Doug, although that’s easy to do when so many of the songs are addressed to love objects with androgynous names like Frankie, Ricky, and Terry and have titles like “I’m Goin’ Down” and “Ramrod,” but also for myself, for the person I used to be. Back in high school I was the madcap
bon vivant
who cavorted onstage and off, a puckish Pied Piper who led the parade of the Play People. But two years of being told I perform too much—that I push, show, and indicate—have made me timid. I went to school to learn how to act and I’ve become inert.
    After the show we snag ourselves a table, but, having drunk four (five? okay, six) tequila shooters, I find that the print on the menu keeps rearranging itself into kaleidoscopic patterns, like showgirls in a Busby Berkeley musical.
    “Whah goes wid tequila?” I ask Ziba.
    “Blackouts.”
    I look across the room, which tilts like the deck of the
Titanic
, and see Doug surrounded by Jersey girls seeking autographs. Autographs! Back in high school he didn’t