Will Grayson, Will Grayson(18)
Author: John Green

“So then,” I say hopefully, “no production of Tiny Dancer?”

Tiny starts the car. “Sorry, Grayson, but I can’t do it. Tiny Dancer is bigger than you or me, or any of us.”

“Tiny, you have a really warped understanding of compromise.”

He laughs. “Compromise is when you do what I tell you and I do what I want. Which reminds me: I’m gonna need you to be in the play.”

I stifle a laugh, because this shit won’t be funny anymore if it’s staged in our goddamned auditorium. “Absolutely not. No. NO. Also, I insist that you write me out of it.”

Tiny sighs. “You just don’t get it, do you? Gil Wrayson isn’t you; he’s a fictional character. I can’t just change my art because you’re uncomfortable with it.”

I try a different tack. “You’re gonna humiliate yourself up there, Tiny.”

“It’s going to happen, Grayson. I’ve got the support on the student council for the money. So shut up and deal with it.”

I shut up and deal with it, but I don’t call Jane that night. I’m not Tiny’s errand boy.

The next afternoon I take the bus home, because Tiny is busy at the student council meeting. He calls me as soon as it’s over.

“Great news, Grayson!” he shouts.

“Great news for someone is always bad news for someone else,” I answer.

And sure enough, the student council has approved a thousand dollars for the staging and production of the musical Tiny Dancer.

That night I’m waiting for my parents to come home so we can eat, and I’m trying to work on this essay about Emily Dickinson, but mostly I’m just downloading everything the Maybe Dead Cats have ever recorded. I kind of absolutely love them. And as I keep listening to them, I keep wanting to tell someone how good they are, and so I call Tiny, but he doesn’t pick up, and so I do exactly what Tiny wants—just like always. I call Jane.

“Hey, Will,” she says.

“I kind of absolutely love the Maybe Dead Cats,” I say.

“They’re not bad, yeah. A bit pseudointellectual but, hey, aren’t we all?”

“I think their band name is a reference to, like, this physicist guy,” I say. In fact, I know it. I’ve just looked the band up on Wikipedia.

“Yeah,” she says. “Schrödinger. Except the band name is a total fail, because Schrödinger is famous for pointing out this paradox in quantum physics where, like, under certain circumstances, an unseen cat can be both alive and dead. Not maybe dead.”

“Oh,” I say, because I can’t even pretend to have known that. I feel like a total dumbass, so I change the subject. “So I hear Tiny Cooper worked his Tiny Magic and the musical’s on.”

“Yeah. What’s your problem with Tiny Dancer, anyway?”

“Have you ever read it?”

“Yeah. It’s amazing, if he can pull it off.”

“Well, I’m, like, the costar. Gil Wrayson. That’s me, obviously. And it’s just, it’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of awesome to be, like, the costar of Tiny’s life?”

“I don’t really want to be the costar of anyone’s life,” I say. She doesn’t say anything in response. “So how are you?” I ask after a second.

“I’m okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Did you get the note in your coat pocket?”

“The what—no. There was a note?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Hold on.” I put the phone down on the desk and ransack my pockets. The thing about my coat pockets is that if I have a small amount of trash—like, say, a Snickers wrapper—but I don’t see a garbage can, my pockets end up becoming the garbage can. And I’m not great when it comes to taking out the pocket trash. So it takes me a few minutes before I find a folded piece of notebook paper. On the outside it says:

To: Will Grayson

From: The Locker Houdini

I grab the phone and say, “Hey, I found it.” I feel a little sick to my stomach, in a way that is both nice and not.

“Well, did you read it?”

“No,” I say, and I wonder if maybe the note is not better left unread. I shouldn’t have called her in the first place. “Hold on.” I unfold the paper:

Mr. Grayson,

You should always make sure no one’s watching when you unlock your locker. You never know (18) when someone (26) will memorize (4) your combination. Thanks for the coat. I guess chivalry isn’t dead.

yours,

Jane

p.s. I like how you treat your pockets the way I treat my car.

Upon finishing the note, I read it again. It makes both truths more true. I want her. I don’t. Maybe I am a robot after all. I have no idea what to say, so I go ahead and say the worst possible thing. “Very cute.” This is why I should adhere to Rule 2.

In the ensuing silence, I have time to contemplate the word cute—how dismissive it is, how it’s the equivalent of calling someone little, how it makes a person into a baby, how the word is a neon sign burning through the dark reading, “Feel Bad About Yourself.”

And then finally she says, “Not my favorite adjective.”

“Sorry. I mean, it’s—”

“I know what you mean, Will,” she says. “I’m sorry. I, uh, I don’t know. I just got out of a relationship, and I think I’m, like, kind of just looking to fill that hole, and you’re the most obvious candidate to fill the hole, and oh my God that sounds dirty. Oh, God. I’m just gonna hang up.”

“I’m sorry about cute. It wasn’t cute. It was—”

“Forget it. Forget the note, really. I don’t even . . . Just don’t worry about it, Grayson.”

After an awkward hanging up, I realize the intended ending of the “I don’t even . . .” sentence. “I don’t even . . . like you, Grayson, because you’re kind of how can I say this politely not that smart. Like, you had to look up that physicist on Wikipedia. I just miss my boyfriend, and you wouldn’t kiss me, so I kind of want to just because you wouldn’t, and it’s really actually not a big deal but I can’t find a way to tell you that without hurting your feelings, and since I’m far more compassionate and thoughtful than you with your cutes, I’m just going to stop the sentence at I don’t even.”

I call Tiny again, this time not about the Maybe Dead Cats, and he picks up on the first half-ring and says, “Good evening, Grayson.”