Will Grayson, Will Grayson(34)
Author: John Green

I am aware that for the first time in my memory, Tiny and Jane are following me.

Tiny decides to ignore me, and he tells Jane that he hopes one day to have enough texts from Will Grayson to turn them into a book, because his texts are like poetry.

Before I can stop myself, I say, “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’ becomes ‘u r hawt like august.’”

“He speaks!” Tiny shouts, and puts his arm around me. “I knew you’d come around! I’m so happy I’m renaming Gil Wrayson! He shall now be known as Phil Wrayson! Phil Wrayson, who must fill up on the rays of Tiny’s sun in order to become his true self. It’s perfect.” I nod. People will still assume it’s me, but he’s—well, he’s pretending to try. “Oh, text!” Tiny pulls out his phone, reads the text, sighs loudly, and begins trying to type a response with his meaty hands. While he’s thumbing, I say, “I get to pick who plays him.”

Tiny nods distractedly.

“Tiny,” I repeat, “I get to pick who plays him.”

He looks up. “What? No no no. I’m the director. I’m the writer, producer, director, assistant-costume designer, and casting director.”

And Jane says, “I saw you nod, Tiny. You already agreed to it.” He just scoffs, and then we’re at my locker, and Jane kind of pulls me by the elbow away from Tiny and says quietly, “You know, you can’t say that stuff.”

“Damned if I talk, damned if I don’t,” I say, smiling.

“I just. Grayson, I just—you can’t say those things.”

“What things?”

“Cute girl things.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because I am still doing research on the relationship between water polo and epiphanies.” She tries a small, tight-lipped smile.

“You wanna go to the Tiny Dancer tryouts with me?” I ask. Tiny is still thumbing away.

“Grayson, I can’t—I mean, I am kind of taken, you know?”

“I’m not asking you on a date. I’m asking you to an extracurricular activity. We will sit in the back of an auditorium and laugh at the kids auditioning to play me.”

I haven’t read Tiny’s play since last summer, but as I recall, there are about nine meaty parts: Tiny, his mom (who has a duet with Tiny), Phil Wrayson, Tiny’s love interests Kaleb and Barry, and then this fictional straight couple who make the character Tiny believe in himself or whatever. And there’s a chorus. Altogether, Tiny needs thirty cast members. I figure there will be maybe twelve people at the auditions.

But when I arrive in the auditorium after chem, there are already at least fifty people lounging around the stage and the first few rows of seats waiting for the auditions to start. Gary is running around handing everyone safety pins and pieces of paper with handwritten numbers on them, which the auditioners are pinning to themselves. And, since they are theater people, they are all talking. All of them. Simultaneously. They do not need to be heard; they only need to be speaking.

I take a seat in the back row, one in from the aisle so that Jane can have the aisle. She shows up just after I do and sits down next to me, appraises the situation for a second, and then says, “Somewhere down there, Grayson, there’s someone who will have to look into your soul in order to properly embody you.”

I’m about to respond when Tiny’s shadow passes over us. He kneels next to us, handing us each a clipboard. “Please write a brief note about each person who you’d consider for the role of Phil. Also I’m thinking of writing in a small role for a character named Janey.”

Then he marches confidently down the aisle. “People!” he shouts. “People, please take a seat.” People scurry into the first few rows as Tiny hurtles onto the stage. “We haven’t much time,” he says, his voice weirdly affected. He’s talking like he thinks theater people talk, I guess. “First, I need to know if you can sing. One minute of a song from each of you; if you’re called back, you’ll read for a part then. You may choose your song, but know this: Tiny. Cooper. Hates. Over. The. Rainbow.”

He jumps off the stage dramatically, and then shouts, “Number One, make me love you.”

Number 1, a mousy blonde who identifies herself as Marie F, climbs the stairs beside the stage and slouches to a microphone. She looks up through her bangs toward the back of the auditorium, where it says in large purple block letters WILDKITS ROCK. She proceeds to prove otherwise with a stunningly bad rendition of a Kelly Clarkson ballad.

“Oh, my God,” Jane says under her breath. “Oh, God. Make it end.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble. “This chick’s a lock for the role of Janey. She sings off-key, loves corporate pop, and dates bitchsquealers.” She elbows me.

Number 2 is a boy, a husky lad with hair too long to be considered normal but too short to be considered long. He sings a song by a band apparently called Damn Yankees—Jane knows them, natch. I don’t know how the original sounds, but this guy’s howler-monkey a cappella rendition of it leaves a lot to be desired. “He sounds like someone just kicked him in the nuts,” Jane says; to which I respond, “If he doesn’t stop soon, someone will.” By Number 5, I’m wishing for a mediocre rendition of something inoffensive like “Over the Rainbow,” and I suspect Tiny is, too, from the way his peppy, “That was great! We’ll get back to you.” has devolved into a, “Thanks. Next?”

The songs vary from jazz standards to boy band covers, but all the performers have one thing in common: they sort of suck. I mean, certainly, not everyone sucks in the same way, and not everyone sucks equally, but everyone sucks at least a little. I’m stunned when my lunch companion Ethan, Number 19, proves to be the best singer so far, singing a song from some musical called Spring Awakening. The dude can belt.

“He could play you,” Jane says. “If he grew his hair out and developed a bad attitude.”

“I don’t have a bad attitude—”

“—is the kind of thing that people with bad attitudes say.” Jane smiles.

I see a couple potential Janes over the next hour. Number 24 sings a weirdly good sticky-sweet version of a song from Guys and Dolls. The other girl, Number 43, has straight bleached hair streaked with blue and sings “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Something about the distance between children’s songs and blue hair seems pretty Janeish to me.