"What?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "So you don't like him?"
"I don't know him." He forced himself to speak more quietly. "Anymore."
Had he done something to give himself away? Had Wince noticed? What was she saying exactly?
"Dad. It's okay to like someone. He's nice to you." Keisha laughed at him and studied his face. "And you return the favor. I ship it." She squinted at something in the distance. "Did Mom like him? She must've." As if she'd read his mind a moment ago.
"She never met him."
"She would've though. A lot." A tight nod. "Why does he call you Jug?"
"A long, crazy story. Not for little people." A quick memory of Thad Plasky showing up to school with black eyes, chipped teeth, and his nose taped for a week. "Because that's what he calls me."
An approaching van made an illegal right. Jerome covered his embarrassment by turning to watch it barreling right through the crosswalk.
"So I was right." She pushed her hands into her coat, obviously proud of her mind-reading skills. "About Wince?"
The stage door buzzed and swung open. The security guard nodded at the desk.
"Maybe." He blinked and hugged her. "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day."
"Well, yeah." Keisha rolled her eyes. She stepped inside walking backward, laughing. "But only if you happen to be looking at exactly the right second." Only then she turned, dropping the tail.
Once burned ...
Heading around to the Koch entrance, he made his way to the front of house in the dim theater and found a seat with the teachers and kids watching the empty stage.
"Places. Places, people," said a voice from overhead.
THE DRESS REHEARSAL WAS not a date, but it sure as hell felt like one.
All November, Jerome had wrestled with himself, terrified he was overanalyzing but afraid of missing his chance, if one existed. Impossible. He kept hoping they'd bump into each other before or after school, but no deal. He saw Flip with a nanny a couple of afternoons, but no Wince. He found their number in the school directory, but it went undialed 'til Keisha called with her invitation.
Wince couldn't come 'til one. He'd see the second act, Keish's bit with Mother Ginger at least.
"He's been on a tour," she said. "He sounded weird. Tired."
"Weird how?"
"Dad, he's your friend."
By eleven a.m. Jerome was a mess. By the intermission, panic set in.
He'd slept like hell the past three nights. Distracted at the gym. Now he paced just inside the stage door, waiting for Wince and his son so they could run backstage before the second half got started. He forced his breath slower as if he were benching three hundred pounds.
If nothing else, they'd talk. Right?
"Sorry, Jug." Wince's hair was slicked back in a wavy helmet, parted no less, and he was wearing a suit. Madman makes good. He was out of breath and glazed with sweat in the cold air. "Sorry, I'm late."
Jerome whistled. "You look sharp." At least he'd put on khakis and a sweater. He saw a lot of rehearsals with dance moms. He never would've thought to wear a suit, but Wince looked like a million bucks. "I feel underdressed."
"You look great. You always look great."
He shifted his weight uneasily.
"Sorry I missed the first half." Since when did Wince sweat? "Label meeting. I tried to get away faster."
He waved away the worry. "First act is pretty much opening presents and fights."