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really,” Daniel admitted.

      “Okay, well just try putting some more passion into it, would you, Daniel? See if you can’t work up some tears for us.”

      “I’ll try,” Daniel said. His hair vibrated.

      “That’s all anyone can reasonably ask of you,” Dylan assured him.

      Daniel was just about to begin when Tiffany spoke up from the curtains, “How come you’re so much nicer today, Mr. G?”

      “Am I nicer today?”

      “About a thousand times.”

      “Well, I got a good night’s sleep for one thing. That may have something to do with it.”

      It was true. Last night he’d made a point of sleeping on the living room sofa so he could follow Dr. Cohen’s advice and omni up some tinnitus-masking white noise without disturbing Erin. Sure enough, he’d slept like the proverbial baby, and it no longer bothered him so much if Daniel Young wasn’t the greatest Shakespearean actor in the universe; indeed, as Daniel proceeded to act out his scene there in the classroom, it was clear that, despite overwhelming odds, he didn’t have a Shakespearian atom in his body.

      Surprises were possible, of course.

      • • •

Back when Dylan was fourteen, no one would have guessed that he’d go on to be a famous actor one day. It wasn’t until his senior year, after all, that his father overheard him belting out Pearl Jam’s “Black” in the shower one evening8 and encouraged him to try out for the spring musical, which was Jesus Christ Superstar that year. Dylan would have been content to be in the chorus, so he was rather terror-stricken when he checked the board the morning after callbacks to find he’d gotten the lead.

      8_____________

      He especially liked to let loose toward the end:

      I know someday you’ll

      have a beautiful life,

      I know you’ll be a star,

      in somebody else’s sky,

      But why, why, why can’t

      it be, can’t it be mine?

      Despite feeling in the secret mind at the back of his ordinary mind that he was meant to play this part, he was so off-the-charts nervous during the next couple months of rehearsal that he felt as if he was always on the verge of puking. Mr. Armstrong, the casting director/geometry teacher, was tough on him, always making sure he hit precisely the right pitch and stood in just the right place on stage when he hit it. Dylan’s worst fear was that he would blank during a live performance and forget the words, so in the interest of being over-prepared, he spent so much time and energy at home listening to cast recordings of Superstar, and recording himself singing it, that his eyes went all raccoonish and his grades tanked in every subject except English, which had always been easy for him.

      But then, come opening night, his efforts paid such high dividends that he didn’t merely sing the songs so much as he became them. And just as in his audition, he didn’t quite realize what he’d done until it was over and he was taking his curtain call. But whereas a couple of dozen kids had clapped for him after his audition, several hundred adults were now giving him a standing ovation. Dylan Greenyears had found his calling, and everyone in the school knew it.

      Overnight, Dylan became as popular as it was possible to be at Cardinal O’Hara High School, and not just among his peers but teachers, parents, custodial staff, alumni, and everyone else who’d come to see the show or read the stellar reviews in the News of Delaware County or The Springfield Press as well. To be sure, there are few ways to inflate a teenager’s ego more than to assign him the role of God in the school musical. One way, though, is to award him “Most Likely to Be Famous” in his senior yearbook, and Dylan had that honor too. It didn’t hurt things either that he had lately begun dating Erin Wheatley, the dance captain, who’d been cast as his temptress in more ways than one. The future had never looked so gorgeous.

      Then, a few weeks after graduation, Dylan had his first brush with bona fide celebrity. Chad Powell, who’d played Judas opposite Dylan’s Jesus and was soon to be his roommate at Temple University, found them a gig as extras in 12 Monkeys, a time travel film about a boy who witnesses his own death as an older man. The Convention Center had been made up to look like an airport, and over the course of two days Dylan and Chad played a couple of luggage-toting travelers. The opportunity to work with (i.e. in the same film as) Bruce Willis and Brad Pitt would have been compensation enough; that they were granted access to the same catered spread as the stars was just a bonus. Indeed, for Dylan it would turn out to be something of a bonanza.

      He was in the donut line on their second morning on the set when a voice from behind him intoned, “I’ve had my eye on you since yesterday.”

      Dylan peered over his shoulder. The dude was big, had long hair and was wearing some sort of cowboy hat. Chad was over in the coffee line, so Dylan was on his own here. “Um…why?”

      “You’ve got the sort of look I’m after.”

      “I have a girlfriend,” Dylan replied. He knew acting had a reputation for drawing gay dudes, and he had nothing against them; he just didn’t happen to be one himself.

      The guy chuckled. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

      Dylan looked again. “Should I?”

      “Not necessarily. I do happen to be directing this film you’re in, though. Pleased to meet you. Name of Terry.”

      The two plain donuts on Dylan’s styrofoam plate leapt off and began rolling in opposite directions. Dylan wasn’t as up on his directors as he’d have liked, but murmurs from other extras had made it clear that Terry Gilliam was a pretty big deal. “I’m so sorry,” Dylan said. “I feel like an idiot.”

      “No worries,” Gilliam said, taking two more donuts from the tray and setting them on Dylan’s plate. Once they were steady, he fished around in his wallet, took out a business card and placed that on the plate as well. “I’m quite busy today, for obvious reasons, but I want you to call me this evening. Say around nine or ten? Can you do that?”

      “Okay,” Dylan said, oblivious as to what was going on.

      “Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

      “Sure,” Dylan said.

      “And what, may I ask, is your name?”

      “Dylan…uh…Dylan Greenyears.”

      “Perfect,” Gilliam said, putting one hand on Dylan’s shoulder and grabbing himself a croissant with the other. “Now back to the wars.” He winked at Dylan and went off to direct Bruce Willis.

      Dylan had no idea what he’d just agreed to—why in God’s name did this world-famous director want to have lunch with him? And was his lack of understanding somehow his own fault? Had he missed some subtle cue or signal? Failed to interpret Hollywood-ese?

      For some reason, either because he didn’t want to presume or didn’t want to gloat—he himself wasn’t sure—Dylan went the whole day without mentioning to Chad what had happened. Filming ended around seven, and Chad suggested they go get some grub, but Dylan told him he was feeling sick to his stomach, which was true in a way. He dropped off Chad at eight-fifteen, got home at eight twenty-eight, and called Mr. Terry Gilliam one fashionable minute after nine o’clock.

      He answered on the first ring. “Hi there, Dylan. I’m glad you called. Look, I know I suggested lunch tomorrow, but it turns out I’ve got a prior engagement.”

      “That’s okay,” Dylan said, crestfallen.

      “However,” Gilliam went on, “could you meet me for some s’mores at around half three? There’s a café at 4th and Chestnut. It’s spelled ‘X-a-n-d-o,’ though I

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