After Opening
I don't own "Glee," or any of its beautiful boys.
The second night of "West Side Story" was even better than the first.
Many members of the audience had returned to watch the show again, always a sure sign that they had enjoyed the first performance. The packed auditorium buzzed with excitement, then fell into an awed hush as the lights dimmed. The music swelled, fuller and more confident than the night before.
From his spot in the wings, Artie watched his cast. Friends and classmates by day, here they were transformed into their characters until he could no longer see the Glee members and Cheerios and jocks and nerds and wallflowers. Here were only Sharks and Jets; roles, costumes, lines fused into new identities. Anita straightened the ruffles at her waist. Riff rolled his head side to side and swung his arms in circles, drawing the tension from his neck and shoulders.
No one dropped a line.
That didn't stop Artie from holding his breath, waiting.
The choreography was flawless, without the stumbles and foibles of last night's missteps. And the singing! Where a few had wavered, nerves filtering through their voices on opening night, this night the clear, sure notes hit the back of the auditorium like tidal waves, lapping back over the Director in his backstage pocket. Bliss. Magic.
Maria was breathtaking. Somehow, beauty and sensuality flowed from the tips of her fingers. Silhouetted in the bright spot, Artie could feel desire emanating from her pores, seeping across the stage, wrapping the audience in its tendrils. She felt more than pretty—she was the breath of life itself, lost in the sea of loving and being loved.
It was almost as if—but, no.
And Tony. The swagger in his hips made Artie want to blush. His raw, unchecked passion was like a drug, lacing the air, leaving a panting silence after his lines. When he took Maria in his arms, palms pressed into her back like she was the only thing on earth, Artie could feel those hands on his own skin, knew the audience felt him too, in places that were surely inappropriate for high school. When he died, Artie died with him.
The transformation was so total that curtain call shocked the Director, his cast sliding from their painted, polished selves into the rough roles they occupied in the hallways of McKinley. Santana beamed back at Brittany; Mike and Puck bumped fists.
Alone at center stage, only Tony and Maria remained, transfigured still by the thunderous applause, the clasp of their hands as tender and sensuous as any moment in the play.
How?
And then the curtain closed, and the cast stepped back, and Officer Krupke slipped his hand into Tony's, intertwining their fingers, placed a light kiss just where the corner of Tony's smile folded into his cheek. Tony turned his face from the curtain, the light in his shining eyes focused only on the boy beside him. Still beaming, Blaine pressed his forehead to Kurt's, just under the rim of the officer's hat.
And Artie knew.