#and i don't think any adaptation has ever been as good as hairspray was

[hope-ur-ok]

the best stage musical to movie adaptation ever done was Hairspray (2007) and every other movie musical adaptation is trying (and usually failing) to recreate it's quality and successes

[thethirteencreators-blog]

Chapter 6.5

"The idiot still isn't answering his phone? Is he working late or something?"

This would be such a simple answer and I wish I could just smile and say, "Sure! That is exactly what's keeping him!" However, I know that this is a lie and I have never been good at lying. I twitch when I lie, my lips betray me and form the most devious grin, and my voice sweetens itself to the point of me sounding like a cartoon character from the sixties. "No, he isn't working late. I walked by the café. It's closed, everyone is gone," I explain to Lyric, slapping my hand onto my knee to keep my leg from shaking. My friend purses his lips, a sign that he was either really irritated or really confused. (Good chance of it being both.) The two of us were in his studio apartment, plopped down on his couch, staring blankly at the muted television in the middle of the room. I came to Lyric's place about five minutes ago and caught him in the middle of watching the movie adaptation Hairspray for the thirtieth time. He invited me in and offered me a pop, but I declined. Caffeine was not what I needed right now. I was already jittery enough. Lyric lifts up his arms in a thoughtful gesture. "Have you tried calling his coworker?" I throw him a pointed look. "Why would I have Jasmine's phone number?" It's ridiculous for him to even assume I would have it. "I don't know. She's cute." Is he joking? I can't tell if he's joking. "Not my type. Or yours, I thought." I throw him a questioning look. Lyric chuckles, taking a sip out of a cherry colored bottle of pop. "Hey, I'm pretty open minded." In all the time I've known Lyric, he has not once actually showed any interest in another human being. When I say this, I don't mean he doesn't have romantic feelings for anyone. I mean he literally finds people the most boring beings on the planet, which is why I believe he enjoys acting so much. Up on stage, he isn't surrounded by people anymore, he says, but actors. Actors are not just people in his eyes. What they are is something so much larger with so many different layers to them. Actors are the only people he can discover any intrigue in. "Anyways," I huff, changing the subject back to a more pressing matter than Lyric's so-called open mindedness, "if Jimmy calls or shows up or you see him somewhere for some reason, tell me please? That way I will know he didn't get stabbed thirty-seven times in the chest or hit by a bus." "Why is it always a bus with you? Why can't people be hit by cars anymore?" Lyric points out, getting up from his sitting position and following me towards the front door. I stand there for a second, trying very hard to let my worry go and laugh along with him. "Jimmy is too sly to get hit by a car. If he's gonna be crushed, it'll have to be something huge," I reason, rubbing my lips together. They are so dry. When I see Jimmy, I'm gonna kick his butt for taking my lip balm. My friend reaches around my body and unlocks the door for me. "Jimmy is probably fine," Lyric assures me, his hand on my shoulder. He gives me a tight squeeze, an odd show of affection from the man who hates physical contact. I have to pause when he does this and stare, which he returns with a small smile. Lyric's smiles are so rare. He knows how much I love them. "Don't get all paranoid, man. Knowing that loser, he's probably in the drama room having dinner with his mama." "Why does having dinner with his mom make him a loser? His mom is really cool," I point out. I've never understood why kids are so anti-parent. Yes, my parents weren't perfect and spent eighty percent of their time nagging at me, but I never felt a need to shove them away. I was never ashamed of them, even if they might have been ashamed of me. During the period of time after I came out as pan to them and the day I announced I wanted to go to Broadway, they seemed a little iffy on how they felt about me. We cleared it up, though, and they went back to loving me unconditionally after the initial shock wore off. A group of blonde girls stroll by in matching purple dresses, trilling about some band they were going to see live. One of them, apparently, won free tickets off the radio and another splurged to get them a limo. Kudos for them. "His moms are pretty chill," Lyric agrees, setting his hip against the doorframe. "I'll see you tomorrow for rehearsal before class, Alto. If I receive any contact from the alien life force we know as Jimmy John, I'll let you know." "You are so weird," I laugh, listening to the sound of the door clicking shut behind me.

------*

The dorm is in an oddly tranquil state when I return home sometime around midnight. Even though Lyric instructed that I don't let paranoia overcome me, I couldn't help but wander the school grounds for a few hours. I even walked all the way to Jimmy's favorite restaurant about a mile away from the school. Sometimes he goes there in the middle of the night to get some cheap noodles. That actually has become his routine during finals. Patricia, the owner, loves him for all the business he brings her. I even went as far as to actually call his mother when all else failed. She told me that she saw him at around three and hadn't heard from him since. To avoid freaking her out, I assured her he was probably just practicing somewhere secluded, wanting privacy. There's no sign of Jimmy anywhere. No call, no text, no email... Absolutely nothing. Something happened, I know it. I can feel it in my stomach every single time I think about him; this overwhelming, aching dread repeatedly splashes over me like a bucket of blood. Wherever Jimmy is, he isn't safe. I'm almost up the first flight of stairs when I consider calling the police. This might be nothing, but I refuse to take a chance. If Jimmy really is in trouble and I did nothing to help him, I will never be able to forgive myself. "Hey, Alto!" I hear someone call. I look up and find the sweet smile of Edda waiting for me. She is worn down and borderline weak looking, but still manages to be the brightest star in the room. "You were out late." I wave her off. "Hi, Edda. I was out looking for Jimmy," I explain, playing it off as if this were nothing. There is no reason to worry anybody else. "What were you doing? Partying?" "Yikes, me?" she chuckles, slapping her hand to her chest. Edda has lived down the hall from Jimmy and I since she started here last year. The two of us have a minor friendship made up of mostly childish banter and musical references. Also, she is one of the only people who does not look ready to barf when I make a terribly wonderful pun. (For example, H-2-Oh No! When I used this on my neighbor, Madison, she looked ready to slam my head in her door. Would I have blamed her? Probably not.) It's nice having a friend who doesn't treat me like the freak I know I am. I appreciate her more than I appreciate Jimmy sometimes and that is saying mounds about our simple contact. Edda pauses on the stairs before me and gestures to the tag on her shirt. "My staff kind of bailed last minute at the paper, so I'm pretty much on my own. I just needed to run back here and pick up some photographs I forgot for the front page." Ever since the beginning of the year, Edda has been the head of our school's newspaper. She is the one who compiles it all together, writes editorials, finds leads for her team of three (counting the resident cartoonist, Kam) to follow, prints everything out, and sets up the newspaper stand in the main hall. "That sucks," I say. "It keeps me busy," Edda shrugs, adjusting a strap over her arm. "Well, I best get going. Nice seeing you, Alto." "You too," I nod, watching her descend the stairs and exit through the side door. Just as I reach into my pocket, I feel my phone start to buzz. Finally, Jimmy has messaged! I pull out my device and see his name printed across the screen. Thank god, Jimmy! I hit answer and let out a breathe of relief. "Jim-Jam, you scared me to death! Where have you..." "Heads up!" the phone cackles and I'm propelled forwards. The stairs thud beneath me with each roll until I'm at the bottom, my body trembling with pain. I lift my hands and cradle my head, attempting to recollect myself. My phone lies beside me in about three different parts. For that to have happened, the fall must have been pretty intense. "Why?" I choke out, lifting my head. The attacker is nowhere to be seen. "W-where'd you go?" I try to get up but my body refuses. Every one of my limbs feels ten times its size. I can't even move my left leg. Did I break it? Could I have broken it after only falling down half a flight of stairs? A horrible thought strikes me quite suddenly and I feel bile in my throat. What if I was right and Jimmy was hurt? Maybe the same person who did this to him is doing this to me. My shoulder stings. There's something pricking it. Before I can look, what I assume is a bag is thrown over my head. I'm engulfed in darkness for a few seconds. I don't fight it. I lay there and wait for it take me away.