Five, Six, Seven, Nate! - Hardcover

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Tim Federle is the showrunner and executive producer of High School Musical: the Musical: the Series, which he created for Disney+. His novels include the New York Times Notable Book Better Nate Than Ever and its Lambda Literature Award–winning sequel—which Lin-Manuel Miranda called “a wonderful evocation of what it’s like to be a theater kid” (New York Times). A film adaptation of Nate, written and directed by Federle, will premiere on Disney+ in spring 2022. The film stars Aria Brooks, Joshua Bassett, Lisa Kudrow, and Rueby Wood as Nate. Tim’s hit series of cocktail recipe books, including Tequila Mockingbird, have sold over half a million copies worldwide. He cowrote the Broadway musical adaptation of Tuck Everlastingand won the Humanitas Prize for cowriting the Golden Globe and Academy Award–nominated Best Animated Feature Ferdinand, starring John Cena and Kate McKinnon. A former Broadway dancer, Tim was born in San Francisco, grew up in Pittsburgh, and now divides his time between Los Angeles and the internet.

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Five, Six, Seven, Nate!

The Fun’ll Come Out, Tomorrow

In musicals, characters break into song when their emotions get to be too big.

Whereas in life, of course, I break into song when my emotions get to be too big. Without getting paid for it, I mean.

“Nate, will you two keep it down up there? It’s almost midnight.”

That’s my dad, who has apparently forgotten how exciting my future is about to become. And that people sing and dance in their (incredibly small and poorly decorated) bedrooms when they’re excited. Loudly.

“Sorry, Dad!” I shout. But I do this thing where I mouth “I’m not” right before. Gets my best friend laughing, every single time.

“I ought to pack for tomorrow,” I say to Libby between huffs and puffs. We have a long-standing Sunday tradition where we belt the entire score of Godspell until either the neighbors call the cops or I lose my voice. It’s our version of church. “I guess I’ll need socks? I should pack socks.” But this Sunday is different.

“Refocus, Nate,” Libby says, dragging me to my own desk. “I’ve gotta get home soon. And we have your first Playbill bio to write.”

Cue: hopping, hollering, Dad cranking up “the game” downstairs.

Libby retrieves a stack of beat-up theater programs from her bookbag. “Let’s study bios.” She has a step-uncle in New York who sends her his Playbills. Can you imagine the luck? This is probably how most normal boys feel when they rip open a pack of baseball cards, suffer through that stick of “gum,” and then . . . I dunno. What do boys do with baseball cards? Fan themselves in the stadium heat?

“Flip to the ensemble bios,” I say. “We can bypass the stars.” We scan the little biographies that actors write about themselves, trying to settle on relevant information I might use to craft my own for E.T.: The Musical. “What the heck am I even going to write? I’m allowed fifty whole words to describe a life spent hiding from bullies in bathroom stalls.”

“That’s a good thing,” Libby says, chewing on her lip like she’s still hungry. Which you’d know is impossible, if you’d seen the way Libby ate even the crusts on our pizza tonight. “Fifty words,” she continues, grabbing a pencil sharpener from my Zorba mug, “means we get to use a ton of adjectives to tell the world where you got your training.”

I see where she’s going with this. Libby is, among other things, one of the great acting coaches of our time. She’s also the only one I know—but come on, I’m not even old enough to drive and I’m going to be on Broadway. Wowza. Even thinking about it again—

“Nate, you’re shaking.”

—makes me shake. “I’m just so . . . excited!”

Did you know that “excited” is Latin for “actually-kind-of-nervous-but-in-the-greatest-way-possible”?

“Well I, for one, am jealous,” Libby says, re-piggying a pigtail. “Not only are you making your Broadway debut—”

(Squealing, jumping, possibly a bedside lamp being broken.)

“—but you also get to do your homework online. Not that you participate in class, anyway.”

I take this as a compliment.

Knock knock knock, and I practically pee my pants. “Nathan.” You know when you didn’t even know you had to pee until your dad pounds on your door with the kind of strength that’s usually reserved for killing a burglar?

“Your mother and you are leaving early,” he says from the hallway, and then lopes away. That’s all he has to say. Everything is implied with Dad. . . . so tell that girl to go home is implied, as is . . . and stop squealing, because boys don’t squeal.

“You do know you look like him,” Libby says, “when you make that face—right?”

( . . . and don’t come back home until you’ve made us some money. That’s also implied. Though I’m not sure I ever want to come back. Not unless they name a local street after me. Nate Foster Way. Heck: Nate Foster Freeway.)

“How about this,” Libby says, slipping on a purple Converse. Oh God, she really is leaving me soon. “How about you just make it ultracool. The bio? Like, don’t even list your junior high theater credits. Just thank people. Important people who have shaped your career. Like . . . peer mentors. Or whatever.”

I grin. “Like . . . best friends?”

“Forever,” she says, fast.

She kind of wrinkles her nose the way you might see in a cartoon sneeze, fending back unexpected tears. But this is no cartoon. And I’d know, because I’ve been chased to the edges of cliffs several times after school.

“Who am I going to watch cartoons with in New York?”

“We’re almost in high school, Nate,” she says, switching tones. “We’ve got to pull it together and quit it with the cartoon business. I’ve been humoring you, but. Come on.” Brilliant move. Nothing averts sobs like insulting somebody.

“Well . . . I should clean out my closet, then, I guess.”

Which is technically true but probably won’t happen until the very last minute, once my alarm goes off. There’s too much to do tonight: get a rough draft of my bio down; brush my dog, Feather, one last time; vomit myself to sleep. While thanking the universe in between heaves.

“Yeah,” Libby says, opening her bookbag and heading for my bedroom door. “And I should get home. My mom’ll worry that I’m here so late.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she says, smirking. “What if you put the moves on me or something?”

I’m about as dangerous to a girl as a tube of mascara, but maybe that’s the joke.

“Your bookbag’s open,” I say.

“Good eye.”

“Are you giving me a going-away present?”

Libby never lets me go on a journey without supplying all the basics that any idiot would remember to bring. Like donuts, primarily.

“No, Nate. I was sort of hoping you’d have something to give me.”

I scrunch my face.

“Something tangible with a hint of your essence, Nate. Like . . . a piece of clothing. Or an old Indian-head nickel. Or something.”

I laugh. “When did you get so, like, Eastern medicine?” Miss Saigon is one of my favorite shows, so I actually know quite a bit about the Far East.

“Since none of my mom’s chemo treatments took hold,” Libby says, skin turning a shade of white that could rival unused towels, “and she started looking into alternative therapies. Is when.”

Sting. “Oh. I’m sorry. Wow.”

“Yeah. I didn’t . . . I haven’t had the heart to, like, bring the mood down. Since you’ve been talking nonstop about E.T. for two months.”

“Oh God, Libster. I’m really—”

“Not that I wouldn’t. If I were—you know—you.”

God, I am such an awful person. An awful friend. And selfish. I look myself over. And fat.

“You are not...