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Or as cool looking at least, especially if Montego’s has a barber in the back.
    I know I’m going to arrive at my first audition literally changed for the better.

Definitely Changed, “For the
     Better” Undecided
    O verall it is impossible to tell, with my
     fashion experience (wearing whatever Boy’s Husky clothes my mom throws on the bed,
     once every two years), whether the new look is an improvement on the old look. The old
     look being the way I’ve looked, every day, for the last thirteen years.
    God, I can’t believe I’m thirteen. Such an unlucky number.
    My new friend Duane helps me out with the Montego’s purchases (the
     many Duane Reades , he informs me, sell everything in the
     world: baby wipes, Star magazine,
     carrots—everything).
    “Do you think I look like a ten-year-old who lives in California and
     rides magical flying bicycles?” I say to Duane, not kidding.
    “For sure, brother,” he says.
    “Okay, thanks. Because”—I lift up the giant plaidEckō Unlimited shirt he’s dressed me in, something Anthony could probably catch a gust
     with and sail to Saturn on, winning awards and creating a new Galactic sports
     event—“I’m not so sure I can pull this ensemble off.”
    “Trust me,” Duane says, texting somebody, probably a girl who
     likes guys in big shirts, “this is an upgrade.”
    I guess he’s got a point. No matter how out of place I may feel in
     clothes that my friend Jaime Madison might don, it’s better to walk into a job
     interview dry. Wet clothes worn to a Broadway audition are probably a sign of some kind
     of mental condition.
    “Okay,” I say. “And the hat?” He puts a very neato
     Yankees cap on me and twists it sideways, and I go to bend the brim and remove the
     flashy silver sticker, but Duane actually smacks my hand and goes, “Brother, the
     hat is fly. The hat is you.” Still texting, still looking away.
    “So, I should pay for all this,” I say, following him to a
     cash register, where a young girl is smacking bubble gum and filing her nails.
    (She’s supernice, by the way, and even gives me a free plastic bag
     in which to store my original, dripping outfit.)
    Back out the door, the sun is set to full blast, lighting the streets a
     shimmering slick. It’s ten to ten, andI need to get to the Ripley-Grier Studios, now just a block away.
    • Bookbag: check.
    • Libby’s mystery manila envelope: check; damp, but
     check.
    • Old clothes, the old me, bunched up in plastic bag, stuffed
     into bookbag (had to throw out one clean pair of underwear to make room, but must be
     smart about space): check.
    • Dead Nokia: check.
    • Most important, all remaining donuts intact: check.
    I scan the addresses from across the street, walking past a comfortingly
     familiar White Castle, and then cross with a clump of folks who don’t seem to be
     minding the Walk/Don’t Walk signs at all. I love it here: the people rule the traffic, and cars must stop and—oh, wait, that Honda
     almost killed that lady. Okay. I’ve still got things to learn.
    And here it is.
    Ripley-Grier!
    Huh.
    Different than I’d imagined in my bus ride mind-movie of the day to
     come. Ripley-Grier appears to just be an office building, just a simple office building.
     The kind that other kids’ dads, the ones with real jobs,would
     probably work in and make their families a lot of money.
    I walk through a shiny-floored lobby, aware suddenly of how slippery and
     cumbersome my new purple Adidas high-tops are, and step up to a security guard. Here
     goes literally everything.
    “I am here for E.T.: The Broadway Musical
     Version , sir.” My voice is jittery, or I am.
    “Which floor?”
    “Which floor ?” I repeat back at him.
     “The floor with E.T.: The flipping Broadway Musical Version on it,” I want to say.
    “Yes. Which floor y’visiting?” Perhaps he is being
     hostile with me because of my outfit. It does appear as if I could smuggle drugs or a
     small