Look Both Ways (27 page)

Russell and I arrive late to the company meeting and lurk near the back of Legrand as Bob makes an announcement about the new show. People congratulate us over and over as they pass us on the way out the door, and a couple of girls even ask us to make sure they get solos. I hear a lot of grumbling, too—two non-eqs from
Macbeth
complain that their serious show is being “tainted” with songs, and a few girls from the
Birdie
ensemble bitch about how they’ll need to learn all new choreography. But the only reaction I really care about is Zoe’s. Her beautiful lead role is being snatched away from her, and I’m afraid she won’t take the news well. Even though none of this is my fault, I’m so involved in the new show that I’m scared she’ll blame me anyway.

But when she spots me near the theater door, she breaks into a huge smile and throws herself into my arms. “Holy crap, Brooklyn, I’m
so
proud of you!”

“Thanks,” I say. “It doesn’t even seem real yet. How are you feeling about the whole thing?”

“It totally sucks, to be honest. We’ve put so much work into
Birdie,
and it seems kind of unfair that we have to start completely over and the other cast barely has to change anything. But at least I’ve got someone on the inside who’ll make sure I still get lots of stage time, right?” She bats her eyelashes at me.

I have no idea if I’ll get any say in casting, but I say, “I’ll do what I can.”

Zoe grabs my hand. “We should go celebrate. We have the whole day off. Let’s go somewhere special.”

I can’t believe she’s finally offering this
now.
“I would really, really love to,” I say. “But Russell and I have meetings with the directors and designers all day.”

Her face falls. “Oh. Right. You’re all important now. Maybe we could go out for dinner, at least?”

“I doubt we’ll have enough of a break to go anywhere. I’m sorry.”

“All right,” she says, and I can tell she’s struggling not to sound annoyed. “Just text me when you’re done for the night, I guess, and I’ll figure something out?”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks for being flexible.”

“It’s fine. Write us something great, okay?” She’s smiling, but I know her heart’s not in it. I tell myself it’s enough that she’s trying to be happy for me, even if she doesn’t totally mean it. She’s not used to my having priorities at Allerdale other than her.

Russell and I spend the whole day in production meetings, discussing the logistics and structure of
Bye Bye Banquo
with the directors, stage managers, and design team. At first I’m too intimidated to speak much, but people keep asking for my opinions like they really matter, and I finally start to relax and concentrate on the show instead of what everyone thinks of me. When my ideas go up on the whiteboard right next to the directors’ and Bob’s and Marcus’s, I feel that same pure joy that always breaks across my family’s faces when they sing. This is so much better than performing, and I never want it to end.

But my euphoria stutters to a halt when the meeting finally wraps up and I look at my phone for the first time since this morning. It’s nearly eleven, and I have four missed calls from my mom and six texts from Zoe asking where I am. My mom can wait—I emailed her about the fire last night and told her everyone was fine—but Zoe’s going to be
pissed
that I’m running so late. I text her that I’m on my way home, then practice apologies in my head as I walk back toward Ramsey. She probably planned something special for us even though she was upset, and I’ve paid her back by ignoring her all day. I’m the worst sort-of-girlfriend ever.

When I get to the dorm, she’s waiting for me on the front steps in a little black dress with a flouncy, fluffy skirt. “Hey,” I say as I rush toward her. “I’m so, so sorry I didn’t get out until now. I know wherever you were going to take me is probably closed, and I totally suck for ruining our night, but you look
really
pretty, and I’m—”

Zoe smiles and puts a finger to my lips. Weirdly, she doesn’t look upset at all. “It’s okay,” she says. “Close your eyes.”

I do, wondering if she’s going to put a present in my hands, but instead she slips a blindfold over my eyes. “What are you—” I start, but she shushes me again.

“Follow me,” she whispers. She takes both my hands, and I let her lead me.

It’s hard to gauge how far we walk, but by the time Zoe stops me, the Allerdale background noise is gone, and all I can hear is the wind and the soft, musical chirping of crickets. Zoe runs her fingers down the sides of my face and brushes her lips against mine. “Ready for your surprise?” she asks.

When I nod, she unties the knot at the back of my head, and the blindfold falls away. We’re at the top of a small, secluded hill, far from the lights of the theater, and there’s a flowered blanket spread out on the grass. Arranged in the center are a baguette, a wedge of cheese, a bowl of strawberries, and two doughnuts on a paper plate. A bottle of champagne sweats in the humid night air and glistens in the light of a cluster of votive candles, a couple of which have blown out.

“I couldn’t get them to all stay lit at the same time,” Zoe says. “It’s too windy. Do you like it?”

The whole thing is kind of a cliché, but it turns out even cliché stuff is perfect when it’s the first time someone does it for
you.
Jason’s definition of “romance” was buying me a bunch of half-dead daisies from a bodega. Zoe put some serious effort into this, and it makes me so happy, I’m afraid I might cry.

I pull her into a hug. “I love it, Zoe. Thank you. How did you get champagne? Do you have a fake ID?”

“No, I swiped it from the fridge in the green room.”

“Won’t someone notice it’s gone?”

“Who cares? You deserve it. You’re a
professional playwright,
Brooklyn Shepard.” She tugs me toward the blanket. “Come on. Let’s drink it.”

We settle onto the blanket, and I eat a strawberry while Zoe wrestles with the champagne cork. “I can’t believe you did all this for me,” I say.

“Of course I did.” The cork pops free, and froth overflows and streams down Zoe’s arm. “Shit, I forgot glasses. We’ll have to drink out of the bottle.” She grips it by the neck and lifts it. “To Brooklyn and her complete and utter amazingness!”

She drinks and passes the bottle, and I raise it above my head. “To us!” I say, and she echoes me. When I take a sip, the bubbles explode on my tongue and warm my stomach, and I suddenly understand why people use champagne for celebrating.

“So, tell me
everything,
” Zoe says. She settles back on her elbows and shoves a huge bite of doughnut into her mouth, and for the first time since before Carlos got here, I feel like she’s really listening to me. I tell her everything I can remember about our production meeting, and by the time I’m done talking, most of the food and two thirds of the champagne are gone. My head feels light and fuzzy, like there’s a thin layer of cotton batting right behind my eyeballs.

“What’d your mom say when you told her you’re writing the new show?” Zoe asks.

At the mention of my mom, everything starts to feel less bubbly and bright. “Um…I actually haven’t told her yet,” I say.

“Oh my God, call home right now! She’ll still be awake, right? Where’s your phone? Put it on speaker. I want to hear how she reacts.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it later.”

“I don’t have to listen if you don’t want me to, it’s fine. You should call, though. You must be dying to tell everyone.”

It’s weird how Zoe knows me so well in some ways and doesn’t understand me at all in others. “Honestly? Not really,” I say.

“Why not?”

I shrug. “You’ve met my mom. You know how she is.”

Zoe looks confused. “Um, yeah. She loves you like crazy and she’s supersupportive.”

“She is when you’re doing things she approves of.”

“Why wouldn’t she approve of you writing a show for a world-renowned festival? That’s insane.”

“Because I’m not performing in anything,” I say. “That’s what’s important to my family. Plus, my mom hates parodies. You heard how she talked about my uncle’s online dating musical when we were at dinner. It’s better if I let everyone think I’m in the ensemble and then ‘get sick’ at the last second. They’ll never know the difference.”

“That sucks, though. This show is important to you, right? You seem way more excited about it than anything else you’ve done here.”

“Yeah,” I say. “This is way better than being onstage, honestly.” It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud. I take another gulp of champagne, and I’m not sure if the fizzy rush that goes through me is from the bubbles or the words.

“Then I don’t get why your family would be upset,” Zoe says. “It’s not like all of them perform. Your mom teaches, and your uncle’s a producer, and you said your dad directs, right?”

“Yeah, but my parents proved they were good enough to be onstage before they did other stuff. My uncle’s the only one who doesn’t have some sort of performance degree, and I know everyone thinks less of him for it.”

“I just don’t see how anyone could think less of you for writing a show,” she says. “What you’re doing is ridiculously impressive.”

“That doesn’t matter, though. I’m still failing at the career they want for me, you know? They’re going to find out I’m not good enough eventually when I don’t get into any acting schools, but is it so bad if I want them to believe I fit in for a little longer?”

“They’re your
family.
Of course you fit in.”

“I don’t, though.” I sigh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all angsty about it. I’m totally ruining our picnic. I think maybe I’m a little drunk?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. C’mere.” Zoe lies back on the blanket and holds out her arms to me, and I sink down and settle my body against hers. It’s weird how comfortable and familiar it already feels to lie like this, our limbs all tangled together.

“Let’s not talk about it right now,” she says. “Let’s focus on the good stuff, okay? I bet I can cheer you up.”

“I bet you can, too,” I say, because no matter what’s wrong, Zoe can always make me feel like I’m worth something. I wait for the pep talk to start, but instead she leans in and starts kissing me, warm and deep and unhurried. Her mouth tastes like champagne and chocolate frosting, and I tell myself this is good, too. I’m in the most romantic situation ever with a gorgeous, fascinating girl who loves making out with me. This is exactly what I
should
want, isn’t it?

Zoe runs her fingers through my hair and kisses the spot where my ear meets my jaw. “Feeling a little better now?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say, because I’m trying to trick myself into believing I do.

She pulls away and sits up, and for a second I think maybe she’s done kissing me for now and is ready to talk again. But then she straddles me, slips the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and pulls it down around her waist, eyes locked on mine the whole time. She isn’t wearing a bra.

“How about now?” she asks, her voice low and sultry.

My throat seizes up, and it’s suddenly very difficult to swallow or speak. It’s not that I don’t like what I see; Zoe’s skin is so beautiful in the candlelight that she almost looks more like a painting than a person, and her breasts are perfect. But there’s this sudden metallic tang at the back of my throat that overpowers all the fluttery feelings I should be having, the same panicky sensation I always get when the subway train stops in a tunnel between stations and I don’t know how long it’ll be before we start moving again. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me; I’ve seen plenty of breasts in my life, and none of them have ever scared me.

Then again, I’ve never been expected to
do
anything with them, either.

“Um,” I manage. I wish I hadn’t drunk all that champagne. Or maybe I haven’t had enough?

Zoe laughs, so low and deep, it’s almost a purr. “It’s okay,” she says. She takes my hand and tries to guide it toward her chest, but I resist.

“We shouldn’t— I mean, someone could come out here and see—”

“Brooklyn. Nobody’s coming. We’re completely alone.” She leans over and kisses me again, those warm, naked breasts hovering
right above me,
and I kind of wish I could sink into the ground. “Anyway, I don’t care who sees,” she murmurs against my mouth. “I just want you to touch me. Okay?”

If I were Carlos, I’d flip her onto her back, strip her dress off the rest of the way, and kiss every inch of her body. She probably misses his mouth and his hands and all the
things
he did to her three days ago. He already has more of a hold on Zoe than I do, and I’m afraid that if I don’t cooperate right now, I’m not going to be allowed to keep her. If touching her and losing her are the only two options, I’m sure I can swallow down my discomfort. I love her, and she’s done everything she can to make me happy. I owe her this.

Zoe sits up a little and takes my hands again, and this time I let her put them where she wants them. Her breasts are a little fuller and heavier than mine, but they basically feel the same, and I tell myself I can handle this. I trace the outer curves with my fingertips, and she closes her eyes and makes a little humming sound that tells me I’m doing something right. Before I can think too hard about it, I brush my thumbs over her nipples, and she sucks in her breath and arches her back. It makes me feel incredibly powerful, like the night I traced her tattoo, but this time all I want to do is put some space between us. That night in my bed didn’t feel sexual at all, somehow; it felt like a wordless way of discussing how we felt about each other. There was no end goal, just a wash of tingly warmth and closeness and magic. But what Zoe’s asking me for now feels totally different.

I move my hands down to her sides, into safer territory, hoping she’ll notice something is wrong. But instead, she grabs one of my hands and moves it to her inner thigh, way up under the tulle lining of her skirt. Her skin is as hot and damp as a feverish forehead. She reaches down and starts undoing the buttons on my shirt, and I reflexively start to sit up. “What are you doing?”