Look Both Ways (31 page)

I get to the bistro early so I’ll have some time to compose myself, but Mom is already there when I arrive. She looks so happy to see me that I wish I could freeze this moment and seal it in a glass jar, so I could take it out and stare at it in the future when nothing is the same between us anymore. I love her fiercely, and I know she loves me back, but sometimes love isn’t enough to mask disappointment.

Mom springs to her feet, throws her arms around me, and rocks me back and forth. “It’s so good to see you,” she says. “It feels like it’s been forever, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” I say. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Of course we’re here! We wouldn’t miss our girl’s first performance in Legrand for anything.”

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“He’ll be here in a few minutes—he’s parking the car. Sit down, sit down.”

I do, and Mom settles in across from me and pours me water from the carafe on the table. “Is Zoe on her way?” she asks.

I’ve been so focused on the other conversation I need to have with my parents that I completely forgot that they thought Zoe was joining us tonight. I consider telling my mom my “girlfriend” is busy—at least I could save face in one small way—but it’ll hardly make a difference in light of the huge bomb I’m about to drop on her. I might as well come clean about everything.

“Zoe’s not coming,” I say. “We broke up.”

My mom looks stricken. “Oh no! When did that happen?”

Five days, eighteen hours, and six minutes ago,
reports my brain, but my mouth says, “Earlier this week.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Was it because of her boyfriend? I know they have an open relationship, but men can be so possessive.”

“No, it had nothing to do with him. I just…couldn’t do it anymore.”

The sympathy on my mom’s face morphs into exasperation, and my stomach turns over; I’ve been here all of two minutes, and things are already starting to go sour. “Oh, Brookie,
no,
” she says. “I know dating women is new for you, but Zoe’s such a remarkable girl, and you can’t let someone like that slip away just because you’re nervous!”

“It’s not because I was nervous,” I say. “And it’s not because she’s a girl, either. I’m not saying I’ll never like a girl. But I wasn’t into her the way I thought. I really tried, but it didn’t work out.” That explanation still doesn’t feel like enough, so I add, “I’m sorry.”

Mom puts on the patient voice she uses when she’s explaining a vocal exercise to a small child. “Things don’t always come easily at first when you’re dating someone new. You have to give it a chance. Relationships take time and work. You had to work with Jason, didn’t you? And Zoe’s such a better investment. She has all her priorities in order, and she’s absurdly talented, and she would fit in so well with our family—”

“But none of that matters if I’m not attracted to her,” I say. “I know it’s not the only part of being in a relationship, but it has to be
a
part, right?”

“It’s only been a few weeks! That’s not nearly enough time to figure out what you want. If you stick it out for the rest of the summer, I think—”

“Stop,”
I say. “Please just stop, okay? It’s already done. And I love you, but you don’t get any say in this.”

My mom blinks a couple of times, like it has never occurred to her that some things aren’t her business. I can tell there’s a lot more she wants to say, but she manages to swallow down the words. “Fine,” she says. “We won’t talk about it right now. Let’s talk about why—”

Behind me, the door swings open, and I hear my dad’s voice say, “Hey, Brookie.” I jump up to hug him, grateful for the momentary reprieve, and that’s when I realize he’s not alone. My entire family is here, grinning at me from the doorway of the bistro. Uncle Harrison in his pink madras shorts. Desi with Twyla in his arms, and Jermaine, holding Sutton by the hand. Marisol, beaming and exhausted, with a tiny new baby strapped to her chest. Christa, toting the second twin in one of those car seats with a handle. A third woman, who looks like an older version of Christa, stands a few steps behind everyone with a giant diaper bag.

“Oh my God,” I say. “What are you guys
doing
here?”

“What do you think, silly?” Marisol says. “We’re here to see your Allerdale debut!”

“We’re so proud of you,” says my dad as he wraps me in his arms. I inhale his familiar wintergreen smell, and all of a sudden, I’m dangerously close to tears. My whole family came all this way to celebrate with me as I finally emerge from my chrysalis and open my shiny new wings on the Legrand stage. And instead, they’re about to find out I haven’t transformed into a talented, confident performer at all—and worse yet, that I never will. I can’t believe I have to disappoint everyone at once.

I make the rounds and hug them all, and Christa introduces me to her mom, who’s here to watch the kids while she and Marisol come to the show. The baby in the car seat wakes up and starts flailing its tiny arms and legs, and I lean over and stare into two big blue eyes. “This one’s Jasmine,” Christa says. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Can I?”

She looks at me like I’m nuts. “Of course. You’re her family.”

She unclips the car seat straps and hands the baby over, and I settle Jasmine into the crook of my arm so her head is supported. She’s wearing a onesie with
FUTURE TONY WINNER
printed across the front, and I send the universe an image of her growing up wildly talented and living up to my family’s every expectation. “Say hi to your Auntie Brooklyn,” Christa croons to her tiny daughter, and Owen lets out a cry and kicks his legs, like he’s annoyed by all the attention his sister is getting. Marisol starts bouncing up and down, which seems to soothe him. I wish I could be calmed that easily.

The waiter pulls a bunch of tables together for us, and everyone talks over each other and moves chairs around and passes bags and children back and forth as they attempt to settle in. The second we’re all sitting, Twyla knocks over a carafe of water, and Sutton loudly demands noodles with no sauce over and over as Desi tries to mop her off with paper napkins. Being with my family is as chaotic and wonderful as always, and this time when everyone starts reminiscing about Allerdale, I’m able to chime in with experiences of my own. I’ve danced in the cage at Pandemonium. I know how it feels to be super-sleep-deprived during third rotation. I’ve taken a class with Marcus and tried all the coffee shops and ice cream places. One last time, I let myself pretend I’ve achieved the kind of camaraderie with everyone that I pictured during our last Family Night.

But then Marisol grabs my hand and says, “So, how much of this show do we have to sit through before we get to see your gorgeous face onstage?”

Everyone looks at me expectantly, and I spend one crazy minute wondering if there’s still a way I can keep my role in this show a secret. But that’s insane; my name’s on the front of the program, and my family will notice when I don’t appear onstage. My confession will sting like ripping off a Band-Aid, but the quicker I do it, the sooner it’ll be over.

“Listen,” I say. “I’m so happy you guys are here, but…you should know that I’m not actually performing tonight.”

“What?” My mom’s voice comes out higher than usual, skirting the edge of hysteria. “Why not? Is something wrong?”

“Are you sick, Brookie?” asks Uncle Harrison.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” I say. “Here, look.”

I pull a program out of my bag and slide it across the table, and everyone leans in to look at the glossy booklet. “
BYE BYE BANQUO
” proclaims the cover page in thick black letters. There’s a dagger in the
O,
and it’s dripping blood into a puddle below. Inside the puddle, it says, “Directed by Alex Kaufman and Rico Fernandez. Book by William Shakespeare. Lyrics by Russell Savitsky and Brooklyn Shepard.”

“Wait, I don’t get it,” Marisol says. “Didn’t the songs already have lyrics?”

I tell them all about the twenty-four-hour play festival, how well
A Midsummer Night’s Dreamgirls
went over with the company, how Bob decided to use our structure for the new show after the fire. I watch my family’s faces as I explain how integral Russell and I were in creating
Bye Bye Banquo,
hoping someone will look impressed, but they all still seem confused.

“So, these songs are like the funny ones you write with Harrison?” Christa asks.

The parodies Uncle Harrison and I write are always ridiculous—a melodramatic rant about the New York City subway system to the tune of “Memory” from
Cats,
or a tribute to a particularly weird street performer set to the tune of “Angel of Music.”

“I mean, kind of,” I say. “But this is way more professional, and most of the songs aren’t funny. Russell and I really tried to embody the spirit of both
Birdie
and
Macbeth.
”

My mom’s mouth is set in a hard line. “I can’t
believe
they pulled you out of the ensemble to write parodies,” she says. “That’s completely unfair to you! You came here to get performance training, not to do them favors. Your director should give you some individual voice lessons to make up for what you missed. I’m going to talk to him and—”

I cut her off. “They didn’t pull me out. I was never actually in the show. I’m so sorry I lied to you, but I wasn’t cast in anything except that horrible side project.”

“What?”
my mom yelps. “What have you been
doing
all this time?”

“Working with the scenic and lighting crews, mostly.”

Everyone starts talking at once, a wash of incredulity and sympathy, and Marisol starts rubbing my back. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I know you had really high hopes for your first summer at Allerdale.”

My mom looks panicked. “Why didn’t you
say
something? You’ve wasted months of good training time, and your Juilliard audition is coming up! I could’ve called Marcus! Or I could’ve—”

“I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” I say. “And I don’t think calling Marcus would’ve made a difference. He already did you a favor by letting me in, right?” I wait for her to deny it, but she doesn’t. At least now I know for sure.

“Don’t worry too much about it, poodle,” Desi says. “All I got to do the first year I was here was hold a spear and shout, ‘Halt!’ Everyone has to pay their dues, right? And now you’ve gotten it over with.”

Jermaine nods. “They’re definitely going to remember how much you helped them out when you come back next year. And then it’ll be your turn to be onstage, and someone else will be telling you what to sing.”

I’m grateful to them for trying to build me back up; it’s obvious how much they care about me. But feeling supported and adored isn’t the same as feeling known, and it’s time to let my family really
see
me. I sit up a little straighter in my chair and hope against hope that my next confession doesn’t bring everything I love crashing down around me.

“Here’s the thing,” I say. “Allerdale’s really great, and I totally get why you guys love it so much. But I don’t want to come back here next year, and I don’t want to audition for Juilliard, or anywhere else. I don’t want to perform at all anymore.” It’s hard to bite back the
I’m sorry
that springs to my lips, but I manage to keep it in. I shouldn’t have to apologize for what I want.

Jermaine reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t give up on your dream because of one bad experience, Brookie. If you want it enough, I know you can—”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, though,” I say. “This isn’t my dream. I want to love performing like you guys do, but I don’t. And I think maybe it’s time to stop trying to force things and do something that actually makes me happy.”

“But you’ve wanted this forever,” my mom says. “Everyone has doubts when the going gets tough, but you have to make an effort to push forward anyway. I know you feel comfortable writing parodies and playing the piano, but you can’t just give up and hide behind that. The only way to improve and become the best you can be is to step out of your comfort zone.”

“I don’t want to write songs because it’s easy or comfortable,” I say. “It’s actually really hard. I want to do it because I love it.”

“Sweetheart, writing parody lyrics isn’t the same thing as writing songs. You can’t make a career out of—”

“But it’s not just that,” I say. “I write original stuff, too. There’s one in the show tonight, actually. Look.” I flip the program open to the list of musical numbers and point to my song, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow.” “I wrote that. It’s not from
Birdie
. And…I think it’s actually pretty good.”

Everyone goes silent and stares at the program like they’re trying to make sense of a foreign alphabet. Finally, Uncle Harrison says, “You wrote the music, too?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I never knew I could do that, but apparently I can. Our music director helped with the orchestration, but I’m learning.”

“Brookie, that’s awesome,” he says. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

I smile at him—at least someone’s on my side, even if it’s the black sheep of the family. “Thanks,” I say. “Listen, I know the rest of you must be so disappointed in me right now. But I hope you’ll still come to the show and try to keep an open mind, and—”

“Wait, what?” Marisol says. “Why would we be disappointed in you?”

“Because I didn’t live up to what you wanted me to be. You guys must think I’m a total failure.”

“How are you a failure? You can write
songs
. That’s
so cool
.”

“We’re just really surprised,” my mom says. “You can see how this is kind of coming out of nowhere, right? You’ve been begging to audition for Allerdale since you were in second grade.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you didn’t want to go anymore?” asks my dad. “We wouldn’t have forced you.”

“I did want to,” I say. “I thought I did. You guys are always talking about this place and how perfect it is, and I thought if I could come here, it would…
fix
me, you know? Like, maybe it would finally make me love performing, and then I’d feel like I was really part of the family.”