by Cynthia Hand
Finally I nod. “I know.”
Mom squeezes my hand. “Your father and I do want you to go to college. You’re so smart, and you’re so talented I know you’ll get scholarships, and we’ll make it work. Somehow, we will make college happen. But we can’t afford Juilliard.”
“I don’t want to go to Juilliard,” I blurt out.
She frowns. “You don’t?”
“No. I mean, I did. Juilliard was the dream. But only five percent of the actors who apply to Juilliard get in. I’m good, but I don’t know if I’m top five percent good,” I confess. “So even if we could afford it, I probably wouldn’t get in.”
“Oh, honey.”
“And the tuition is really high,” I say quickly before she launches into some speech about how very much she believes in me. “But then on top of that I’d have to live in New York City. Which is wildly expensive, too. Honestly, I don’t know how anybody affords to go to Juilliard.”
“There must be scholarships.”
“Which I’d have to compete for, with the five percent. Which means I’d have to be like in the top one percent.”
“Sweetie . . .” Mom’s still got that wounded look on her face, like it’s her future that’s dying by the wayside here, instead of mine.
“Lately I’ve been thinking that it’s good to have smaller dreams, too. Backup dreams.”
“Backup dreams,” she repeats faintly.
“Like maybe I’ll become a teacher, like Dad. He loves it. I probably would love it, too. Teaching runs in the family, right? So I could be a high school drama teacher, and then I’d get to plan and direct like two or three shows a year, and I’d be the boss of everybody, the undisputed theater queen, which sounds like the best thing ever, and then I’d get my summers off to have fun and do community theater.”
Mom’s trying to read my expression. “You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?”
Actually, I’m kind of making it all up on the spot. My improv skills at their finest. But I keep going. “My point is, I don’t want to apply to Juilliard. Because I don’t want to go to Juilliard. Because I have a different dream now.”
She’s looking way happier already. “Okay, so maybe . . . Boise State, then?” she suggests slyly.
I can’t hold back the groan. “Not you, too! It’s bad enough with Dad. Did you know he gave me a BSU shirt for my birthday?”
She smiles. “Well, can you blame us? That’s where we met. That’s where the magic happened, my dear.”
I hold up my hand. “I don’t need details.”
“I know BSU is your dad’s dream, not your dream,” she says with a sigh. “But it’s an excellent school, and it’s an affordable option, and I think you should give it a chance. Go visit it, anyway. Maybe you’ll like what you find there. Maybe it can be part of your backup dream, like you said.”
She’s right, I tell myself. She’s right. Of course she is.
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Okay?”
“I’ll go see it. Sometime. Soon,” I add.
She claps her hands together. “Your father will be thrilled. You want to be a teacher. And you’ll consider going to Boise State.”
For some reason this makes a lump pop up in my throat. “Go, Broncos?” I offer up weakly.
She beams. “Go, Broncos.”
Without warning Grandma blasts back into the room. “They’ve got green Jell-O today,” she says loudly, holding up a plastic bowl covered in plastic wrap. “I tried to barter for something better, like raspberry, but they told me no can do. Who in the world ever liked green Jell-O?”
She put the Jell-O on the little table next to Mom’s bed. “What’d I miss?”
I look at Mom, waiting for the boomerang to come back around and smack me in the head.
“Cass met a new boy,” Mom says instead of bringing up the college stuff. For which I am grateful. “An attractive boy, it turns out.”
“Oh dear.” Grandma shakes her head. “Is this about the sex?”
Now it’s my turn to gasp. “Grandma!”
“I was at the birthday party,” she reminds me. “You said you wanted to have sex. With the right boy. Do you think this boy is the right boy?”
“I didn’t mean what I said on my birthday,” I stammer.
“I know I said you should go for it.” Grandma keeps talking like she doesn’t even hear me. Which is entirely possible. “But honestly, if you want my opinion, now’s not the time for romance. Not at your age. You should simply enjoy being young. Don’t waste your time getting serious with anybody.”
“Mama, you got married when you were seventeen,” Mom points out.
“Look, I just met this guy,” I say, exasperated. “I don’t even know him.”
“I may have gotten married young, but no one ever claimed that was a good idea.” Grandma folds her arms across her chest. “I was in the family way. That’s what you did back then.”
Mom knows all about the “family way” thing—she was born about seven months after Grandma and Grandpa got married, and she could do the math. Grandpa died of a stroke when I was seven. But before that, from what I can remember, Grandma and Grandpa seemed happy together. So the family way thing worked out for everyone.
“You should get her some birth control pills,” Grandma adds sagely. “Or that thingy they insert up in there. No sense repeating the sins of the past.”
Oh my God. The worst thing is that I can’t tell if she means her past, with the shotgun marriage, or mine—with the irresponsible sixteen-year-old birth mother.
“We’ll get her some birth control pills,” Mom says. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Look, I don’t need—”
“And that vaccination for girls. And condoms,” Grandma adds. “Because there are so many diseases out there nowadays.”
That’s it. “I’m not having sex!” I yell right as the nurse walks in to take Mom’s vitals.
The nurse’s mouth opens, then closes. Then she turns on her heel and goes out again.
“Now see what you did,” Mom says to Grandma.
“Me? I wasn’t the one screaming about sex.”
I drag my hand down the front of my face. Then I burst out laughing. After a few seconds Mom and Grandma join in. It was too funny, the strangled look on that nurse’s face.
“Never a dull moment with you two,” Mom says, and she seems so much lighter than she did during the college talk. She seems relieved, like me saying I don’t want to go to Juilliard has lifted a weight off her chest. Which is how I know it was the right thing to do.
Grandma turns to me. “Well, aren’t you even going to tell me this boy’s name?”
“No, Grandma,” I say, still giggling. “I’m not.”
8
“She actually said that?” Nyla gasps. “Sins of the past?”
“I know, right?” It’s the next morning, and we’re standing on the empty stage in the Bonneville auditorium before the bell rings for first period. Nyla got me up this freakishly early by telling me she wanted to practice for the state drama competition. But it turns out that she actually wants to get a jump on the college audition tapes.
“Your granny is something else.” Nyla finishes screwing her video camera to the top of a tripod and steps back, looks at it critically, then adjusts it slightly to one side. “And why, exactly, did you decide to discuss sex with your grandmother?”
I cross my arms. “It’s your fault, now that I think about it. You told Mom about Bastian. And Mom told Grandma. And hence Grandma took it on herself to give me advice in the romance department. See? Your fault.”
Nyla nods. “Okay, yeah, sorry. My bad. But when I visit your mom—and come on, she’s practically my mom, too, Cass—she asks me questions about you. And she keeps asking until I give her something juicy. She’s like a cuddly, sweet version of the Spanish Inquisition.”
I give a fake gasp. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Her chief weapon is surprise. Sur
prise and fear.”
“Two,” Nyla amends, holding up two fingers. “Two chief elements. Surprise, fear, and a ruthless efficiency.”
“Three. Three chief elements.”
And we’re off on a Monty Python riff. My dad would be so proud that he’s indoctrinated us so thoroughly into a British comedy show from fifty years ago.
“All right, fine,” I say when I finish geeking out. “But try to resist my mother’s questioning when it comes to my love life, okay? Friends before mens. And, er, moms.”
“Okay,” Nyla agrees reluctantly. “He did keep staring at you yesterday when you weren’t looking,” she informs me, going back to messing with the video camera. “It’s creepy.”
“Who?”
She gives me a don’t-be-stupid look. “I gotta say, I’m with Grandma on this one. We don’t have time for boys.” She steps back and brushes off her hands. “Let’s audition for some colleges.”
“Do we have to? Can’t we just practice for state drama?”
“No more avoidance, my friend,” she says. “We’re making audition tapes. Early-admission deadlines are coming up fast. We’ve got to strike.” She pushes me to the center of the stage and retreats behind the camera. “And action,” she calls.
I give her a tired look. “Why do I have to go first?”
“And . . . action!” she says again, louder. The video camera makes a beeping noise.
I sigh and take a few seconds to compose myself, staring at the floor. Then I lift my head and try to channel Beatrice from Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. “O! that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.”
The camera beeps as Nyla stops recording. “That’s, uh, great, Cass.” She gives me what’s meant to be an encouraging smile, but I know her too well to be truly encouraged. She thought I sucked. Because I did, in fact, suck. I was kind of phoning it in.
“So that was decent, but let’s try it again,” she suggests. “This time give it everything you’ve got. Believe the ever-living shiz out of it.”
“Maybe I should do the Juliet monologue instead.” I heave my wistful Juliet sigh. “And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night.”
For some reason this makes me think of Bastian. I can immediately see us onstage together. My Juliet to his Romeo.
“No,” Nyla says flatly.
“But—”
“You should play one of Shakespeare’s strong women. This is your chance to show them you have the acting chops to be Kate. Rosaline. Lady Macbeth.” Nyla lifts her face to an invisible spotlight. “Oh, that I were a man!” she cries. “I would eat his heart out in the marketplace!”
Sigh. She’s good. She’s better than me.
“So do it one more time,” she says again. “Blow the socks completely off those folks at Juilliard.”
Ah, Juilliard. As Shakespeare would say: there’s the rub.
But I suck it up and try the monologue one more time. It doesn’t go any better.
Nyla shuts the camera off. “What is wrong with you? Did something else happen last night?”
We can joke about my mom, but the Spanish Inquisition’s got nothing on Nyla, not when she knows something’s up, so I sit at the edge of the stage and tell her about my new and improved college plans, i.e., not going to Juilliard.
Nyla slings an arm around me when I’m done talking. “I’m so sorry, Cass. That’s . . .”
“Not awesome,” I finish for her.
“Yeah.”
We’re quiet for a minute, letting it sink in. Because here’s the thing: I’ve been dreaming of Juilliard since middle school. I know I’m probably like every other drama nerd in the country—we all think we’re going to be stars. But I really did. For years I’ve haunted the Juilliard website, scouring everything I could dig up about their proud history, the plays they perform every year, the famous directors and actors who graduated from there to go on to total greatness. I’ve watched the video tour of the school an embarrassing amount of times, and I can so easily picture myself in those airy white rooms, taking acting lessons, voice, movement, singing, stage combat, all that Juilliard has to offer. From there it isn’t hard to picture myself walking the streets of New York City, strolling down Broadway, and looking up to see my own name on the marquee of a Broadway theater.
CASS MCMURTREY. Juilliard graduate. Winner of the Tony Award. (applause applause)
But that’s only a dream. I’m becoming more aware lately that I don’t live in a dream. I’m a resident of cold, hard reality.
“I mean, I guess I always knew it wasn’t going to happen,” I say. “Like I might as well apply to go to college on the moon.”
“Maybe you could—” Nyla says after a while, but I stop her. No time for wallowing. I jump to my feet.
“Let’s do yours,” I say.
Nyla frowns—but the theater is only going to be empty to film auditions for a few more minutes. So she pops up and blasts out this amazing monologue from Antigone. And then a bit from Chicago, and Emily from Our Town. She makes it look easy. Deep down I know that she would totally have a shot at Juilliard, if she wanted to go to Juilliard. But Nyla wants to go to USC. She pictures herself in Hollywood, strolling along Sunset Boulevard, her face on a movie poster at the bus stop. I can picture it, too. And Nyla never has to worry about money. Her family is loaded. Her dad is literally a brain surgeon. You could fit most of my house inside the great room of her house.
“Okay, now you again,” she says when she’s finished with her audition pieces.
“I think I’m done for today.”
She puts a hand to her hip. “Do you need me to give you a kick in the pants?”
“No, thank you.”
She turns the camera off again. “Cass. You want to go to Juilliard. You have to at least try.”
“Actually, I don’t. I’m not going to. Because I’ll either a) not get in or b) get in and not be able to afford it,” I say. “Neither of those options sounds like fun. But here’s the thing: I think that’s okay.”
I tell her about this wildly new concept of becoming a drama teacher and going somewhere more local. The backup dream.
“Oh my gosh.” She grabs my arm. “Are you actually considering going to Boise State?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s so—” She can’t even finish the sentence. I know she’s remembering all those nights we stayed up talking about how we were going to leave Idaho someday. See the world. Be part of something big and different and new.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Your dad is going to be so—”
“I know.”
She bites her lip. Nyla’s always had this idea that we should always try for the big things, the awesome things, the extraordinary. Probably because she started out in life in an orphanage in Liberia, and now she’s here. Her entire life is a freaking miracle. She’s probably so disappointed in me right now. I can tell she wants to give me a pep talk about believing in the improbable. Try, try again. Reach for the stars.
But I don’t want to hear it. “Anyway, I told my mom I might possibly consider maybe taking a look at Boise State. Like, go visit it sometime. See if it grows on me.”
“I’ll go with you for moral support,” Nyla says immediately. “Just say the word. I’m there.”
“Thanks. But it’s possible that I won’t even go to college next year. Maybe I’ll postpone.”
It feels like a betrayal to say this, because that’s me looking into the future and thinking I’ll have to postpone, because maybe my mom will—
“Okay, so let’s make a tape for Boise State,” Nyla says.
I shrug. “We should go.”
The door of the theater bursts open and a bunch of freshmen start to trickle down the aisle. Nyla and I make for the exit. We stop at our respective lockers, then walk together to the staircase, where I have chemistry downstairs and Nyla goes upstairs for French. Nyla’s quiet the whole way to class, but I can practically hear her mind going a mile a minute. Trying to figure out how she can help me.
“Wait,” she says, right before we go our separate ways. “I think that Boise State could be . . . good.”
I find myself nodding. “I could come home and see my parents on the weekends. Do my laundry. Get Dad to make me some down-home vegetarian meals.”
“And you’d be a big fish,” Nyla says.
“Excuse me?”
“If you went to somewhere huge and expensive, you’d be a little fish in a big pond. But at Boise State, you’d be a big fish in a smaller pond.”
“I think Boise State has like twenty thousand students, Ny. It’s not like it’s a community college. Not that there’s anything wrong with community college.”
She makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “What I mean is, you’d be the obvious talent. You’d get better, bigger roles, way sooner than you would at Juilliard.”
I hadn’t thought of that before. “I guess so.”
“It could be good,” she says again.
“Yeah.”
We stand there for a second, students milling around us.
“I gotta—” I point downstairs.
She nods. “Me too. And I have to make up a test during breakfast break. So I’ll see you at lunch. Lucy’s?”
