Panic

by Sasha Dawn

Me: Her KIDS are a big part of his life.

  Hayley: And???

  Me: And we’re not part of that life.

  Hayley: That’s not true.

  Me: He’s supposed to have me every other weekend.

  Me: He cancels all the time.

  Hayley: He’s a busy guy.

  Me: He’s not too busy for Miss Karissa.

  Me: Or “Jennica and the boys.”

  Me: Nana’s sure they’re living there.

  Hayley: Nana should stay out of it.

  Me: But you have to admit he has us totally separated from these people.

  Hayley: You’re too old to be playing this card.

  Me: What card?

  Hayley: It’s time for you to grow up.

  Hayley: Let Dad have this.

  Hayley: Not everything has to be about you.

  Me: That’s not the point.

  Me: It doesn’t have to be about ME

  Me: But shouldn’t we be part of the equation?

  Hayley: Typical.

  Hayley: Who says you aren’t part of it?

  Me: ???

  Me: Have you been listening?

  Me: Scroll up. Read.

  Me: This is about US.

  Hayley: Since you were born, everything has been about you.

  Hayley: Did I complain?

  Hayley: My whole childhood was about getting you to auditions.

  Hayley: The world revolved around you

  Hayley: And now, the second something doesn’t go your way, you’re losing it.

  Hayley: Grow up.

  Hayley: Stop complaining.

  Me: I’m not throwing a fit because Dad’s dating someone.

  Hayley: Really? Sure sounds like it.

  Me: Easy for you to say.

  Hayley: I love you

  Hayley: But you’re being a brat.

  My fingertips go numb, and suddenly it feels as if I’m closing out the rest of the world. All I hear is static in my ears. It’s hard to draw a deep breath.

  It’s okay, I tell myself. It’ll pass.

  I call this a Mini Panic Episode, or MPE. There was a time these feelings might have exploded into some serious struggles, but during the six months Ted lived with us, he taught me to acknowledge the panic and let it go, like a fleeting thought. Some attempts are more successful than others.

  And this one is needling me. My sister, who’s always supposed to take my side, called me a brat, and I’m worried she might be right (because she usually is). If someone who knows me as well as she does can label me that way, how might the outside world see me?

  I imagine gossip columns of a future I may never know filled with testimonials about some bratty thing Madelaine Joseph said or did. Worse than not performing: being famous . . . for negative reasons.

  I scan my text exchange with Hayley carefully. I really don’t think I was being a brat. She’s just not understanding what I’m saying.

  I’m not angry, or sad, or disturbed that Dad’s dating. That’s what happens when parents get divorced, isn’t it? I’m upset that he has something important in his life and doesn’t think enough of me to involve me in it.

  I screenshot the conversation and think to send it to someone for feedback. But who? Nana would be my first choice, but I don’t like that Hayley basically thinks Nana’s out of line.

  Ted, maybe. I used to be able to talk to Ted about all of this. But inviting Ted into this situation could only set me up to miss the way things used to be.

  I’m alone in this.

  Me: I can’t believe you’d say that to me.

  Hayley: Oh wow.

  Hayley: I mean I get that it’s an adjustment.

  Hayley: But after the things you’ve said to me today

  Hayley: Major eyerolls.

  Hayley: Stop obsessing about things you can’t control.

  Hayley: I’m here for you.

  Me: Right.

  Hayley: I am!

  Hayley: But I’m not going to pretend you’re not being egocentric.

  Me: You just aren’t listening.

  Hayley: For fun, here’s a compilation of all my pics of Vagabonds.

  Hayley: Click here for my montage.

  A link comes through. It’s a series of photographs and clips that ends with the lead singer strumming his guitar in slow motion. I send an array of hearts to Hayley.

  Haley: I MISS THEM!

  Me: #intouchwiththatemotion

  I click over to the website to see if there are any new clues as to when they’ll be back in business. But there’s nothing. No new tweets on either of their accounts, nothing on Instagram.

  No amount of wishing will make them come back into the limelight until they’re ready. If they’re ever ready, that is.

  And what about me? Am I ready for what I have to do next? No one else is going to make life easy for me. I’m not happy with the way things are going—I don’t like Saint Mary’s on the Mount. I belong somewhere else, living a life that’s more me. If I want things to change, I have to make them happen for myself.

  On Lyrically, I message Dylan Thomas: Yes. Let’s talk.

  I send them my work in progress. If they realize that the notes flow with the words they wrote on the origami moon, I’ll believe it’s not just my imagination. And maybe we really can collab and make all these single elements into something magical.

  As soon as I hit the send button, I panic. God, what if my song sucks? What if Dylan Thomas listens to it and decides I’m a talentless idiot? Or what if they think I’m being presumptuous, like they’d really want to hear my creation?

  Breathe. Just recall the message.

  My finger hovers over the recall button.

  I hesitate. I have to put myself out there if I ever expect to go places.

  And so what if Dylan Thomas thinks I’m an idiot? I don’t even know this person, and they live in Englewood. It’s not like I’m likely to bump into them.

  Still . . . maybe I should at least have a conversation with him before I decide to bare my soul to him. Because that’s what sharing creative forces is—especially when there’s no character standing between you and your work.

  I go to recall the message, but a split second before my finger hits the screen, Lyrically alerts me that he’s opened it.

  Too late.

  Nausea spins in my gut.

  There’s nothing I can do. Dylan’s already holding my proverbial heart in their hands. If they’re a jerk, they’ll squeeze the life out of me, belittle me, make fun of me for thinking I can actually be someone someday. If they’re not, they’ll politely say they like what I’ve done, and I won’t know whether or not they’re telling the truth.

  Lose/lose.

  Maybe I’d feel more confident in my abilities if I were studying under people who can give constructive feedback. That’s the problem with this world. Everyone’s a critic, but no one knows the true art of criticism. The internet, for all its wonderful attributes, makes bashing and name-calling an art form. Everyone’s got an opinion and everyone wants to share it, but no one’s as much of an expert as they think they are.

  I curl into a ball and imagine a barrage of insults popping up in tiny conversation bubbles on screens of all sizes.

  You suck.

  Talentless hack.

  Don’t quit your day job.

  I can’t.

  I just can’t.

  Why did I share that song?

  I hear my mother’s voice in my head: Shut the world out. Just perform. This isn’t about anyone out there. It’s about you . . . you and that stage. You love it. Share your time with it, your heart with it, your soul with it, and it will love you, too.

  I will.

  It’s a vow I speak practically every time I sing, even if I’m just singing in the shower.

  I pull myself up. Picture myself on the stage. Maybe I’m playing my guitar. Maybe I’m singing along. Maybe I’m dancing.

  “Forget about the boy, forget about the boy, forget about the boy!�
�

  I obey the song and shake off the feelings of inadequacy. I replace them with focus.

  I will be what I strive to be.

  Make it happen, I tell myself. One way or another, make it happen.

  Step one: I pull up the site for Chicago’s premier performing arts academy, and I begin to draft a note to the dean of admissions: My name is Madelaine Emmah Joseph. I auditioned and was accepted into the academy three years ago. However, due to financial circumstances beyond my control, I have been unable to enroll . . .

  Maybe she’ll be willing to help me figure out tuition since my parents can’t put their differences aside to make it happen for me.

  Next, I start compiling an online portfolio, including the programs of all the shows I’ve been in, tracks of bits of music I’ve written, snippets I’ve played on the ukulele, guitar, piano—and even a little bit of flute. If the dean gets back to me, I can share this with her as proof of my commitment.

  An alert from Lyrically distracts me.

  It’s a message from Dylan Thomas.

  Chapter 7

  Dylan: So you’re a composer.

  Me: Sometimes.

  Dylan: Dancer.

  Dylan: Actor.

  Dylan: Mezzo soprano.

  Dylan: Anything you don’t do?

  Me: I’m not a poet.

  Me: But you are.

  Dylan: Eh.

  Dylan: Every once in a while I come up with something vaguely poetic

  Me: The origami moon . . . your words are beautiful.

  Dylan: Like I said.

  Dylan: Every once in a while.

  Dylan: But I’m not like you.

  Dylan: Your song is amazing.

  Me: Thanks.

  My profile page has my profession listed simply as “performer.”

  My location: Stting on a cornflake.

  Goals: To be as vibrant and varied as the Ultimate Crayola Collection.

  Me: How did you know all that about me?

  Dylan: Research.

  Me: You researched me?

  Me: Stalker. :P

  Dylan: Not quite.

  Dylan: I just looked you up online.

  Me: I’ve never been googled before.

  Dylan: Yes you have.

  Dylan: You have a career.

  Dylan: (congrats on that btw)

  Dylan: But because of that career,

  Dylan: Of course you’ve been googled.

  Me: How would you like it if I googled you?

  Dylan: Go ahead.

  Dylan: All you’ll find are stories about a guy who drank himself into an early grave.

  Dylan: “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

  Dylan: And all that stuff.

  Dylan: It’s interesting.

  Dylan: But it’s not about me.

  Dylan: Just a window into a life that’ll never be mine.

  Me: You talk like a poet.

  Dylan: Every once in a while.

  Me: Can you give me a hint about yourself, at least?

  Me: Which pronouns do you use?

  Dylan: Does it matter?

  Me: Not really.

  Me: I’m not looking for a romantic connection. :P

  Dylan: But if you’re not looking, and I’m not looking, it’s irrelevant information for our purposes here.

  Me: I was just curious.

  Dylan: I guess that’s how you can describe me, too.

  Dylan: Curious.

  Me: Just don’t want to misgender you.

  Dylan: Like, if you talk about me to someone else?

  Dylan: Am I a hot topic of conversation?

  Me: Dude, forget it.

  Me: There, I just potentially misgendered you.

  Dylan: Ha. Fair point. I use he/him pronouns though. So no worries.

  Me: Got it. Thanks.

  Me: Why were u at the Factory?

  Dylan: Wanted some coffee

  Me: No coffee shops in Englewood?

  Dylan: Met a friend there.

  Dylan: It’s halfway.

  Me: Are you in the habit of leaving folded parchment at coffee shops?

  Dylan: I didn’t know I left the moon there.

  Dylan: I didn’t mean for anyone to find it

  Me: Actually . . .

  Me: Did you notice your words fit with my tempo?

  Dylan: No.

  Me: Can I use them as lyrics?

  Me: I’ll give you credit

  Me: And maybe you can give me pointers on how you did it.

  Dylan: Like I said

  Dylan: I’m not really a poet.

  Me: And I’m not used to working with people

  Me: but would you consider a collaboration?

  Dylan: Presumably, my part is already done.

  Dylan: Right?

  Me: :)

  Me: I still need your permission to use your words, though.

  Me: And maybe you’d be up for working on something else together?

  Me: I mean, if this song does what it should do

  Me: it could go places.

  Me: If the right person sees it, we could be famous.

  Dylan: Do you want to be famous??

  Dylan: You don’t even post pics of your face.

  Me: Only because it’s the internet.

  Me: People are assholes when they’re hiding behind a screen.

  Me: I haven’t posted a pic of my face since I was in eighth grade

  Me: And someone rated me a six.

  Dylan: That’s terrible.

  Me: Everyone’s a critic.

  Dylan: And yet, you’re willing to share your work online.

  Dylan: You open yourself to criticism

  Dylan: From the whole world.

  Me: Not usually, actually.

  Me: Being onstage in a role is one thing.

  Me: I can be someone else onstage.

  Me: But singing a song I wrote . . . well, that’s something else.

  Me: That’s being ME out there.

  Me: There’s a difference between Me-for-real, and Me-on-stage.

  Me: I struggle with that.

  Me: I’m shy.

  Me: But I have my eye on the goal, here.

  Me: I’m putting myself out there.

  Dylan: What’s the goal?

  Me: I want to make it big.

  Me: I want to be on stage.

  Me: Like my mother.

  Me: She was a dancer.

  Me: She was an understudy on BROADWAY.

  Me: But I want to be more than that.

  Me: My dream:

  Me: To write a musical score

  Me: To star on stage.

  Me: To sing

  Me: To dance

  Me: To be IT.

  Me: But I can’t seem to get the part that you refuse to admit is poetry.

  Me: And you’re talented!

  Me: Why wouldn’t you want to use that talent?

  Dylan: I just don’t think I’d be a good fit for what you have in mind.

  Dylan: And if you want to do it all

  Dylan: you don’t need my help.

  Dylan: Have u read your posts? They’re all poetic.

  Dylan: Downpour of peonies and all that.

  Me: You DID stalk me.

  Dylan: Just checked out your Instagram.

  Dylan: You’re an interesting person.

  Me: Just say you’ll think about it.

  Dylan: I will if you will.

  Me: You’re frustrating.

  Dylan: So are you.

  Me: Ugh. Forget it then.

  Dylan: ok

  Me: Fine.

  I slam my laptop shut.

  A few minutes pass.

  What just happened?

  I was having a perfectly normal conversation one second, and then I was arguing with a guy I don’t know . . . all because he doesn’t want his work out in public?

  Maybe Hayley’s right. Maybe I do expect the world to revolve around me.

  I open the laptop. Dylan Thomas is still online
.

  Me: Hi.

  Dylan: Hi.

  Me: I’m sorry.

  Me: Of course I respect what you want to do with your talent.

  Dylan: I’m not talented.

  Dylan: Not the way you assume.

  Me: I’m sorry I got mad.

  Me: It’s just that I’m sort of stressed out.

  Dylan: You live in a stressful world

  Dylan: The profession you’ve chosen is brutal

  Dylan: It’s bound to get to u from time to time

  Dylan: I think that’s why so many famous people

  Dylan: Go off the grid.

  Me: Speaking of . . .

  Me: Do you listen to Vagabonds?

  Dylan: Who doesn’t?

  Dylan: What’s your theory on why they went silent?

  Me: They’re working on something.

  Me: They don’t want the influence of the outside world

  Me: Like I said, the internet can make people mean.

  Me: Judgmental.

  Me: Hypercritical.

  Dylan: What other music influences you?

  Me: Anything sincere and raw.

  Me: I have everything from Sinatra to Sublime on my playlists.

  Me: My sister says that means I don’t know what I like.

  Me: But really, I think it means that I know EXACTLY what I like.

  Dylan: Siblings.

  Me: Yeah.

  Dylan: Any other brothers and sisters?

  Dylan: Or just the one?

  Me: For now, just an older half-sister.

  Me: But my dad’s dating someone with little kids.

  Me: The oldest is eight, I think.

  Me: The boys are twins. They’re five.

  Me: So maybe I’ll be a big sister someday.

  Dylan: You sound ok with it.

  Me: Trying to be.

  Dylan: It’s hard sometimes.

  Me: Been through it?

  Dylan: Twice.

  Me: And you survived.

  Dylan: It’s not Everest.

  Me: Sux though.

  Dylan: Sometimes.

  Me: Did you ever feel like your parents never stopped fighting?

  Me: And like you were constantly refereeing?

  Dylan: Girl. Please.

  Me: We just might have something in common.

  Chapter 8

  My chat with Dylan Thomas lasts most of the morning. Shortly after I’ve signed off and started my Sunday chores, “Raspberry Beret” signals an incoming message. I practically jump on my phone. The Weekes twins might have news about the callback list!

  Brendon: Did you see the email?

  Me: No.

  Brendon: They want an extra day to post the list.

  Me: No!!!!!