Panic

by Sasha Dawn

McKenna: I can’t even.

  Me: Did they say why?

  Brendon: Of course not.

  Brendon: It’s like being on an airplane

  Brendon: And the plane isn’t moving

  Brendon: And you’re stuck on the runway

  Brendon: And you know something’s wrong

  Brendon: But the crew won’t tell you what it is.

  Brendon: Or why the fuck you’re not going to be on time.

  McKenna: I HATE THIS.

  Me: Maybe they have some tough decisions to make.

  McKenna: I’m sure they do.

  Brendon: And the whole time you’re wondering

  Me: Maybe it’s a good thing they’re taking their time???

  Brendon: Mechanical failure?

  Brendon: Is the president making a surprise visit?

  Brendon: Or better, is someone actually important coming to Chicago?

  McKenna: Don’t say you’ll have the list posted

  McKenna: If you have no intention of posting the list.

  Brendon: Like maybe Panic! At the Disco is coming to town.

  Brendon: I’d gladly wait on the tarmac for my namesake to show up.

  Me: We did our job too well.

  Me: They can’t decide.

  McKenna: Or maybe the opposite . . .

  McKenna: Like, if I’d nailed it, they wouldn’t be indecisive.

  Wow. McKenna gets insecure about her auditions too. Who knew?

  Me: Same! So it’s good and bad for both of us.

  Me: I wish we weren’t up against each other for Pepper.

  Brendon: I saw him once

  Brendon: at United Center

  McKenna: Who?

  Brendon: Brendon Urie!

  Me: OMG I saw him once too.

  I start typing that it was right after I saw him in Kinky Boots on Broadway. He shook my hand. He signed my program and asked the Sophias and me if we liked the show.

  But I delete.

  Brendon and McKenna might like this story, but I don’t want to sound as if I’m bragging, so I don’t elaborate.

  McKenna: Beautiful guy

  Me: Yeah. And mega talented.

  Brendon: Duh.

  Brendon: Why do you think I named myself after him?

  Me: ???

  McKenna: Brendon’s his stage name.

  Brendon: Because I’m as fabulous as he is.

  Me: What’s your real name?

  Brendon: Screw it. I’m going out for cheese fries.

  Brendon: Wanna come?

  Obviously he’s talking to McKenna. Why would they invite me out for fries? They live closer to the Loop. Surely they don’t expect to go farther than the nearest corner.

  But the conversation stills.

  McKenna: Did you just call Panic! At the Disco more important than the president?

  Brendon: Obv.

  Me: HAHA

  Brendon: Panic! might actually change the world.

  Me: Warped but true.

  McKenna: So wanna meet us?

  Brendon: We can meet halfway.

  McKenna: If we’re going to wallow in post-audition blur

  McKenna: we might as well binge on junk food.

  McKenna: We won’t be able to eat like that during rehearsal.

  My first instinct is to shove the essentials in my backpack and go.

  But then, once we’re out together, what if it’s awkward? What if I start talking about having an actual conversation with Brendon Urie? What if I start talking about going backstage at the Vagabonds show and playing Timothy’s ukulele? What if they think I’m a brat who’s on every stage I’ve ever been on because my dad is a manager with connections?

  Brendon: Quick! Check her pulse!

  Me: Hahaha

  Me: Have to finish my homework.

  Me: And laundry.

  Me: Ugh.

  McKenna: Groan.

  Actually . . . since I’ll be going out anyway to buy my tap shoes, maybe I should try to meet McKenna and Brendon. It might be fun to meet in the middle.

  My heart starts shimmying at the thought of waiting in some strange place for people who might decide at the last minute not to show up. Or maybe I’ll screw it up and be waiting at the wrong location. Or maybe everything will go as planned, but I’ll get there too early, and I’ll have to sit and wait while strangers try to take the seats I’m saving.

  Sticking to texting is better. Safer.

  I like my neighborhood. I like the café at the Factory. I like counting on just me.

  But I have to put myself out there.

  Me: But I’ll do it all later.

  Brendon: Why do it now when you can do it later?

  Me: Where are we meeting?

  McKenna: Counter Offer?

  Brendon: An hour or so?

  Brendon: Gotta do my hair.

  It’s good to venture out. Take myself out of the comfort zone.

  Good practice for the day Dylan Thomas might be meeting his friend at the Factory again, when maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of him in person. Maybe he’ll be as beautiful as the words he writes, and I can enjoy looking at him from a distance.

  Not in a creepy way. Or in a romantic way. Because I don’t get mixed up in romantic hassles.

  But if I wanted to . . . maybe Dylan would be the kind of guy I’d fall for.

  I meander over to Lyrically and read his bio again: Observer. Music lover. Quiet lurker.

  I learned that much during our hours-long exchange. I’ve never felt as comfortable so quickly talking to someone I’ve never met before, and I think that’s because I know he doesn’t want to meet for coffee and take things to the next level.

  Even if we happen to bump into each other, there will be no pressure to sit down and make small talk over lattes. Dylan values his privacy just like I value mine. This means, of course, that we probably would talk, but we wouldn’t have to. He’d understand if I waved hello and went back to my work. He wouldn’t think I’m being a snob if I just wasn’t into people at that moment.

  He doesn’t have much posted on his page. Not even the origami moon poem, which has me wondering: if he didn’t mean to leave it, why was it so prettily printed and folded? And yet, if he wanted to share it with the outside world, it would be posted on his page. Did I infringe on his privacy by posting it on mine?

  I scroll through his page. There are two pictures. One is of Nirvana’s Nevermind album cover. The other is of a dog.

  He likes dogs. Bonus.

  I click over to Ted Haggerty’s page just for a glimpse of my Vinny-dog. He’s a mutt—a little lab, maybe some Jack Russell. I wish he could have been mine for longer than the hour I spent playing with him at the shelter.

  Why did Ted have to bail?

  My phone buzzes again.

  McKenna: BTW

  McKenna: how did it go with your dad?

  Me: ?

  McKenna: You were going to talk to him

  McKenna: about coming to our school.

  I don’t want to get into the whole thing, so I keep it simple.

  Me: Yeah, he’s still undecided.

  McKenna: You should at least visit again.

  McKenna: Shadow me for a day.

  Me: I’m going to do AT LEAST that.

  McKenna: You will LOVE it!

  McKenna: I can tell you EVERYTHING about auditioning.

  Me: I actually already auditioned.

  Me: Was accepted years ago.

  McKenna: So why aren’t you here already?

  I start typing about the whole ordeal with my parents. About the maintenance and Ted and my dad’s stubbornness. But by the time I’m even halfway through it, I’ve already written paragraphs and . . . who cares? Like McKenna Weekes really needs to know all that.

  Delete.

  Instead I change the subject.

  Me: Long story. How’s your new guy?

  Brendon: Me, or McK?

  Me: You.

  Brendon: Puhlease! He’s so last week.

 
; Brendon: I’m sort of into this chick now.

  McKenna: You have relationship ADD.

  Brendon: A guy could have worse things.

  A text from Dad pops up.

  Dad: When are callbacks?

  Dad: When does rehearsal start?

  Dad: Would like to finalize plans for the trip to NYC.

  Dad: Thursday is ideal.

  Dad: Could have you home by Sunday evening.

  I swipe away the conversation bubbles. I don’t even know if I’m called back yet, and I don’t want to jinx things by planning around a production schedule my name may or may not be on.

  A series of tinkling notes fills the air, and I practically jump. I never closed out of Lyrically, and now I have a message.

  Dylan: Been thinking about your song.

  Dylan: It’s soooo good.

  Dylan: You should post it.

  Me: I can’t.

  Me: Besides, it’s not ready.

  Dylan: We’ll help you make it ready.

  Dylan: Just do it.

  Dylan: Don’t think about it anymore.

  Dylan: Just open the track, and click post.

  Dylan: I’ll count down for you.

  Dylan: 5

  I find myself opening the track. Can I do this?

  Dylan: It’s soooo good!

  Dylan: 4

  I tag Dylan.

  Dylan: 3

  Dylan: 2

  Dylan: 1

  I close my eyes. Click.

  And now it’s out there. For the whole world to hear.

  My hands tremble. It wasn’t ready for public consumption. It was too rough. Why did I send it to him? Why did I let him convince me to post it?

  Ping!

  Ping!

  Ping!

  And people are already commenting on it.

  I don’t want to look. Or do I?

  I dare to scroll.

  HayleyJo21P: Awesome!

  MusicLover4871: Who’s Madelaine Joseph?

  Dylan: You’ll know her name one day.

  RadioHeadAddict: She blows.

  I feel a little sick.

  Here we go. The online world is about to crush my soul.

  I brace myself. Close my eyes. Talk to me, Mom: Shut out the world . . .

  Ping! Ping! The alert of postings silences the Mom-in-my-head.

  My eyes slowly open, and although it’s dangerous, I peek at the screen.

  HalfwayTo500Miles: Nice flow.

  HalfwayTo500Miles: Would love to hear it when it’s done.

  BurningUrine: Try it in E minor.

  BurningUrine: Somberer.

  RadioHeadAddict: SHE BLOWS

  BurningUrine: STFU

  RadioHeadAddict: Blow me.

  HayleyJo21P: ur a creep RadioHead.

  I have to laugh at Hayley’s reference to “Creep,” the song that arguably put Radiohead on the map.

  HayleyJo21P: My sister is so talented! <3

  Just for that, I forgive her for her harsh words earlier.

  I reach for my guitar. BurningUrine might be on to something. I plug in, start an audio recording, and play.

  It sounds incredible. It flows now, like a ballad. Sad, lonely notes drifting off into oblivion.

  I post the recording to my page and rush out to meet the Weekes twins.

  Chapter 9

  I wait for McKenna and Brendon outside Counter Offer, which is incredibly crowded. But it’s not bad outside, weather-wise, so if we can’t get a table, we can eat at the park across the street.

  Brendon: Almost there.

  McKenna: We see you!

  Brendon: Girl, you are ROCKING that hat.

  It’s an actual raspberry-colored beret. I thought they’d get a kick out of it. It’s a shade or two deeper than my pink hair, and I paired it with my John Lennon glasses.

  Me: Thanks. Going for a starving artist vibe.

  McKenna is wearing pink-and-yellow striped leggings under an oversized men’s dress shirt, and Brendon . . . very Elvis Costello today. He hugs me as if we’re lifelong friends, and we pose for a selfie together, which McKenna posts to her Snapchat.

  It’s not until later in the afternoon, when I take a screenshot of her story, that I see a figure lurking in the background.

  I put aside my homework, which I’m finishing at the kitchen table, and zoom in. I’m pretty sure this is the guy who was looking at me through the window at the Factory.

  “Nana?”

  “Hmm?”

  I look up from my phone, then back to the picture of the guy half-hidden by a hardcover novel.

  He’s sort of looking at us, but sort of not.

  Then again, we do look like figurines from a revival cast of the 1980s Strawberry Shortcake. It wouldn’t be surprising if we drew a few stares.

  Ever since I was little, I’ve had all kinds of irrational fears pinging around in my head, threatening to paralyze me. I have enough real problems—I don’t need to draw people’s attention to the imaginary ones.

  “What’s up, hun?”

  “Never mind.”

  Chapter 10

  Monday, May 1

  My phone won’t stop buzzing.

  I pull myself out of dreamland—more like nightmare island, considering the terrifying images I’ve been seeing in my sleep—and silence my phone, which is whirring like a blender with nothing in it.

  I glance at the time. 6:30. Shit.

  Mom’s texted four times, and my alarm is going off. It’s been buzzing for over five minutes.

  Monday. Ugh. At least getting dressed is easy when you go to Catholic school. I have one leg into my khakis—which are wrinkled, but whatever—before I’m even on my feet.

  Teeth brushed. Pink hair in a ball on top of my head. Apple in hand, and homework—finished thanks to a 2 a.m. sprint—in backpack.

  When I walk out the door in a record eight minutes, Nana’s still asleep; she’s up later than me most days. I leave her credit card and a big note on the kitchen countertop: Thanks for the Capezios. You’re the best.

  I text Mom on my walk to the L. Before I was old enough to get myself around the city, Mom took me everywhere. I suspect she’d still do it, if she wasn’t juggling two jobs. She likes to know I’ve gotten where I’m supposed to be on time . . . and safely.

  Me: On my way!

  Mom: Have a good day.

  Mom: Text me when you get there.

  I pull out a tiny mirror and begin to apply the limited amount of makeup we’re allowed to wear at Saint Mary’s, when suddenly, a wave of dejection hits me. Still no callback list. And still no reply to the email I sent the academy, which means there is no definite future ahead of me.

  Everything is at a standstill.

  My phone buzzes. It’s on vibrate because I’m on the train and I try to be courteous to those around me, unlike the guy talking at volume level three thousand a few seats over.

  Dad: All set for NYC.

  Dad: Show tickets purchased.

  Dad: Front row, center.

  Dad: Backstage meet and greet.

  Dad: Bought extras.

  Dad: Bring friends!

  Excitement-slash-awe-slash-mortification rises in my chest.

  Sure, I’m excited to go to New York. I flipping LOVE New York. And I’m excited about finally having time with Dad. And the meet and greet . . . it’s like a million cherries on top of an already decadent sundae.

  Me: Thank you!!!

  Dad: We leave Thursday at four out of O’Hare.

  Dad: Text me names of three or four people you’d like to bring.

  Dad: I’ll purchase airline tickets this afternoon.

  Dad: Any other shows you want to see while we’re there?

  Me: Not sure.

  Me: But probably.

  Me: :)

  Instantly I post: NYC bound in 5, 4 . . .

  Wait. Leaving Thursday means I’ll be gone over one of Mom’s weekends, and I’ll bet Dad hasn’t cleared it with her. It’s probably okay, considering he’
s dumped me on my mother more often than not lately, but if she had something planned for the two of us . . .

  Great.

  I can imagine how this conversation is going to go, but since I’ve already posted about it, I should probably break the news to her before she sees it online. Texting is the easiest way.

  Me: Dad wants to take me next weekend.

  Mom: I’ll believe it when I see it.

  Me: To NYC.

  Mom: . . .

  The ellipses disappear, which tells me she’s contemplating how to respond. Or maybe she typed something snarky, then decided she didn’t want me to see it, and deleted it.

  I stare out the window, at the city rushing by, with my song, now strummed in E minor, piping through my earbuds.

  In my head, I put Dylan Thomas’s words to the song.

  It really could be beautiful.

  When we pass the neighborhood where McKenna and Brendon’s school stands, I press my palm to the glass. It seems that’s as close as I’ll get to setting foot on campus.

  Mom: Sounds like fun.

  Mom: Just you and your dad?

  Oh. That went better than I thought.

  Me: He said I could bring a few friends.

  Mom: Who are you going to bring?

  Me: Not sure yet.

  Me: Hayley can’t come.

  Me: Maybe some people I met during Peter Pan.

  Mom: What show are you going to see?

  I bring her up to speed on our plans and speculate about which other shows Dad might buy tickets for. The more I type, the more excited I get.

  Mom: Your dad should be talking to me about this

  Mom: instead of making plans around me.

  Mom: It’s my weekend.

  And there it is. The bottom dropping out.

  Me: I know. I’m sorry.

  Me: Did we have plans?

  Mom: We don’t now.

  Me: What were we going to do?

  Me: Can we do it some other time?

  Me: It’s just that if I’m cast as Pepper

  Me: this will be the last weekend

  Mom: Exactly.

  Me: So either I go with him this weekend

  Me: or I don’t go at all.

  Me: I don’t want to pass it up.

  Mom: I’m glad you get to experience all of these things.

  Mom: I just wish I could experience some of them with you.

  Mom: But I can’t afford to take you

  Mom: not to mention an entourage

  Mom: first class, all expenses paid, Broadway

  Mom: and I don’t have connections anymore for backstage.