Panic

by Sasha Dawn

Me: I know. It’s ok.

  Mom: It’s not ok.

  Mom: When you’re looking for college tuition, it won’t be ok.

  Mom: What he’s going to drop on theater tickets, meals, airfare, lodging . . .

  Mom: Staying in Times Square again?

  Me: I don’t know.

  Mom: What he’ll spend in four days is more than I earn all year.

  Mom: What he’ll spend would pay for my portion of a year’s school for you.

  Me: That’s not my fault.

  Me: I wish I could go with you.

  Me: But you could at least be happy for me.

  Mom: I’m sorry.

  Me: Me too.

  Mom: I’m sorry that you’re mesmerized

  Mom: By all these sparkly things your dad dangles in front of you

  Mom: And that I’m just a boring has-been who works all day.

  Me: That’s not how I think of you.

  Mom: In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to remind you of these things.

  Mom: I can’t get through to your father.

  Mom: You have to.

  Mom: You have to be the messenger.

  Mom: ASK HIM TO PUT THIS MONEY TOWARD SCHOOL

  Mom: Because he refuses to talk to me.

  Mom: It’s not your fault.

  Mom: But it’s not mine, either.

  Me: It’s a little your fault.

  Mom: How so?

  Me: Ted Haggerty.

  Mom doesn’t reply.

  A sense of satisfaction filters through me for having gotten the last word.

  I get her point. I do. But I can’t just not go to New York. I can’t just not meet my idols.

  Especially if I can’t go to performing arts high school, especially if I might not be able to go to NYU, I deserve to have these experiences. And Mom obviously agrees with me because she isn’t even trying to retort.

  After a few minutes, however, the satisfaction wanes. And guilt settles in.

  I try to imagine what it must be like to be my mother. Alone. Broken, in some ways. A shadow of what she used to be.

  All because Dad was never home. Because she stayed home to raise us, she lost her connections, lost her friends, lost her last opportunities to perform.

  She loves us all more than she loved the stage. I know that means she loves us a lot.

  And because Dad wasn’t home, he fell out of love with Mom, and he left.

  And Mom fell in love with Ted, and he left, too.

  And now my mom is struggling and has no money and can’t possibly compete with what my dad can give me.

  But she’s surviving. No thanks to me.

  Maybe Hayley’s right. Lately, I’m not my best self. I stare at a holographic reflection of myself in the train window, and I touch my pink hair.

  I text Mom an apology. While I wait for a response, I snap a quick pic and post it on Instagram: Feeling all sorts of Blizzard and Cerulean. Could use some Purple Mountains’ Majesty.

  Chapter 11

  I’m heading to the dean’s office because . . . lunch. I’ve texted Mom about a hundred times, but she still hasn’t replied. I scroll through our earlier messages. On the train, I read her messages as sort of snotty, like she was annoyed.

  But now that I’m reading them again, I feel like she was annoyed, but she was also upset. Sad.

  One of the Sophias knocks a shoulder against mine in passing.

  I stop. She stops. Our glances meet for a second.

  She purses her lips and raises a brow. “Want to hit the Factory after school?”

  I look over my shoulder, certain she’s talking to someone else, but there’s no one there.

  Sophia 2 nudges her way next to me, and suddenly we’re a clump in the hallway, with other students rushing past us, like a river flowing around an island.

  “Grab some coffee?” Sophia 2 asks. “And I’m dying for one of those vanilla scones.”

  “Um . . . I really can’t. I have—”

  “Come on,” Sophia 1 says. “We haven’t hung out in, like, forever.”

  “Did you hear what they’re saying?” Sophia 2 asks. “If you click on some link on the top of the Vagabonds website, it takes you to a page with a code. Some people think it’s part of some big puzzle, and if you decode it, you’ll find a link to free songs.”

  “Timothy’s gotta be behind it,” Sophia 1 chimes in.

  “Of course he is,” Sophia 2 says.

  Sophia 1: “And Wade is like, I’ll do whatever.”

  Sophia 2: “It’s just the kind of thing he does!”

  She wouldn’t know what kinds of things the band does if it weren’t for me. I was there the first time she heard any song too obscure to be played on the radio. Specifically, she was in a suite at the Drake, which Dad rented for us for my last birthday. When she walked into that hotel, she didn’t know the band was anything more than “Tense.” She walked out with a whole new obsession.

  The sad thing is there’s a small part of me that really wants things to go back to the way they were. Talking about Vagabonds . . . counting down the days until the next concert . . .

  Until I remember it was all a big joke to them. They never really liked hanging out with me. They thought I was weird.

  But if they’re asking now . . . maybe they’re sorry. Maybe they didn’t mean everything they said, or they see me differently now, or . . .

  “So.” Sophia 2 props a hand on her hip and looks down at me. “Saw you’re going to New York again. When’s that happening?”

  Ah. They want to come. “End of the week,” I say.

  “We had such a blast with you in New York,” Sophia 2 says. “And Brendon Urie! Swoon!”

  “Seriously,” Sophia 1 says. “Let’s meet at the Factory after school.”

  “Sorry.” I take a step toward the dean’s office. “I have plans.”

  “Some other time?”

  I take a deep breath and keep walking.

  Fool me once.

  My phone erupts with “Raspberry Beret,” and I practically fumble it.

  Brendon: We’re all called back!

  I go to my email and see the official invitation to callbacks. My heart takes a running leap.

  Me: Unbelievable!

  Me: To celebrate, how do you feel about

  “Miss Joseph.”

  I stop typing. I was going to take a chance and invite them with me to Broadway. I figure, it’s a nice way to seal the budding friendship, even if one of us isn’t cast. But I look up from my phone to see Sister Mary Angela treating me to a hard-nosed stare. She puts out her hand, palm up, and wiggles her fingers. “Phone.”

  “I’m on my lunch hour,” I say because phones are allowed during lunch. This doesn’t mean I don’t constantly check it throughout the day, but at any other time of day, I would have been more discreet.

  “You’re in the dean’s office,” Sister Mary Angela says. “Did you miss the sign on the door?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been waiting forever for this callback list—”

  She presses a finger to her lips, and I shut up. “You can pick it up at the end of the day.”

  A day without a phone is sort of like a day living under a rock even under normal circumstances. But I have this amazing news to share. Sure, it’s not an actual, official role, but I made it past another hurdle!

  I can’t wait to tell my family, and I want to celebrate with the Weekes twins. Not to mention, I should inform the academy that I’ve made it over another roadblock and will likely be working in a big production. And if I were attending a special school, all my academics would be in the morning before rehearsals begin, but juggling school and Saint Mary’s is going to be hell—at least until summer vacation gets underway.

  I’m getting ahead of myself anyway. I’m just called back. Not cast. Maybe it’s too early to celebrate.

  I shrink into the corner, where the good sister put me the day I showed up looking like an Easter parade landed on my head, and I eat.
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  Chapter 12

  I’ve missed sixty-two text messages, and the Lyrically icon on my phone may as well have a flashing neon arrow blinking at it.

  That always happens when people post something. Everyone chimes in to comment.

  The Lyrically community can either be really supportive, or really evil. And I can’t deal with the latter right now. I have too much to be excited about. I’m not keen to be brought down by haters.

  I’m going to New York to meet one of my idols. I was called back for another show today. I’m gonna ride out this glory and not ruin it with a lot of negativity.

  I open the “Raspberry Beret” thread, where the Weekes twins are wondering why I went radio silent.

  Brendon: Madelaine, where’d you go?

  McKenna: Maybe she fainted.

  Brendon: Get over the shock.

  Brendon: You’re fabulous, ok? We all know it.

  McKenna: Maybe we should call an ambulance.

  Brendon: Or . . .

  Brendon: if you’re celebrating with someone other than us

  Brendon: I can’t even.

  I’m smiling. They’re funny. And even though McKenna and I are in direct competition for the part of Pepper, we’re still friends. I love that. I finally weigh in:

  Me: Haha, sorry, Sister Evil took my phone!

  Me: To celebrate, how do you feel about hitting NYC

  Me: and taking in a Broadway show?

  Me: We’d leave the day after callback auditions.

  Brendon: Gurrrrrrrrrrl

  McKenna: Are you serious?

  McKenna: (About NYC, not Sister Evil)

  Me: Ha! Yes.

  McKenna: Hellz yeah!

  Brendon: How are we gonna make that happen?

  Me: My dad offered.

  Me: He’ll take care of everything.

  McKenna: I effing love your dad.

  McKenna: I don’t know him.

  McKenna: But I love him.

  I’m about to respond with all the details when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of another origami moon balancing on the handrail of the school’s front steps.

  One of my fellow students brushes it with her elbow and it falls to the steps. No one’s on the lookout for something like this when we’re about to gain a modicum of freedom for the rest of the afternoon. Leaving this place at the end of the day, especially this time of year, is sort of like getting a stay of execution.

  Everyone else is in deep conversation, doing a pretty good job of pretending I don’t exist. I’m in my own little world, separate from those around me, and that’s just fine with me. If I were heading to the Factory with the Sophias right now, maybe I would have been engrossed in a discussion with them, and maybe I wouldn’t have seen the moon.

  I wait at the top of the stairs, keeping an eye on the moon as my peers shuffle their way out of the building. When enough of the masses have gone, I go to where it’s abandoned on the sidewalk, now marred with the treads of shoes and—a bicyclist zips past—the track of a tire.

  Once it’s in my hand, I test the weight of it. It’s made with the same thick paper as the first, but this one is a pearly white that shimmers when it catches the sunlight.

  I sit on the steps of Saint Mary’s and carefully unfold the moon.

  As expected, there are words on the back of this one, too. I read the poem, which is only four lines:

  Weaving through the mysteries

  Of life before I’ve lived it

  Waffling through present time

  For gifts before they’re given.

  I snap a picture and send it to Hayley.

  Me: Dylan Thomas strikes again.

  Hayley: Whoa.

  Hayley: Are you sure it’s the same person?

  Me: I mean, obviously, this isn’t a coincidence.

  Hayley: No. Can’t be.

  Hayley: But they’re not following you or anything?

  Me: I don’t see anyone here.

  Hayley: They just left you a note.

  Me: When you say it that way, it sounds creepy.

  Hayley: I mean, isn’t it?

  Me: Maybe, maybe not.

  Me: If he really wanted to be creepy, he’d wait for me and give it to me in person.

  Hayley: Uhhhh

  Hayley: Is there any chance this Dylan Thomas goes to your school?

  Me: Maybe.

  Me: How else would he know I’d be here?

  Hayley: If you notice someone starting to follow you

  Hayley: you should call the police.

  Hayley: Can’t be too careful.

  Me: Actually . . .

  I pause. I’m tempted to tell my sister about the guy outside of the Factory, and the guy lingering in the back of my selfie with McKenna and Brendon outside Counter Offer. But I’m not even sure it’s the same guy. And I don’t want to overreact, let my fears get the better of me.

  Hayley: Actually what?

  Me: Nothing. I’m not worried about Dylan though.

  Hayley: Even though you don’t know anything about them?

  Me: Him. See, I know a little now.

  Me: And I sort of like the mystery about him.

  Hayley: Wait.

  Hayley: Does that mean you’re into him?

  Me: What?! I don’t even know him.

  Me: How could I be into him?!

  Hayley: Just be careful, if you decide to be into him.

  Me: It’s a choice to fall for someone or not?

  Me: Maybe someone should let my mom in on that secret.

  Hayley: Ha!

  Hayley: You’re different than your mom.

  Hayley: It IS a choice with you.

  Hayley: You’re the only person I know

  Hayley: who leads with her head and not her heart.

  Me: Haha

  Me: This is definitely a business relationship.

  Hayley: Well, let me know if he does something like this again.

  Hayley: It’s weirding me out.

  Me: Noted.

  This is a new dynamic for us. Usually I’m the one freaking out about something, and Hayley’s the one talking me down, reminding me to chill, poking holes in my ballooning fears.

  Hayley: Any word on the audition?

  I love that my sister knows I don’t post the results online, and she knows I don’t brag about getting cast ever. I wait for people to ask, and then I tell them. And this particular news, I’ve been dying to share!

  Me: I’m called back.

  Hayley: Woohoo! Awesome!

  Me: Thx!

  I scroll through my remaining text messages. A few from Nana Adie, who’s wondering if eggplant sounds good for dinner—and asking for an update on the callback list.

  Mom hasn’t texted all day. She’s probably still mad at me.

  My heart seizes with the thought of it. It’s not like Mom to give me the silent treatment.

  I text her now, just in case she doesn’t believe my apology was sincere.

  Me: Sorry about this morning.

  Me: I just hate being in the middle all the time.

  Me: You’re an amazing mom.

  Me: I don’t need you to spend money on me

  Me: I love you to the end of the universe and back.

  Me: A million times.

  “Vinny!”

  When I hear the name, and the jingle of dog tags, I look up from my screen.

  I scan the stream of people walking down the sidewalk, hoping to see a little black lab-slash-terrier-slash-whatever-he-is with white paws bounding up the steps of Saint Mary’s.

  Instead, I see a pair of friends do the guy-hug where a high-five turns into a grasp of hands, they pull in closer, and then they wallop each other on the back. “Good to see you, Vin.”

  At the same time, a woman walking a dog that looks like a tiny dust mop prances past, tags a-jingling.

  My heart sinks. I miss the dog that was supposed to be mine.

  I tap on the Facebook icon on my screen to look at Ted’s pictu
res. No new ones of Vinny.

  But Ted’s online.

  Should I . . . ?

  What the hell. I message him a “Hi” and start walking toward the L stop. Half a block later, my phone pings.

  Ted: Lainey!

  Ted: Nice surprise.

  Ted: Good to hear from you.

  Ted: How’s school?

  Me: Ugh.

  Ted: How’s the stage?

  Me: Good.

  Me: Just saw a dog I thought was Vinny.

  Me: How is he?

  Me: Pic?

  Ted: We’re heading out for a walk.

  Ted: Why don’t you meet us?

  Ted: I could take him to Wicker Park.

  Me: Just leaving school.

  Me: Have to catch the L.

  Ted: We’re just heading out now.

  Ted: If you want to come, we’ll wait.

  Should I?

  I want to see the dog. Would Mom mind if I happened to see Ted at the same time?

  I’ll decide on the way.

  I high-tail it to the L stop, where the Sophias are waiting for the next train. I pretend I don’t see them—or the guy in the black coat behind them who keeps looking this way . . . creepy—and try to keep my gaze pinned to my phone.

  But he’s familiar. He could be the same guy I saw outside Counter Offer . . . maybe even the same guy outside of the Factory.

  Or . . . it could be a coincidence. It’s a big city, but we usually stick to our neighborhoods, and neighborhoods can feel a little small.

  I snap a pic of the moon in my hand and post it to my Instagram with a caption: Sometimes the world gives you snow-capped hills on the midnight horizon.

  And, just to be safe, I sneak a pic of the guy who keeps looking this way. I’ll compare the pictures later.

  “Sure you don’t want to hit the Factory with us?” Sophia 1 asks.

  I look up. “Oh. Hi.”

  “My treat,” Sophia 2 offers.

  But I see right through them. They want to go to New York. They don’t want to go with me, but if that’s the way they’ll get their free tickets, they’ll endure the boredom of being near me.

  “I’m meeting my stepdad,” I say. “Sorry.”

  The moment the word stepdad fumbles out of my mouth, I want to suck it back in. He was with my mom for ten months, lived with us for six, and then ditched us. Calling him any kind of dad is giving him too much credit.

  “Oh. Well, if you change your mind . . .”

  “Hey, by the way,” Sophia 1 says. “Any new productions coming up?”