by Emery Lord
I hope you had a good week. How’s Mythos? Any word from colleges?
Love,
Max
Dear Max,
Mythos is … magical? I love being behind the scenes. The playwright visited today to watch dress rehearsal, and I got to chat with her a little bit. Her professional title is dramaturge. DRAMATURGE.
The play is great on page, but watching it evolve with the actors and direction is amazing.
Thanks for telling me about your dad. I’ve wondered before, but I never wanted to pry. It’s probably not my place, but I feel so protective of you seeing him. I want to sit beside you with my arms crossed, ready to tell him off. That’s silly, I know. I really, really hope it goes well. Will Margot be there? Did they wind up getting married?
No word from NYU. But it’s really okay. When I imagine myself at IU, it feels warm and good. Solid, like I could really build something.
Love,
Paige
Dear Paige,
Margot’s not coming this time, but yes, they’re still married. And really happy, it sounds like from his e-mails. So, that’s good. Sometimes, when I consider Northwestern, I wonder if it might be nice to live near them. Now that I’m old enough to choose when and how I get to know them. Depends on how dinner goes, I guess. Ha.
I got into University of Cincinnati this week, which is great! And miserable! All year, everyone praised me for casting a wide net, for doing lots of school visits, whatever. Here’s the thing, Janie:
IT’S BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING.
Engineering? Premed? Still don’t know! I have to decide in a little over a month, and I feel no closer than I was at the beginning of the year. And for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you why I bottled this up all year. I guess I thought saying it out loud would force me to confront it. I’m pretty used to knowing what the right answer is.
And honestly, maybe the idea of factoring you into the decision at least gave me a little more direction? Which isn’t fair to you, I realize.
I keep stumbling on more apologies that I owe you.
You must allow me to tell you how ardently sorry I am. (Sorry enough to quote your pal Darcy. Eh?)
Love,
Max
Dear Max,
I mean, you know I felt weirdly relieved to be rejected from every school in the greater Los Angeles area. (Okay, it was two schools, but still.) Congratulations on Cincinnati!
These decisions are hard because they’re expensive, and they’ll route us in a particular direction, and they feel permanent. But recently, Pepper told me that which college you choose is just one decision. I’ll have to choose how I get involved on campus, how I put myself out there with new people, if I ask for help if classwork or homesickness gets too hard. So maybe it’s about being nimble, too. Adjusting as situations change. (This is, uh … something I am exploring in therapy. Ha.)
Also, I had this idea for you: You know how people are always asking what we’re majoring in? Why don’t you try answering like you know for sure? One week, say “Premed.” The next, “Engineering.” See which one feels right. I mean, you’ll be spreading misinformation around Oakhurst, but since when is gossip around here accurate anyway?
Love,
Paige
Dear Paige,
I understand what you mean. When Ryan begged me to transfer back to Oakhurst before junior year, I admired him for admitting I’m a security blanket for him … I’m less forthcoming about the fact that he’s mine, too. He drives me nuts, of course. But he’s also the best friend I’ve ever had. And he’ll be my family my whole life! I know that, and I still don’t want to live in different states.
So, I decided to try saying “Premed” this week, and already did once! It was one of my mom’s work friends, so she made an apple-doesn’t-fall-far-from-the-tree comment. A generic sentiment, maybe, but I like the idea of sharing a field with my mom. I like the idea of having that in common with her, someday. When it’s frustrating, I can vent to her, and she’ll really, really know.
I heard from Northwestern (yes) and Wash U (yes) this week. And Tessa let it slip that you got into NYU. (Don’t be mad—she was just bursting with pride and blurted it out.) I’m so happy for you, Janie—really. I thought, when you inevitably got accepted, I’d feel torn to lose you to the big city. But I only feel glad and really bowled over by your hard work. Here’s hoping Maeve got in, too. Go out and celebrate after play rehearsal, eh?
Love,
Max
Dear Max,
Congratulations on those acceptances. Geez, Watson—cleaning up with these universities. Has any of that news given you a gut feeling?
And thanks. I’m relieved and excited and intimidated and unsure. Maeve got in, too, but neither of us has decided. Mostly, I’m glad for the validation of my writing portfolio! But now I have to make a choice, and, well … me and choices.
Here’s something else I wish I had told you this year: My anxiety flared up really, really badly after the car accident. My drowning nightmare returned in full force, too. It hasn’t been great.
After Aaron died, the panic attacks seemed situational. The therapist I saw talked about traumatic grief, and I thought I worked through it. I mean, you remember last year.
I’ve been going to appointments with that same therapist and recently started a low-dose medication. I’m hoping it’s like how my sister describes getting her glasses—she didn’t even realize how bad her vision was until she got the right prescription.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell you any of this. I’m not someone who thinks mental health stuff is embarrassing. But … I guess I wanted you to see me as a brave girl who could jump off the high dive, who could tell you how she really felt.
Turns out one or two bold acts don’t change a person’s core, huh? It’s a longer road than that, and I’m still trying to square the girl I want to be with the girl I am.
Love,
Paige
Dear Paige,
I’m also not someone who thinks mental health stuff is embarrassing. Kind of crushes me that all of this was going on with you and I didn’t even know. But then, I guess you could say that about a few things in my life, too.
Can I tell you what I would have told you then? It sounds like the car accident brought up some really dark stuff and now you’re confronting it. That sounds exactly like the brave girl I met last year.
Love,
Max
Dear Max,
Well, I’m officially cheating on film and TV with theater. I didn’t mean to—it started with a flirtation, a curiosity. But I fell fast and hard.
2BD, 1BA opens tomorrow, and I’m so tired, and I’m so excited. The rush of everything happening moment to moment. Watching the actors adjust subtly, grow into their roles. The way every part interlocks and creates something the same and slightly different each time.
And now I’m rethinking college plans, too. Do I want to skew toward theater now? I don’t know! I don’t know.
All year, I’ve taken offense when my mom has tried to suggest I broaden my career plans, that I don’t box myself into screen writing. But really, I think she wanted me to leave room for new loves to grow. I didn’t see theater coming, but here we are.
Anyway, good luck with prep for QuizBowl quarterfinals. You know I wish I could be there.
Love,
Paige
Dear Paige,
I’m in at Notre Dame, but got noes from Caltech, Columbia, and U of M. (Womp-wah.) Busy week in rejection over here!
I’m leaning toward premed, I think—chemistry, maybe. But then again, maybe it’ll be like at a restaurant, when you can’t decide between two entrées. You just blurt out whatever feels right once the waiter shows up.
College is a bigger decision than fish or steak. I know that. With spring break coming up, I’m hoping getting away will give me some perspective. Like I’ll move down that map to Florida and suddenly be able to see the whole picture. I don
’t know if that makes sense.
Thanks for the QuizBowl luck. I’m trying to focus on studying for that instead of focusing on seeing my dad the night after. At least with trivia, I can prepare.
I’m excited for you about the play. Break a leg!
Love,
Max
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
On opening night, I felt the gradual tightening in my chest. It’s normal to be nervous. Deep breath. You are not solely responsible for the success of the show. My emotions wobbled like a bike, but I remained on both wheels.
The show flowed from scene to scene, with only one lighting cue dropped. The audience would never know, but it left room for improvement. One of the actors bungled an important line, and I held my breath so hard that my sternum hurt. But Marisol picked the line up without a trace of hesitation—no cue that her mind had been silently working the information into her own character’s dialogue.
When the curtain dropped, I slumped over, breathing like I’d run a marathon. Was it really over? An eternity, a moment. The cast filed back out for their bows, and the widest, most helpless smile spanned my whole face. I wanted to cry a little, exhausted from tech week and also because, what a small miracle—for so many moving parts, so many people, to make this bit of make-believe become so much more.
My parents came to opening night with Cameron, then again on Monday. My friends trickled in at various shows, depending on what activities they had at night. Morgan and Tessa brought an embarrassing bouquet of flowers. Ryan and Kayleigh cheered so loudly, you would have thought I was actually onstage. Malcolm and Josiah brought their parents the same night Hunter and Lane surprised me.
The week flew, a show every night, and on Saturday, a matinee and evening performance, our second-to-last. We ate pizza in the green room in between shows, the actors in button-down shirts to protect their hair and makeup, and I longed for all of this even as it was happening, even with everyone still in one room. It was probably time to step away—recharge alone for a few minutes. Leave it to me to find the most nostalgic of art forms.
My phone vibrated in my back pocket, and I expected a call from one of my parents or an unknown number I’d ignore. But glancing at the screen, I found Max’s smiling face, a photo I’d taken of him at Alcott’s. He was supposed to be at dinner with his dad. I hurried away from the particular noise of theater people unwinding—vying for attention, stories told and bits performed. I held my phone to one ear, plugging the other. If Max’s dad ghosted him, I would drive to Chicago, Illinois, shaking with rage.
“Hey,” I said. My voice bounced against the tiles in the empty hallway. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Am I interrupting?” His voice, low and hesitant. “I was hoping you were between shows.”
“I am,” I said. “Are you—? Is dinner still … on?”
“Yeah. Do you have a few minutes? I don’t want to keep you.”
No, please do keep me, I thought. “You’re not. Perfect timing.”
“Okay. Because I’m sitting in my car outside the restaurant waiting to go in, and I …” He trailed off, like he thought I’d get it. Did he want a pep talk? “I wanted to hear your voice, I guess.”
The unexpectedness of this—I stopped walking right there, beside a framed show poster … Oh. My grandmother used to say she was glad to hear my voice, something I understood only after she was gone. The comfort in that familiarity, the way you can close your eyes and imagine the person beside you.
“Do you want me to ramble?” I asked. “Or talk about something specific?”
“Maybe you could tell me about show week?”
I did a solid three-minute monologue as I paced at the end of the hallway near a window, looking out at Indianapolis. I told him everything, from my first-night jitters to now, how I already missed the buzz of live theater, that I planned to attend the cast party tonight even though I’d probably feel shy and out of place.
“Thank you,” he said, once I wound down. “I’m really nervous, Paige. I didn’t think I would be.”
“Well, lucky for you,” I said, “really nervous is my resting state. Which part are you fixating on?”
I could almost see him ruffling his hair. Maybe fidgeting with his watch. “All these years he’s asked to see me. What if he wants to see how I turned out and that’s it—curiosity satisfied, the end? I have to be prepared for that, right?”
I sat back on the windowsill, trying not to smile as I stared at my Keds, floral and worn-in. “I don’t know anyone who’s met you once and wanted to spend less time with you.”
“Well, even you took a second to warm up to me! I can be intense.”
“Max,” I said evenly. I took his fear seriously, but he really had nothing to worry about. “You are a parental dream. My mom probably said ‘such a nice young man’ a dozen times after meeting you.”
He made a grumpy sound, reluctant. “… I guess.”
“But you don’t have to be charming or even nice. This is your dad. You can be sullen or guarded or however you feel. You guys have a tricky history. If that’s enough to shake him, then I don’t like him one bit, and you can quote me on that.”
Max laughed at last, a break in the coiled tension I could feel through the phone. “For the past—what, almost five years?—I’ve imagined so many different ways this could go. And now I’ll know for sure. It’s hard to give up the possibility. Does that make any sense?”
“It …” My mind flashed to idyllic Bloomington, then to busy, breathing New York. “Absolutely does, yes. But maybe it’ll also be a relief to know for sure.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think it will. Okay. I’m gonna go in.”
“Okay,” I said, pleasant. Because I had no doubt that he could do it.
“Paige?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.” The earnestness of his voice, like he really needed me to hear him. I wanted to tell him how much it meant, that he’d let me into his uncertainty. I haven’t told anyone all of this, he’d said in his e-mail. I wanted to be the person he told, the person he trusted to talk him through it.
“Any time.” I wouldn’t pour more emotion into an already overflowing night for Max. But I hoped he knew how much I meant it: any time, from now until any future I could imagine, I’d pick up the phone. If we broke each other’s hearts tomorrow or five years from now, if we drifted, if we went our separate ways. I would always be saving his seat, that spot in my life meant for him.
I got his text at intermission of the final show: It was really good. Thank you for earlier. I held the phone to my chest, so relieved for him. And then, when I glanced back down, Can we talk tomorrow?
Yes please, I texted back.
During the Sunday matinee, the last moments of 2BD, 1BA I watched with a calm deep in my bones. It was the feeling of a plane’s descent, of the steering wheel nudged toward the last highway exit. The distinct feeling of being almost there.
After final curtain, the lobby overflowed with people, and I lingered at the base of the stairs, glad for my all-black outfit, inconspicuous. Groups scattered about like clusters of stars, different sizes and spacing, but all aglow. I craned around, hoping to spot my parents quickly.
“Paiger!” my dad called, waving as if he were lost at sea and I was a passing boat. He and my mom were talking to Ms. Pepper and a man with a neat beard and warm brown skin.
My dad bear-hugged me, and I tried not to disintegrate from embarrassment in front of my all-time favorite teacher. Fortunately, both Pepper and the man by her side smiled at my dad’s enthusiasm.
“Paige!” Pepper said. “Congratulations! It was wonderful.”
“Thank you,” I said, hands clasped. “Congratulations on QuizBowl. Heard the team cleaned up Friday night.”
“It was impressive,” she said. Then, touching the man’s arm, “This is my … friend, Professor Choudhary.”
“Oh my God, Rach,” he said with a laugh. He reached for my hand, a polite shake l
ike he was meeting a real theater professional. “Ayush, her longtime boyfriend. Nice to meet you. The play was great—congratulations! And congrats on being accepted to the ol’ alma mater.”
Whose alma mater? My eyes shot to Pepper—did I not know where she went to school? I’d never asked, and she’d never said. “Wait. IU?”
“Undergrad,” she said, smiling. “Ayush teaches history there now.”
“So, no pressure,” he added, “but you should definitely join our ranks.”
“I bet Cris would love to have you keep working here, if you stay local.” My dad nudged my arm, pleased with himself for making this connection.
Stay with Mythos? I’d hardly let myself imagine more than this week. But the thought of becoming at home in this theater? Was it my imagination or did Ms. Pepper look almost proud? That darn poker face, her well-cultivated teacher persona that I only rarely saw through.
“I’d love that, too,” I said.
“Well,” my mom said, taking my dad’s hand. She smiled like she knew something I didn’t. “We won’t keep you.”
I thanked them all for coming and promised to text on my way home. As they walked away, I wavered, unduly sad to be alone. I’d had friends or family at almost every show—total support. But the cast party was last night, and now there was nothing to do but gather up my things and go. I glanced around the lobby one last time, hoping for … something. For Marisol to run over, for Cris to give me a task.
I knew the crowds didn’t shift specifically on cue, the whole room didn’t conspire to make a path ahead. But that’s how it felt. I saw him the way I always did, my body tuned to his presence like a radio station default. Even in the busy, buzzy energy of the lobby, I found his frequency, low and steady. Max.
Smiling hesitantly, he raised one hand. I’d read once that waving wasn’t always a casual greeting. It had origins in a salute, a gesture to show you came in peace. Right now, it seemed like both.
