Look Both Ways

by Alison Cherry

  Then again, no matter what happens, this master class can’t possibly be as bad as the last one.

  When we’re totally relaxed, we form a semicircle around the piano, and I position myself next to Zoe. Mom makes us yawn, paying attention to the way our airways open up. She makes us tense our shoulders like we’re carrying heavy suitcases and then drop them. We shake our heads like horses as we do lip rolls to keep our neck muscles from tensing. I can tell some people are getting antsy to show off how well they can sing, but I like going back to the basics and reminding myself where my voice is supposed to come from.

  When we finally do start to sing, we begin with simple arpeggios. “Feel the connections between the notes,” my mom calls as she circles the room. “Pretend you’re pulling a long, warm strand of taffy straight up from your diaphragm and out of your mouth.” She pauses next to Pandora and lays a hand on her shoulder. “Not so much vibrato, sweetheart. These exercises are for you. There’s no need to impress anyone.” Pandora looks like she’s swallowed a mouthful of lemon juice, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Mom pauses next to Zoe for longer than usual, and when we’re done, she says, “Lovely, dear.” My friend shoots me an ecstatic smile, and it hurts to know I’ve never made her that happy.

  The exercises get more and more complex over the next twenty minutes, and then Mom announces that we’re going to take a short break. I’m not ready for my friends to confront me yet, so I link my arm with Zoe’s and steer her toward the front of the room instead of heading out into the hall. “Mom, this is my roommate, Zoe,” I announce.

  “Of course! I should’ve known you’d be the one with the best tone in the room.” My friend holds out her hand, but Mom ignores it and pulls her into a hug. When she lets go, Zoe looks so overwhelmed, I’m afraid she might faint. “I’m so thrilled to meet you,” my mom says. “Thank you for being such a good friend to my Brookie.”

  “Yes. I mean, thank you! I mean, you’re welcome!” I’ve never seen Zoe starstruck before, and it’s completely adorable. Her words tumble out and trip over each other as she says, “This is seriously the best voice class I’ve ever had. I mean, I’m not saying my voice coach at home is bad. She’s actually really good, but this is better? So thanks.” She laughs. “Sorry.”

  My mom smiles. “Your coach taught you very well. You’re extremely talented.”

  “Thank you!” Zoe looks at me like, Can you believe this?

  “I hear you’re going to Juilliard in the fall?” Mom says.

  “Mm-hmm. I’m so excited.”

  “You’re going to be a star,” Mom tells her. “Juilliard is exactly where that voice belongs.”

  “I…Wow.”

  My mom squeezes my friend’s shoulder. “I’ve got to run to the ladies’ room, but we’ll have plenty of time to talk at dinner.”

  “I’m going to come with you, actually,” Zoe says, and she follows my mom out of the room. I don’t really want to listen to them flatter each other anymore, but I trail behind them anyway. As long as my mom is within earshot, nobody’s going to confront me about her.

  When class resumes, Mom hands out copies of “Anything Goes” by Cole Porter. We sing through the song a few times together, and when we all sound confident, my mom says, “As you see, anyone can learn a song. The notes, the words—those aren’t difficult. The real meat of being a singer lies in being able to bring your own intentions and emotions to the text. Sometimes you discover things about a character that aren’t apparent in the lyrics, and it’s important to be able to express those things as clearly as what’s on the page. What I’d like you to do is take ‘Anything Goes’ and create a narrative behind it, something that gives it intention. Are you singing it to your uptight mom so you can convince her to let you wear something revealing out of the house? Are you singing it to your girlfriend, who’s about to dump you for another man? Think about which words to stress. Think about active verbs. ‘Seduce.’ ‘Placate.’ ‘Dominate.’ Let’s take ten minutes to work, and then we’ll perform for each other.” She makes it sound like an adventure.

  I’ve done this exercise a couple of times before, and I usually pick a jokey active verb that doesn’t reveal anything about me. But today I want to do something that proves I belong here. I decide to sing about exactly that: proving myself, proving it wasn’t all a lie when I screamed I deserve to be here into the mirror. I may not have been a superstar right out of the gate, I’ll tell the apprentice company through Cole Porter’s words, but I have something to offer. I am worthwhile.

  I label the top of my handout with the word “VALIDATE.”

  I’m pretty sure my mom is going to pick me to go first, so I’m extra careful and deliberate about my emotional arc. By the time the ten minutes are up, I have some pretty solid ideas for how to make this song about me. When my mom gathers us back around the piano, my heart starts pounding and my lyrics sheet grows damp in my sweaty hand, but I tell myself I can do this, that I want to do this. If I don’t make a good impression on the other apprentices now, I’ll probably never have another chance.

  “Let’s get started,” my mom says, and her eyes sweep over the group. When they land on me, I shift my weight and prepare to get up, even though I’m so nervous now that I feel a little dizzy. But then her gaze moves to my right and settles there.

  “Zoe, would you like to go first?” she asks.

  Okay, this is fine; I didn’t really want my mom to single me out or give me special treatment. Guests always get to go first on Family Night, and this is kind of the same thing. Maybe she didn’t want someone seasoned to go first and influence the rest of the group. But as Zoe moves to the front of the room, looking excited and full of emotional arcs, I can’t help thinking there’s something else going on here. Maybe my mom does want to start with the strongest example, and she knows I’m not the right person to deliver it.

  “Should I tell you my active verb first?” Zoe asks.

  “You can go ahead and sing.” Mom turns to the rest of us. “Let’s see if we can guess Zoe’s intention.”

  The accompanist starts playing, and Zoe closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her whole physicality is different—she looks hopeful but vulnerable and unsure. Even though “Anything Goes” is a bouncy, confident song, Zoe sings it hesitantly, but with an undercurrent of quiet, tentative flirtation woven through every line. It’s like she’s trying to gauge someone’s interest in her, but in such a subtle way that it wouldn’t be too embarrassing if she were rejected.

  My mom usually doesn’t believe in applause during class—she says it changes the energy of the space—but she’s the one who starts clapping when Zoe is finished. “That was marvelous,” she says, and my friend’s smile lights up the room. “You brought a whole new set of emotions to that song. Well done, Zoe.” She turns to us. “Who wants to tell us what you thought Zoe was conveying?”

  Livvy raises her hand. “She kind of made the lyrics sound like, ‘I think you might like me, but I’m not totally sure.’ ”

  Zoe beams. “That’s exactly what I was going for!”

  “Good,” my mom says. “This is a wonderful example of how a singer can really make a song her own. What was your active verb, Zoe?”

  “My verb was ‘assess,’ ” Zoe says. For a split second she glances at me, but I can’t tell if it’s on purpose.

  My mom picks Todd next, and he sings the song like he’s landed in a foreign country and has absolutely no idea what’s going on; his verb is “bumble.” Jessa sings it supersarcastically and explains that her verb is “scorn” and she’s singing to a guy who cheated on her. Pandora unsurprisingly picks “seduce” and sings the song like she’s trying to convince someone to cheat. Everyone sounds really, really good, and the longer I sit there waiting for my turn, the less confident I feel. Each time my mom calls up a new person, I find myself thinking, Don’t choose me, don’t choose me. I start to wonder if she’s saving me for last. I hope she’s not; I’m not sure how lo
ng I can hold this much tension in my body before something snaps.

  I’m still waiting for my turn to perform when the choppy-haired non-eq from Never Have I Ever opens the door. “Oh, sorry,” she says. “We’ll wait in the hall.”

  My mom looks at her watch. “Wow. How is it three o’clock already?” she says, and I take a normal breath for the first time in an hour. “Time flies when you’re surrounded by talent, I guess. Thank you all for giving me the privilege of listening to your unique points of view. It was such a pleasure to work with you.”

  I know I should be upset right now, but all I feel is relief that I don’t have to sing in front of these insanely talented people. If I’m honest with myself, the second impression I made probably wouldn’t have been any better than my first. Everyone else here pulled off way better performances than I could’ve managed, even though I’m the only one who has done the exercise before. No matter how hard I try or how many master classes I take, I’m never going to be as good as they are. That should inspire me to work even harder, the way listening to Skye did on my last Family Night at home. But more and more, the thought of struggling toward something I’ll likely never achieve is starting to feel exhausting. The entire point of coming here was to grow as a performer, but maybe nothing—not even Allerdale—is going to make me want this like I should.

  If I never make it as an actor, will I be exiled from Family Night? I think about my mom saying, Oh, my daughter? She’s so mainstream. She’s not like us, and it stings like crazy. But it hurts just as much to lie and make excuses for myself and pretend to love something because I’m genetically predisposed to love it.

  I’m so deep in thought that I don’t even realize my mom’s next to me until her hand lands on my arm. “That went so well, didn’t it?” she says. “What remarkable people. You’re so lucky to be in this group of apprentices, Brookie.” She doesn’t say, You could learn so much from them, but I hear it anyway.

  “Yeah, definitely,” I say, and it comes out sounding flat.

  “Hey.” She tilts my face toward her. “What’s the matter?”

  I can’t tell her what I’m thinking, so I say, “Nothing. I just hoped I’d get a chance to perform, that’s all.” If I were a real Shepard, that’s what would be bothering me.

  My mom rubs my back. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t expect to run out of time. But you’ve done this exercise before, and this is the only chance I’ll ever get to work with your classmates. You can perform for me later, if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Well, the offer stands if you change your mind. I hope you’re not too upset.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “Have a good time with the non-eqs.”

  On the way out the door, I toss my handout labeled “VALIDATE” into the trash.

  I leave the classroom before my friends are done gathering their things, slip into the bathroom, and crouch down in the corner of the handicapped stall where nobody can see me. I’m going to have to face everyone sooner or later, but right now I’m feeling too fragile. I send the universe an image of my friends telling me it doesn’t matter who my mom is or that I lied, that they like me for me. But I know deep down that’s probably not going to happen. Not everyone is as understanding as Zoe.

  As if I’ve summoned her, the bathroom door opens, and I hear Zoe’s voice. “Brooklyn? You in here?”

  I’m about to answer, but then I hear Jessa. “Why do you care? I don’t get why you even hang out with her.”

  “She’s funny and smart and supersweet,” Zoe says. “And right now she’s really upset, so be nice to her, okay?”

  “She’s upset? We’re the ones who should be upset. Did you know Lana Blake Shepard was her mom?”

  “I found out last night,” Zoe says. “Why does it really matter, though?”

  “Are you serious right now? It matters because she obviously bribed her way into this festival! I have tons of supertalented friends who didn’t get in here, and that spoiled brat is taking up space because Marcus is friends with her mommy.”

  “Jess, you don’t know that,” Livvy says.

  “Why else would she possibly be here? We’ve seen zero proof that she can actually sing or act or dance. She couldn’t even get a part as a freaking spear-carrier.”

  “It’s not her fault she didn’t get cast,” Zoe says. “Plus, she’s an amazing pianist. You should seriously hear her play.”

  The sink goes on, and Livvy says, “What is up with my hair today?”

  Jessa ignores her. “If she’s so good at music, she belongs at Interlochen! Allerdale is for actors, and she is not an actor. Her own mom didn’t even want to watch her perform. Didn’t you see how she called on everyone but her?”

  “Brady and Adam didn’t go, either,” Livvy says.

  “Jess, I really think we just ran out of time,” Zoe says.

  “Why are you sticking up for her? Don’t you know she’s using you?”

  “How is she using me? She’s my friend.”

  “She wants people to see her with the Juilliard girl, obviously. She follows you around like a lost puppy.”

  Livvy giggles. “God, Jessa, you’re kind of being a huge bitch right now.”

  “It’s not bitchy if it’s true.”

  “I want her to hang out with me,” Zoe says. “What do you not understand about ‘we’re friends’?”

  I can almost hear Jessa rolling her eyes. “Girl, you do what you want. But I wouldn’t want some amateur hanging on to my coattails. Hey, Liv and I are going to Target later. You want to come?”

  “I can’t,” Zoe says. “Brooklyn and Lana and I are having dinner.”

  “Ohhhhh.” Jessa says the word like it has about five syllables. “Okay. I get it now.”

  “Jessa, it’s not like that.”

  “Whatever. I say good on you. If she’s gonna use you, use her right back.” And then the door swings open and bangs shut, and everything is quiet.

  So I guess that’s it; my days of being part of the group are over. No more raucous dining hall meals, arguing over which is the worst musical ever written. No more crowding around someone’s laptop and watching dumb YouTube videos. No more late nights on the lawn. When those things were actually happening, I was always waiting for them to be over so I could be alone with Zoe. But now that they’re not an option anymore, I realize how much I’ll miss being invited.

  Or maybe I was never really invited at all. Maybe I was just following Zoe around like a lost puppy.

  At least she stood up for me. She didn’t know I was here, so she didn’t have to say the things she said. She really does like me, and it’s not because I can bring her closer to my mom. And it’s a good thing, too. If I don’t have any shows or any friends, Zoe’s pretty much the only thing I have left going for me at Allerdale. I better cling to her with everything I’ve got.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon holed up in a practice room, playing overly dramatic sad songs. When I come back to the room to change for dinner, Zoe’s waiting for me. She looks gorgeous in a strappy red dress and sparkly shoes. “Where were you?” she asks. “I texted you a million times.”

  Part of me wants to tell her I overheard her conversation with Jessa in the bathroom, but that would be embarrassing for both of us. “Sorry. I was in a practice room,” I say. “There’s no reception down there. Let me change, and we can go, okay?”

  “Okay.” Zoe smiles, a totally genuine smile, and it calms me down to see how excited she is for tonight. Honestly, even if she were using me to get closer to my mom, I’d probably let her.

  We walk the five minutes to Main Street and find Spindrift, which is one of the three restaurants in town. The bistro turns out to be beautiful, all rough-hewn wood tables and tiny votive candles and chairs with swirly wrought-iron backs that are nicer to look at than lean on. Mom’s already there when we arrive, halfway into her first glass of wine. “My girls,” she says when she spots us. “Sit down. Get anything you want—
appetizers, desserts, my treat.”

  “Thank you so much for inviting me,” Zoe says as she settles into her chair, and my mom says, “Of course, my darling,” even though it was my idea.

  “How were the non-eqs?” I ask.

  “Oh, they were wonderful. No one topped you, though, Zoe. I was floored by what you did in class today.”

  Zoe turns pink. “Wow, really? I mean, wow. Thank you.”

  “When you get to New York, Brookie will give you my number, and we’ll arrange a little audition, okay? No promises, but if I end up having space for another student, I’d love to teach you. If that’s something you think you might want, of course.”

  “Oh my God, yes. I can’t even—I mean—yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.” Zoe beams at me, and I smile back, but it almost hurts to do it. I can’t even tell if I’m more jealous that she has captured my mom’s heart so thoroughly or that my mom has captured hers.

  “How’s Dad? And everyone else?” I interrupt.

  “Everyone’s wonderful. Dad sends his love—he’s at Glimmerglass this week. Marisol’s due in three weeks—she’s absolutely enormous—and your uncle’s working on an absurd musical about online dating. It’s called Don’t Kiss Me, Kate. It’s going to be intolerable.”

  “I think that sounds kind of hilarious,” I say, and Zoe stifles a laugh and nods halfheartedly, like she kind of wants to be on my side but also doesn’t want to contradict my mom. “Are you going to see it?”

  “You could not pay me enough to sit through that.” My mom takes a giant gulp of her wine. “You haven’t said a thing about Birdie yet, Brookie; I need to know everything.”

  I suddenly realize I never told Zoe to pretend I’m in Birdie with her; I have no idea what I’m going to do now. I look around wildly, hoping for something to divert my mom’s attention, and the waiter a couple of tables away catches my gaze and comes right over.

  “Good evening,” he says, sliding a bread basket onto the table. “Do you ladies know what you’d like to eat?”