A new song starts, one of those ubiquitous ones about freedom and summer and falling in love, and Zoe grabs my hand and leans in to say something. Her lips are so close, they brush my ear, but the music is loud enough that I can still barely hear her scream, “Let’s go!”
I look at her like, What? She can’t possibly want to leave already. But then she tips her head up toward the empty cage, and I realize what she means. Part of me is so not ready for this, but a bigger part is thrilled as Zoe leads me up the steps and behind the bars. The crowd cheers as she closes the door behind us and puts her hands on my hips, her front pressed to my back like she’s spooning me. Everyone is watching us, but this doesn’t feel anything like the kiss at the cast party. This doesn’t feel like a game. It’s suddenly very clear to me that after tonight, everything’s going to be different between us.
I have no idea how long we dance in the cage, but by the time we’re done, I’m soaked in sweat, and I’m delirious with exhibitionism and the feel of Zoe’s skin. My legs are trembling a little, and I stumble in my heels and trip down the last two steps, but someone catches my arm and helps me balance. I look up, up, up into Russell’s face.
“Thank you!” I shout, but I’m not sure he can hear me, so I give him a hug instead. I’m so happy to see him; I love everyone right now. Most of the company is dressed in leather and sparkles and booty-shorts and tulle, but Russell’s in his standard T-shirt and jeans, and it’s comforting. It reminds me that this evening is really happening, that it’s not some crazy fever dream.
“You okay?” he hollers when I pull back. I nod hard, and he smiles. “You looked awesome up there.”
It felt like we looked awesome, but it’s nice to hear it confirmed by someone else. “Thanks!” I shout. “You should go next! Is Olivier here? You should make him dance with you.”
“What?” Russell yells, and I shake my head. There’s no way I’m going to make myself heard over this music.
“Do you want—” Russell starts, but Zoe comes up next to me and grabs my hand.
“Water!” she shouts.
I give Russell a little wave. “See you later,” I yell.
There are big coolers of water on the loading dock, and Zoe and I gulp some down before we head back into the fray, grinning at each other like idiots the whole time. We pass Kenji and Todd near the edge of the stage, and they wrap us up in their sweaty arms and kiss our cheeks and grind with us in an exaggerated, hilarious way. Neither of them has really spoken to me all week, but now it’s like they want me to be their new best friend, and I just go with it. Tonight, I don’t care about whys or hows or what will happen tomorrow. Tonight, I belong with them.
I belong at this festival.
I belong with Zoe.
The party doesn’t end until nearly three. When the music finally stops and the loading dock lights flicker on, Zoe’s beside me in a moment, bedraggled and glowing. She slips her arm through mine and says, “Let’s go home,” and even though I’m way too warm, I shiver. Once we get back to the room, absolutely anything could happen. I’m pretty sure I’m ready.
Before anyone can trap us into a conversation, we slip outside and stumble across the lawn toward our dorm, clinging to each other and laughing as our heels sink into the dewy grass. Livvy’s whiskey ran out halfway through the night, and the effects have long worn off, but I’m so tired that I feel tipsy anyway. There are people everywhere, but they all seem flat, like extras who have been hired to provide background noise for Zoe and me. She’s the only one who feels solid and real. I’m hyperaware of the stripe of skin where my arm presses against hers.
Our heels click up the stairs, synchronized without us even trying. As we make our way down the hall to our room, Zoe giggles in the quiet, then claps her hand over her mouth and exaggeratedly shushes me. We’re the first up here, so it’s totally unnecessary, but I laugh and shush her back. It makes me feel like we’re getting away with something delicious and forbidden.
I unlock our door—it takes me a couple of tries—and we push inside, both bumping our shoulders into the doorframe because we’re not willing to separate long enough to go single file. Neither of us bothers to turn on the light, but the streetlamp along the path outside casts a soft glow over the room. Zoe steadies herself on my shoulder as she kicks off her shoes, then lets go of me to stretch her arms over her head. Her silver eye shadow is smeared, like a little kid at the end of trick-or-treating, and I have an unaccountable urge to press my lips to her eyelids. How much am I allowed to touch her, now that we’re not performing for anyone?
She heads toward my bed and flops down onto her back, her hair splayed across my pillow. For a second I think she’s still drunk enough that she’s gone to the wrong side of the room by accident, but then she pats the spot next to her and says, “C’mere.”
There’s barely space for us to lie next to each other, and Zoe doesn’t move over to accommodate me, so I end up on my side, curled toward her like a parenthesis. Our inside arms are pressed together from shoulder to wrist, and my top knee rests against her bare thigh. I close my eyes and try to memorize every place our skin is touching.
“Tonight was amazing,” she says. She turns to look at me, and our noses almost bump. I feel a laugh rising in my chest at our clumsiness and sudden closeness, but she looks serious, so I swallow it back down. “You were amazing. I’ve never seen you let go like that. You’re a great dancer.”
“Really?” I ask, and she nods. “I loved it. I loved dancing with you.” If there was ever a time for honesty, it’s now, when we’re both hazy and warm and not thinking too hard.
Zoe rolls away so her back is to me, and for a minute I’m certain I’ve said something wrong. But then she snuggles deeper into my comforter and mumbles, “So tired,” and I realize she’s planning to stay here all night. I’m not ready for her to go to sleep yet, though. Something started between us on that dance floor, and I need confirmation that it’s real, that we can be like that even when we’re alone.
Zoe’s hair has slipped off her shoulder and pooled behind her, right next to my nose, and it still smells like grapefruit even after all the dancing. I sink my fingers into it near the nape of her neck and slowly drag them through to the ends, which are tangled and damp from sticking to her skin. Zoe tips her head back a little, and I wonder if I’ve pulled too hard. But when I retreat, she murmurs, “Mmm, no, don’t stop.”
I plunge back in, more confident now, and comb through the whole length of her hair, roots to tips, over and over and over. The room is totally quiet except for the soft, rhythmic shushing sound of my fingers. I drag my nails gently along her scalp, just to see what happens, and I’m rewarded with a soft, appreciative sigh that’s almost, almost a moan. I wonder if she makes that sound when Carlos touches her other places, and the thought sends a nervous, satisfying warmth straight to my center.
In a fleeting moment of bravery, I sweep Zoe’s hair to the side and run a single fingertip down the soft length of her neck. The top flower of her tattoo is right below where my finger’s resting, and I trace the outline of it. I expect it to be raised a little, but it feels as soft and smooth as the rest of her skin. I trace the next flower and the next as they meander over her shoulder blade, down toward where they disappear under the back of her dress. Zoe’s breathing more deeply now, and even though she’s not facing me, I can tell how totally with me she is. There’s something about holding her captive with my touch that bolsters my tiny spark of courage and builds it up into a small, constant flame.
I trace the top edge of her dress, back and forth, until I finally work up the nerve to grasp the tiny silver zipper. So slowly that it’s almost excruciating, I pull it down. One, two, three inches of Zoe’s inked back come into view as the zipper’s teeth separate.
“Is this okay?” I whisper, and she nods. It’s like she doesn’t even want to speak for fear of tearing the web I’m weaving around us.
Her permission makes me hungry, and I slide the zipper
down as far as it’ll go, right below the edge of her underwear. I spread the fabric of her dress apart, revealing the expanse of her back, and when I slip my finger underneath the clasp of her bra, she shivers and nods again.
It comes apart, and for the first time, I can see Zoe’s entire tattoo, a network of delicate branches and tiny pink flowers that reaches all the way down to her hips. It’s absolutely gorgeous. I remember what she told me about the tattoo’s symbolism—that life is beautiful but short, and you have to take advantage of every opportunity—and it makes me bold enough to reach out and run a fingertip all the way down her spine. Her back arches, and my breath catches in my chest. I’ve never felt so powerful in my entire life.
I start again at the very top and trace each flower and branch as slowly as I can, and I watch Zoe’s body move as she breathes with me, all her attention focused on that tiny point where my skin and hers come together. Her skin is soft and slightly damp, and I’m not sure if it’s from dancing all night or from what I’m doing to her now. When I reach her hips and there’s no more ink left, I kiss her back once, right where I imagine the other side of her heart would be. I lick my lips and taste salt.
“Brooklyn,” she whispers, and when she rolls over to face me, her pupils are so huge, they’ve swallowed all the blue in her eyes. She weaves her fingers through my hair at the base of my neck, and when she moves a little closer, I don’t pull away.
“Can I?” she whispers against my mouth.
I answer by moving forward that last inch and closing the gap between us.
It’s weird how you can spend countless hours remembering the feel of someone’s lips and still be totally unprepared for the exquisite reality of them. Zoe’s mouth is warm and lazy and sweet against mine, not urgent or aggressive at all, like it was during Never Have I Ever. This time it feels totally genuine, like she wants to take her time and drink me in. I expect kissing her to be different from kissing a boy, but it’s really not, except that her face is smaller and smoother and fits in my cupped hand. Her cheeks are flushed, and my whole body heats up as I think, I did this to you.
She catches my bottom lip between hers and playfully bites me, and I gasp, which makes us both start laughing. Our mouths don’t fit together when we’re smiling, so we pull back a fraction of an inch and stare at each other, the kind of look I’ve been giving her for weeks when I thought she wasn’t paying attention. This time, she looks back.
“Finally,” she whispers, and my heart supernovas.
All we do is kiss. In the world of theater people, that barely even counts. But the next morning, I slip out of bed and walk to Kayla’s Cakes, where I buy a single doughnut. I leave it on Zoe’s desk while she sleeps in a tangle of sheets and silky hair and unfastened clothing. She’s so beautiful, I can barely stand to look at her.
She chose me, I think as I watch the rise and fall of her chest, and it’s more validating than any affirmation I could scream in front of the mirror.
I’m on my way over to the scene shop when my phone rings, and I smile when I see my mom’s picture on the screen—for once, I actually have good news to share. But I barely manage to get both syllables of “Hello?” out before she starts talking.
“Brookie! I’m so glad I caught you! Marisol had the babies!”
“Oh my God, when?”
“Last night around four. I wanted to call you then, but I figured I should let you sleep.”
Even though nobody can see me, I blush a little thinking about what I was doing at four in the morning. “She wasn’t due for another two weeks, right?” I say. “Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s perfect. The babies are just beautiful.”
“What are their names? She didn’t really name the boy Pierre, did she?”
“The girl is Jasmine, and the boy is Owen,” my mom says. “Christa talked her out of ‘Pierre’ at the last minute. Honestly, I thought it was kind of cute.”
“Are you at the hospital now?” I ask. “Can I talk to them?”
“Marisol’s sleeping, and Christa went to get coffee, but they said to tell you they love you and they can’t wait for you to meet the twins.”
“I can’t wait to meet them, either. I wish I could come home and see them right now.”
“I wish you could, too,” Mom says. “How’s everything going up there? You sound a little tired.”
I feel a goofy smile creep over my face. “Everything’s good,” I say. “Really, really good, actually. Pandemonium was last night.”
“Oh! I forgot that was coming up! Did you have a fantastic time? Do they still have the cage? Did you dance in it?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” I say, and my stomach does a flip as I think about pressing against Zoe behind those bars. “I only have a couple of minutes right now, so I’ll tell you everything later, but…um…I think you were right about Zoe and me.”
“I knew it!” my mom shrieks. “Brookie, that’s wonderful.”
I can’t remember the last time I had her wholehearted approval for something I legitimately accomplished, and it feels like sinking into a warm bath. “It kind of is, isn’t it?” I say. “I don’t think there’s anything superserious going on, because of Carlos and whatever, but she did say they have an open relationship, right? And I like her so much, and I think she really likes me.”
“I like her so much, too. Wait till I tell Dad! Or do you want to tell him yourself?”
“It’s okay, you can tell him.” I’m at the door of the scene shop now, and I see Russell approaching from across the lawn. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. My crew call is starting.”
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” my mom says. “You’ve always seemed so resistant to dating girls. Allerdale is really opening up your world, huh?”
“I guess. I’ll talk to you later, Mom. Give my love to everyone, okay? Tell Marisol and Christa I’ll call them soon.”
“I will. We love you back,” she says, and I hang up.
Russell catches up to me, looking bleary-eyed and rumpled. “It should be illegal to make us come to work this early after Pandemonium,” he says.
“Seriously. I hardly slept.” I feel wide awake, but I think I’m running on pure adrenaline.
“Did you know ducks sleep with half their brains at a time so they can always be on the lookout for predators?” Russell says. He rubs his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair, which makes it stick up in a million different directions. It doesn’t look like he washed it this morning.
“I did not know that about ducks, but it doesn’t surprise me that you do.” I reach up and pat him on the shoulder, and he gives me a weird look.
“What’s with you?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You look so…happy. Nobody’s happy at nine in the morning.”
Part of me wants to tell him what happened with Zoe—I think he’d be pleased for me—but another larger part loves having a secret with her. So I say, “I am happy. I have a new niece and nephew! They were born last night.”
“Oh, wow. Wait, both at once?”
“Twins,” I tell him. “Jasmine and Owen. So cool. Come on; let’s go inside.” I link my arm through his. He looks a little bewildered by my enthusiasm, but he lets me tug him toward the theater.
I spend the entire morning painting escape stairs black, but I barely register the work in front of me. All I can see are Zoe’s eyes inches from my face, Zoe’s tattooed back under my fingers, Zoe’s hair sprawled across my sheets. A couple of times, I find myself singing without even realizing I’m doing it. At lunch time, I dash over to Haydu, where Zoe’s in Birdie rehearsal, and peer through the window of the dance studio. It seems insane that we’re both spending our days doing normal things like painting and learning choreography when such a seismic shift has occurred between us. I should be using this time to get food, but instead I wait outside the door for half an hour in case Zoe’s choreographer gives them a break. I send the universe an image of us sneakin
g off into a stairwell and murmuring about how perfect last night was. But the girls are still dancing when it’s time for me to go back to work.
I spend the afternoon replaying our kisses in my head until the memories are almost worn through. When the shop head releases me that evening, I’m out the door before Russell can even ask if I want to go to Sammy’s. I haven’t eaten in the dining hall in a week and a half, but my excitement about seeing Zoe eclipses all my awkward feelings about facing the other apprentices. The room is packed, but it takes me all of six seconds to spot her; having a crush on someone gives you serious tracking radar. Her table is full of people from the Birdie cast, including Kenji and Todd and Livvy, but at least Jessa’s not here.
Everyone looks a little surprised to see me when I approach with my food, but Zoe shoots me a radiant smile and makes everyone scoot down so she can pull up a chair for me. Even though I’ve been thinking about her the entire day, I don’t know how to act now that she’s right here. Is she going to kiss me in front of all these people? I’m not even sure if I want her to or not. I’m relieved when she opts for a hug instead, but the way our breasts and hips and cheeks press together makes my face flame. I pull away much sooner than I want to.
“Thank you for the doughnut,” Zoe whispers into my ear. “You are the sweetest.”
“Of course,” I say, and then she sits down and picks up the thread of Kenji and Todd’s conversation right where she left off. I’m disappointed and relieved all at once.
I spend the whole meal trying to keep a normal, serene expression on my face while my knee presses against Zoe’s under the table. I barely understand the conversation, anyway; missing ten days’ worth of inside jokes at summer stock is like being off the grid for months back in the real world, and I know it’ll be nearly impossible for me to catch up. But maybe I don’t need anyone else, now that I have Zoe.
Look Both Ways Page 14
