Look Both Ways

by Alison Cherry

  Everyone applauds, and I find myself smiling. I know I’ve had nothing to do with making this season special, but it’s impossible not to feel included when Bob is talking.

  “I have a very exciting announcement for you tonight,” he continues. “This coming Monday, right here in Haydu Hall, Allerdale will hold its first twenty-four-hour play festival!”

  Everyone breaks into enthusiastic murmurs and whispers, and Bob beams like a benevolent dad. “I’m so glad you’re excited as well! The goal of a twenty-four-hour play festival is, of course, to write, rehearse, and perform original short plays within the span of a single day. You will form groups of eight or fewer, and starting at 12:01 AM on Monday, you will gather to create your own fantastic original work. At eight PM that same day, you will perform those ingenious creations right here for an audience of donors and subscribers. The only rules are that you may not begin work on your play until the clock starts, and the work you perform must be memorized and completely original. Your whole group is not required to perform, as long as you all contribute to the creative process. Do something you’ve never done before! Experiment! Be bold!” Bob is bouncing on his toes now, so buoyed by his excitement that I think he may achieve liftoff.

  My phone vibrates with a text from Russell:

  Want to try one of our mash-up musicals? Midsummer night’s dreamgirls, maybe?

  OMG YES, I text back, and my brain floods with adrenaline at the prospect of creating a whole parody musical with him. Writing, rehearsing, and performing a play in less than a day sounds insane, but I know the two of us can make it happen. In a weird way, it feels like the most doable thing I’ve been asked to accomplish since I got here.

  “You’re free to start forming your groups now,” Bob says. “Please write your names down on this sign-up sheet, and have fun, you brilliant people! I can’t wait to see what you come up with!”

  Everyone starts talking at once, and Zoe grabs my hand. “Should we work alone, or should we ask Jessa and Livvy and those guys to work with us? It might be easier to get ideas if we have more people. Then again, if it were just us, we could—”

  I cut her off before she can say anything about being alone with me in a rehearsal room. “Russell and I already have an idea for something we want to write, actually,” I say. “But I’d love it if you’d work with us. All of you, actually—we’re going to need a bunch of people.”

  A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. “Wait, how do you guys already have an idea? Did you know about this in advance?”

  “No, it’s something we’ve been kicking around. He texted a minute ago to ask if I wanted to work on it for this. See?” I hold up my phone, as if I’m required to prove it.

  “Oh,” Zoe says. It’s like she had no idea until this moment that I had a life separate from her. “What’s the idea?”

  “It’s a Shakespeare-Broadway musical mash-up, like a parody. We were thinking of maybe doing A Midsummer Night’s Dreamgirls, since everyone knows both shows. We’d keep the general story from Midsummer, and we’d rewrite the lyrics from a bunch of Dreamgirls songs to be about the Midsummer characters.” Russell and I haven’t actually discussed the logistics of the mash-up, but it’s very clear to me that this is how it should work, and I know he’ll agree.

  For a second, I’m afraid Zoe’s going to say that’s a dumb idea, that she’d rather do something else. If she’s not into it, I’m afraid I’ll back down and let her take the lead, like always, and being in charge for once is suddenly really important to me. Fortunately, she starts laughing. “That’s really funny. I’m definitely in. Want me to round up everyone else?”

  “Yeah, that’d be perfect,” I say. I can write a twenty-four-hour play with no problem, but there’s no way I could find a cast without Zoe. None of the other apprentices take me seriously anymore. Maybe this play festival is exactly the opportunity I need to show Jessa and Livvy and Kenji and Todd that I’m worth something.

  Zoe gets up. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  “Should I come with you?”

  “No, I can do it myself.” Her tone is light, but she obviously thinks it’ll be easier to talk them into working with us if I’m not there to screw things up. “Why don’t you put our names down on the sign-up sheet?”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until they say yes?”

  “They’ll say yes. I’m very convincing.”

  She could just as easily have said, It’s a really good idea. I’m sure they’ll go for it or How could they not want to work with you? But she’s trying to help me, so I try not to be annoyed that she’s making this all about her. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “When I’m done, we’ll pick up Carlos and go get some dinner in town, okay?”

  And that’s all it takes for my annoyance to get the better of me. How rude is it to assume I have nothing better to do than be a pathetic third wheel? “I can’t go out with you guys tonight,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even and pleasant.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m eating with Russell.”

  Zoe looks confused. “I thought we weren’t supposed to start working on the show until midnight tomorrow.”

  “We’re not working on the show; we’re hanging out. He’s my friend. And I’m sleeping in his room tonight so you and Carlos can…you know.”

  “Oh,” Zoe says. “It’s just that I already told Carlos you’d come with us. We barely got to hang out with you the other day, and he wants to get to know you better.”

  I can’t believe she’s making me argue with her about this. She has to know how much it sucks for me to see them together. “Carlos isn’t going to care if I’m there or not,” I say. “He wants to see you, not me.”

  I wait for Zoe to make it right by saying, I care if you’re there. But instead she says, “All right. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” She sounds disappointed, but not disappointed enough.

  As she walks away from me, I try not to feel too disappointed, either.

  I lie awake for hours after Russell falls asleep on the floor that night, my mind chasing its tail like a hyperactive puppy. Is Zoe mad at me for ditching her and Carlos? She did me a favor by convincing the other apprentices to work with me on the play festival, and maybe I should’ve gone out with them in return, regardless of how uncomfortable I felt. Then again, she’s handled this whole Carlos situation so badly that maybe I don’t owe her anything. If her boyfriend was going to fly out here, she really should’ve talked to me about it beforehand and laid down some ground rules, right? I shouldn’t have been exiled to Russell’s room, and Carlos shouldn’t have been the one to ask me to go. All of that was Zoe’s responsibility, and she totally dropped the ball.

  I send the universe an image of myself yelling all those things at her, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. I don’t want to fight. All I want is for Carlos to leave so she can be mine again.

  I spend my whole crew call on Sunday debating whether to confront her. Maybe if I don’t say anything, the weirdness will fade away on its own. It might be too early in the relationship for me to complain; everything still feels fragile between Zoe and me, and I don’t want to ruin our last three weeks at Allerdale. But she’ll be in the city starting in September, and situations like this are bound to happen again. Isn’t it better to confront a problem before it becomes a precedent?

  I still haven’t decided what to do by the time I get home on Sunday evening. When I unlock the door, I find Zoe sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling; she’s not even listening to music or anything, and her mascara is smeared like she’s been crying for hours. How am I supposed to bring up my hurt feelings when she looks so listless?

  “Hey,” I say quietly. “Is he gone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I guess,” she says. “Come here?” She reaches out a hand to me, but she looks so hesitant, like she’s not sure whether I even want her anymore. It’s ridiculous to feel sorry for her when
I’m the one who’s hurt, but she seems so miserable that I can’t help it. She’s my Zoe, and she needs me.

  I sit down on the bed and gather her into my arms, and she curls against me. “Are we okay?” she asks in a very small voice.

  It’s the perfect opening to say all the things I’ve been thinking, and I almost do it, but then I chicken out at the last second. “I think I’m okay if you are,” I say.

  “I barely slept all night ’cause I kept thinking about how pissed at me you probably were. Having him here was awful for you, wasn’t it?”

  It’s really nice to hear her admit it. “Yeah, it kind of was,” I say.

  “I’m so sorry, Brooklyn.”

  “It’s okay. I know it’s complicated. And I know I’m allowed to see other people, too, if I want.”

  She looks up at me, startled. “But…you don’t want to, do you?”

  I think about telling her I do, so she’ll know how I’ve been feeling all weekend, but the last thing our relationship needs is more drama. “No,” I say.

  “Good. I know it’s unfair, but I want you all to myself.” She sighs and puts her head down on my chest. “Loving two people at once is so confusing.”

  I suddenly feel like I’ve downed fifteen shots of espresso. “Wait,” I say. “You love me?”

  “Of course I do. Don’t you know that?”

  She looks up at me with those pretty sunflower eyes, and it becomes very easy to forget all about Carlos. Guys I’ve dated have told me they loved me before, and I’ve said it back; Jason and I started saying it after a couple of months. I thought I was telling the truth, but the way I feel right now is so different that it makes me want to call him and take it back.

  “I love you, too,” I say, and the smile that breaks across her face could power a city block.

  “So you’re not mad?”

  “I’m not mad,” I say.

  “And you still want to do this?” She cups my cheek in her hand and kisses me, soft and sweet.

  “Yes,” I whisper against her mouth.

  “Good. I was so afraid that I’d screwed things up and lost you.”

  I know I shouldn’t let everything I feel fade away. We’ll have to talk about Carlos eventually. But no relationship is perfect, and my girlfriend loves too many people seems like something I should be able to handle. Dating Zoe is the one thing I’m doing right this summer, and I’m not willing to give it up over this.

  So I pull her closer and say, “You didn’t lose me. You can have both of us.”

  We stay in bed until the shadows start to lengthen, holding on to each other and murmuring silly, pointless things that feel important because they’re interspersed with “I love you”s. When Zoe’s alarm goes off at seven-thirty, she buries her face in my shoulder and groans. “I have a stupid costume fitting. I don’t want to let go of you.”

  I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  I’ll probably be in everyone’s way, but Zoe finally wants me near her again, and I don’t want to let go, either. “Sure,” I say.

  She holds my hand all the way to the shop. When we get there, she changes into a flouncy yellow dress and stands in front of a three-way mirror while a gray-haired woman pins her hem. There are only two costume people still working—everyone else is probably at dinner—so I wander through the organized chaos of the shop without fear of being a nuisance. The shelves that line the walls are packed with spools of thread, ribbon, trim, and buttons in every conceivable color, and there are half-naked dress forms everywhere, clad in Shakespearean doublets and sequined evening gowns. In one corner, shoe boxes are stacked all the way up to the ceiling, each one neatly labeled. The lulling whir of sewing machines and box fans fills the air, underscored by the oldies station playing on a tiny radio. It’s nicer than I expected in here; maybe I won’t mind working wardrobe for Macbeth next rotation.

  I’m inspecting a pair of blue satin pantaloons when Zoe comes back out in her normal clothes and slips an arm around my waist. “Hey,” she says. “All done. You want to see something cool?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  She grabs my hand, leads me to the back corner of the shop, and pushes back a faded maroon curtain to reveal a staircase. “Come on,” she says. “Costume storage is up there.”

  “Are we allowed to go in?”

  “Probably not,” she says, but she’s already on the third step. I take a quick look around the room, but nobody’s watching us, so I follow. This isn’t exactly a daring escapade, but Zoe’s enthusiasm makes everything feel like an adventure.

  We emerge into a big, dusty space crowded with a maze of clothing racks. The one closest to me is labeled “1920s Women” and holds more flapper dresses than I’ve ever seen in one place. The next one over has military uniforms on one end and Victorian gowns on the other. I finger the beaded hem of a black-and-silver dress. “This place is amazing,” I say.

  “Isn’t it?” Zoe disappears down an aisle and emerges a minute later wearing an enormous red Kentucky Derby hat with feather plumes. “What do you think?” she asks. “Does it bring out my eyes?”

  “Oh, for sure,” I say.

  “Here, I got you one, too.”

  She tosses me a hideous, wide-brimmed gold hat covered in cloth roses, plastic cherries, and a fake bird. I pull it on and adopt a terrible British accent. “Daahhh-ling, won’t you join me for tea and crumpets in the parlor?”

  Zoe swaps her hat for one of those furry Russian ones with giant earflaps. “No time for tea! Fetch me the sled dogs!” she growls in a baritone voice, and we both burst out laughing. I love that even after everything we went through this weekend, we can still be silly together. It makes me feel like things are going to be okay between us after all.

  Zoe pushes deeper into the room, opens a plastic bin labeled “Undergarments,” and pulls out a lacy purple bra so big, she could probably fit her entire head into one side. “Oh my God, look,” she says. When she fastens it over her T-shirt, the empty cups sag down so low, they almost touch her waist. She sidles up to me and shimmies her shoulders. “Do my giant purple bazooms turn you on, baby?”

  I laugh. “That thing would probably fit Barb.”

  “Can you even imagine? I bet she sneaks up here at night and parades around in it.” Zoe tugs a flouncy red petticoat up over her shorts, then pulls something out of the box that looks like three U-shaped neck pillows sewn together. “What do you think this is?”

  “It goes under a bustle,” I say. “Here, give it to me.” I tie it on over my jeans and shake my butt so the pillows bounce up and down. “It matches my hat, don’t you think?”

  “So hot,” Zoe says. “Now all you need is this.” She grabs a purple velvet cape with a dragon embroidered on the back and drapes it around my shoulders. I complete the ensemble with a huge, blingy dollar sign on a long gold chain, and she nods her approval.

  “Perfect,” I say. “I’m ready for my close-up.”

  Zoe grabs the two sides of my cape and uses them to pull me up against her. “Is this close enough?”

  “Almost,” I say. “Maybe a tiny bit closer?”

  She runs her hands down to my waist and over the pillows. “Mmm, a cape and a butt pad. Exactly what I look for in a girl.”

  “I’ve always had a thing for furry earflaps, personally.” She leans in to kiss me, but my dead-bird hat bonks her in the forehead, and we both start giggling. She tips the brim up and tries again, and this time it goes better. I love that she’s willing to risk kissing me when someone could come up here at any moment and catch us, and I pull her tighter against me. Now that this weekend is finally over, I never want anything to come between us again.

  After a minute, Zoe pulls away and runs her thumb gently over my cheek. “You,” she whispers, “look absolutely ridiculous.”

  “Says the girl with the dead wombat on her head.”

  “Take a picture with me,” she says.
“We need to commemorate our hotness.”

  She pulls out her phone, and we lean our heads together and make sultry faces. Zoe clicks and clicks and clicks, like she can’t get enough of documenting us. When she ducks under the brim of my absurd hat and snaps a photo of herself kissing my cheek, the joy that wells up in my chest makes me feel like I might pop and scatter bits of velvet and red crinoline and plastic cherries everywhere.

  It wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

  At ten minutes to midnight, Zoe and I head over to Haydu to get our rehearsal room assignment for the play festival. Everyone’s there, clutching blankets and snacks and psyching themselves up for the all-nighter ahead. Most of the company’s wearing T-shirts and yoga pants, but a few people are taking the sleepover thing to the next level—Pandora’s in a lacy shortie pajama set that definitely isn’t appropriate for anywhere but the bedroom. Our cast looks wide awake and ready to work, and they greet me with friendly smiles. Even Jessa seems to be making an effort to set our differences aside for the night. I wonder what Zoe said to them.

  Russell introduces himself to everyone, then turns to me and holds up his hand for a high five. “Ready to kick some ass?”

  “Ready,” I say. Even though I’m nervous, I do feel ready, now that things are good between Zoe and me again.

  Bob reads off our rehearsal room assignments, leads us in a countdown to midnight, and then sends us off to “make some brilliant theater.” The seven of us set up camp in Haydu 107 with some party-sized bags of Doritos and a whiteboard. I’m crunching on chips and waiting for someone to suggest a starting point, when Jessa turns to me and says, “You’re supposed to be our director, right? So, what do we do?”

  I’ve never really been in charge of anything before, and I realize I have no idea how to begin. I glance at Russell for help, but he nods like I should go ahead and take the lead. “Okay, well, um, we have people here from both shows, which is really great,” I start. “Maybe the Midsummer cast could give us a refresher course on the basic story, and then you could walk us through the Dreamgirls sound track, Jessa? How does that sound?”