Look Both Ways

by Alison Cherry

  Putting out the fire takes way longer than I expected. Pandora and Natasha cling to each other and wail as they watch firefighters rush in and out of the building, and I wish I could duct tape their mouths shut; everyone’s already upset, and they’re making things worse. Zoe cries silently, and I put my arms around her as a few men climb up onto the roof and cut into it with saws, releasing spirals of smoke into the night air. Everything reeks of charred wood and burning synthetic fabric, and it’s getting harder to breathe, but nobody makes a move to leave.

  After about forty-five minutes, the firefighters finally get the flames under control, and we applaud as they emerge from the building, blackened from head to toe. Water streams out of the sooty lobby and soaks into our shoes as they remove their air tanks and start packing up their gear. Bob confers with the fire marshal, and when he finally heads in our direction, everyone starts shouting questions at the same time. Barb lets out an ear-piercing whistle to make us shut up.

  “My dear, brave company,” Bob says. “What a tragedy that you had to witness the death of our beautiful theater. But nobody was hurt, and we can all be grateful for that.” I’ve never seen him look defeated before, and it’s heartbreaking.

  “What started the fire?” calls one of the non-eqs.

  “We’ll know more once we’ve done a thorough investigation, but it looks like the hazer shorted out backstage and ignited the curtains.” Zoe and I exchange a startled look; if we hadn’t used the hazer for our show tonight, would the theater still be standing? Is this all our fault? I wait for Bob to ask to see our group alone in his office, but he doesn’t even glance at us. “I’m sure this goes without saying,” he continues, “but you must not enter the theater again for any reason. It has sustained major structural damage, and you could be seriously injured. A contractor will board up the building tomorrow.”

  “But we’re supposed to load in Birdie on Saturday,” Livvy says.

  Bob looks pained. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Haydu will be out of commission for the rest of the summer.”

  Zoe grips my hand. “Is the show going to be canceled?” she asks.

  “Hopefully not,” Bob says. “My esteemed colleagues and I will talk over some possible solutions tonight, and we’ll all reconvene in Legrand for an update at eleven tomorrow morning, okay? In the meantime, be safe and get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and everything’s under control now.”

  He tries to smile at us, and we try to smile back. But as we watch him turn away from the charred remnants of Haydu Hall and head toward his office, flanked by Barb and Marcus, it’s impossible not to worry.

  I wake up the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing. It’s barely seven, and I don’t recognize the number on the screen, but no one ever calls this early unless it’s an emergency. Maybe something happened to my parents. I’m suddenly wide-awake.

  “Make it stop,” Zoe mumbles. She pulls my pillow over her head as I hit talk.

  “Hello?” I choke. My throat is scratchy from all the smoke I inhaled last night.

  “Good morning,” says a calm, pleasant man’s voice. “Is this Brooklyn?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “This is Bob Sussman, the managing director. I’m so sorry if I woke you, but we’d appreciate it if you could join us in my office as soon as possible.”

  I struggle into a sitting position. “What? Why?”

  “I’ll explain everything in person,” Bob says. “Can you be here in twenty minutes?”

  I throw on some clothes, and my mind starts spinning as I trudge across campus in the early-morning quiet. Have they decided the fire is my fault after all? Am I about to get kicked out of Allerdale? If I am, at least I went out on a high note, plus my parents will never know I wasn’t really cast in Birdie. Maybe this is for the best. Then again, leaving Allerdale three weeks early means leaving Zoe three weeks early, and I’m not sure I can stand that. We’ve barely had any time to be together.

  I push into the main office, ready to plead my case, and find Russell sitting outside Bob’s closed office door. “Hey,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know. They told me to come in as quickly as I could. What are you doing here?”

  “Same.”

  I sit down next to him. “Do you think we’re in trouble?”

  “What? No. Why would we be?”

  “I mean, Bob said the hazer burned down the theater, and we’re the ones who used it last, right? So doesn’t that kind of make it our fault?”

  “We didn’t know it was broken,” Russell says. “If we hadn’t used it, they would’ve turned it on for Dreamgirls today, and the same thing would’ve happened. Right?”

  “I guess.” I pick at the hem of my shorts. “Tell me something weird to distract me?”

  “A group of weasels is called a boogle,” he says. “Everyone has a unique tongue print. The largest recorded snowflake was fifteen inches across. Is this helping?”

  “Not really. But I do love the word ‘boogle.’ ”

  The office door opens, and Bob sticks his head out and beams at us. “You made it! Come in, come in.” He certainly doesn’t seem angy with us, but I can’t imagine why we’d be here unless we’re in trouble. I take a deep breath and follow Russell inside.

  Bob’s office is cluttered and cheerful, the walls crowded with framed Allerdale show posters and children’s drawings. Barb and Marcus are seated on either side of the desk, and the third-rotation stage managers, Lauren and Magdalena, are crammed into narrow folding chairs against one of the walls. Russell and I sit down in the two remaining seats, and Bob boosts himself up onto his desk like a little kid and plunks down right on top of a pile of papers. I see the word “INSURANCE” poking out from under his thigh.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve called you here,” he says.

  “Yeah,” Russell says, at the same time that I blurt out, “Are you kicking us out?”

  Bob laughs. “No, of course not! Far from it. We have a proposal for you, actually. You two were the brains behind A Midsummer Night’s Dreamgirls, correct?”

  I nod. “I mean, the cast helped. But yeah, we wrote pretty much all of it.”

  “Wonderful. As you know, we’re in a bit of a bind right now. We’re down a performance space, but we can’t cancel any of the actors’ contracts or shorten the run of either Birdie or Macbeth. We considered trying to run the shows in repertory in Legrand, but we don’t have the resources or the crew to do that many changeovers. So we wondered if the two of you might be interested in helping us create a new show, one in which the actors from both casts could perform.”

  We’re both silent for a minute, and then Russell says, “Wait. You want us to write another mash-up?”

  “Precisely! A full-length one, this time. We were thinking the original Macbeth actors could perform most of Shakespeare’s text as planned, and you two could rewrite all the lyrics to the songs from Birdie to fit in with Shakespeare’s story. Whenever it was time for a song, the Macbeth actors would leave the stage, and identically dressed Birdie actors would take their places and sing. That way, everyone can be included, and everyone can play to their strengths.”

  “It’s not a perfect solution, of course,” Marcus says. He’s obviously disgusted by the whole idea.

  “But it’s the best one we can think of on short notice,” Bob says. “What do you two think?”

  Russell and I look at each other, and the stunned expression on his face mirrors my feelings exactly. This whole Shakespeare-musical mash-up thing was supposed to be a silly joke. And now this is happening?

  Bob must take our silence for reluctance, because he starts talking again. “We wouldn’t be able to compensate you properly for all your hard work, and I’m sorry about that, but we can offer you a small stipend. And you’d be released from any prior obligations, of course—crew calls and assistantships and whatnot. We’d need you in rehearsals full-time.”

  “I�
�d get to withdraw from Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders?” I ask.

  “Do you have a large role?”

  I sneak a glance at Russell, and we both bite back a laugh. “Replacing me shouldn’t be a problem,” I answer.

  “Perfect. Consider it done. So? What do you say?”

  No more ridiculous ensemble work and slam poetry and pretending the floor is made of tar. No more gluing sequins or sorting screws. No more master classes that reinforce my lukewarm feelings about performing. I’d get to be in charge of something again, to immerse myself in work-that-doesn’t-feel-like-work for more than a fleeting twenty-four hours. I’d get to mess around on the piano with my friend all day every day, and I’d get paid for it. For the last three weeks, Allerdale could be exactly what I want it to be.

  “I’m in if you are,” Russell says. His fingers are tapping his thighs like they can’t wait to get to a keyboard.

  “Let’s do it,” I say. “We can call it Bye Bye Banquo.”

  Russell and I arrive late to the company meeting and lurk near the back of Legrand as Bob makes an announcement about the new show. People congratulate us over and over as they pass us on the way out the door, and a couple of girls even ask us to make sure they get solos. I hear a lot of grumbling, too—two non-eqs from Macbeth complain that their serious show is being “tainted” with songs, and a few girls from the Birdie ensemble bitch about how they’ll need to learn all new choreography. But the only reaction I really care about is Zoe’s. Her beautiful lead role is being snatched away from her, and I’m afraid she won’t take the news well. Even though none of this is my fault, I’m so involved in the new show that I’m scared she’ll blame me anyway.

  But when she spots me near the theater door, she breaks into a huge smile and throws herself into my arms. “Holy crap, Brooklyn, I’m so proud of you!”

  “Thanks,” I say. “It doesn’t even seem real yet. How are you feeling about the whole thing?”

  “It totally sucks, to be honest. We’ve put so much work into Birdie, and it seems kind of unfair that we have to start completely over and the other cast barely has to change anything. But at least I’ve got someone on the inside who’ll make sure I still get lots of stage time, right?” She bats her eyelashes at me.

  I have no idea if I’ll get any say in casting, but I say, “I’ll do what I can.”

  Zoe grabs my hand. “We should go celebrate. We have the whole day off. Let’s go somewhere special.”

  I can’t believe she’s finally offering this now. “I would really, really love to,” I say. “But Russell and I have meetings with the directors and designers all day.”

  Her face falls. “Oh. Right. You’re all important now. Maybe we could go out for dinner, at least?”

  “I doubt we’ll have enough of a break to go anywhere. I’m sorry.”

  “All right,” she says, and I can tell she’s struggling not to sound annoyed. “Just text me when you’re done for the night, I guess, and I’ll figure something out?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks for being flexible.”

  “It’s fine. Write us something great, okay?” She’s smiling, but I know her heart’s not in it. I tell myself it’s enough that she’s trying to be happy for me, even if she doesn’t totally mean it. She’s not used to my having priorities at Allerdale other than her.

  Russell and I spend the whole day in production meetings, discussing the logistics and structure of Bye Bye Banquo with the directors, stage managers, and design team. At first I’m too intimidated to speak much, but people keep asking for my opinions like they really matter, and I finally start to relax and concentrate on the show instead of what everyone thinks of me. When my ideas go up on the whiteboard right next to the directors’ and Bob’s and Marcus’s, I feel that same pure joy that always breaks across my family’s faces when they sing. This is so much better than performing, and I never want it to end.

  But my euphoria stutters to a halt when the meeting finally wraps up and I look at my phone for the first time since this morning. It’s nearly eleven, and I have four missed calls from my mom and six texts from Zoe asking where I am. My mom can wait—I emailed her about the fire last night and told her everyone was fine—but Zoe’s going to be pissed that I’m running so late. I text her that I’m on my way home, then practice apologies in my head as I walk back toward Ramsey. She probably planned something special for us even though she was upset, and I’ve paid her back by ignoring her all day. I’m the worst sort-of-girlfriend ever.

  When I get to the dorm, she’s waiting for me on the front steps in a little black dress with a flouncy, fluffy skirt. “Hey,” I say as I rush toward her. “I’m so, so sorry I didn’t get out until now. I know wherever you were going to take me is probably closed, and I totally suck for ruining our night, but you look really pretty, and I’m—”

  Zoe smiles and puts a finger to my lips. Weirdly, she doesn’t look upset at all. “It’s okay,” she says. “Close your eyes.”

  I do, wondering if she’s going to put a present in my hands, but instead she slips a blindfold over my eyes. “What are you—” I start, but she shushes me again.

  “Follow me,” she whispers. She takes both my hands, and I let her lead me.

  It’s hard to gauge how far we walk, but by the time Zoe stops me, the Allerdale background noise is gone, and all I can hear is the wind and the soft, musical chirping of crickets. Zoe runs her fingers down the sides of my face and brushes her lips against mine. “Ready for your surprise?” she asks.

  When I nod, she unties the knot at the back of my head, and the blindfold falls away. We’re at the top of a small, secluded hill, far from the lights of the theater, and there’s a flowered blanket spread out on the grass. Arranged in the center are a baguette, a wedge of cheese, a bowl of strawberries, and two doughnuts on a paper plate. A bottle of champagne sweats in the humid night air and glistens in the light of a cluster of votive candles, a couple of which have blown out.

  “I couldn’t get them to all stay lit at the same time,” Zoe says. “It’s too windy. Do you like it?”

  The whole thing is kind of a cliché, but it turns out even cliché stuff is perfect when it’s the first time someone does it for you. Jason’s definition of “romance” was buying me a bunch of half-dead daisies from a bodega. Zoe put some serious effort into this, and it makes me so happy, I’m afraid I might cry.

  I pull her into a hug. “I love it, Zoe. Thank you. How did you get champagne? Do you have a fake ID?”

  “No, I swiped it from the fridge in the green room.”

  “Won’t someone notice it’s gone?”

  “Who cares? You deserve it. You’re a professional playwright, Brooklyn Shepard.” She tugs me toward the blanket. “Come on. Let’s drink it.”

  We settle onto the blanket, and I eat a strawberry while Zoe wrestles with the champagne cork. “I can’t believe you did all this for me,” I say.

  “Of course I did.” The cork pops free, and froth overflows and streams down Zoe’s arm. “Shit, I forgot glasses. We’ll have to drink out of the bottle.” She grips it by the neck and lifts it. “To Brooklyn and her complete and utter amazingness!”

  She drinks and passes the bottle, and I raise it above my head. “To us!” I say, and she echoes me. When I take a sip, the bubbles explode on my tongue and warm my stomach, and I suddenly understand why people use champagne for celebrating.

  “So, tell me everything,” Zoe says. She settles back on her elbows and shoves a huge bite of doughnut into her mouth, and for the first time since before Carlos got here, I feel like she’s really listening to me. I tell her everything I can remember about our production meeting, and by the time I’m done talking, most of the food and two thirds of the champagne are gone. My head feels light and fuzzy, like there’s a thin layer of cotton batting right behind my eyeballs.

  “What’d your mom say when you told her you’re writing the new show?” Zoe asks.

  At the mention of my mom, eve
rything starts to feel less bubbly and bright. “Um…I actually haven’t told her yet,” I say.

  “Oh my God, call home right now! She’ll still be awake, right? Where’s your phone? Put it on speaker. I want to hear how she reacts.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll do it later.”

  “I don’t have to listen if you don’t want me to, it’s fine. You should call, though. You must be dying to tell everyone.”

  It’s weird how Zoe knows me so well in some ways and doesn’t understand me at all in others. “Honestly? Not really,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “You’ve met my mom. You know how she is.”

  Zoe looks confused. “Um, yeah. She loves you like crazy and she’s supersupportive.”

  “She is when you’re doing things she approves of.”

  “Why wouldn’t she approve of you writing a show for a world-renowned festival? That’s insane.”

  “Because I’m not performing in anything,” I say. “That’s what’s important to my family. Plus, my mom hates parodies. You heard how she talked about my uncle’s online dating musical when we were at dinner. It’s better if I let everyone think I’m in the ensemble and then ‘get sick’ at the last second. They’ll never know the difference.”

  “That sucks, though. This show is important to you, right? You seem way more excited about it than anything else you’ve done here.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “This is way better than being onstage, honestly.” It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud. I take another gulp of champagne, and I’m not sure if the fizzy rush that goes through me is from the bubbles or the words.

  “Then I don’t get why your family would be upset,” Zoe says. “It’s not like all of them perform. Your mom teaches, and your uncle’s a producer, and you said your dad directs, right?”