Look Both Ways

by Alison Cherry

  Or maybe I’m projecting. I try to remind myself that this show isn’t about Zoe and me, but everything is about Zoe and me right now. Maybe I should give in and let my song be about all of us.

  I work all day, and by six, I’ve got a decent first draft. I head back to the theater to catch Alex and Russell before they break for dinner, and I find them in the audience, chatting with the Birdie director about the logistics of the banquet scene. “Can I play something for you guys?” I ask.

  “You’re done?” Alex says. “Dude, that’s impressive.”

  “Don’t say that till you hear it,” I tell him, and they all laugh like I’m kidding, but I’m not joking at all. I’ve never performed a completely original song for anyone before, and I’m even more nervous than I usually am when I sing other people’s work. I sit down at the piano in the orchestra pit, shake out my hands, and try not to care how my voice sounds—the notes and the words are what matter, not the way I execute them. I tell myself this is just like the night Russell and I wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dreamgirls. Maybe I can’t imbue other people’s music with new life the way the rest of the apprentices can. But I can create something out of nothing, and that’s even better.

  My eyes scan the auditorium for Zoe, and I find her on the other side of the room, changing her shoes and getting ready to go to dinner with some of the other actors. There are so many things I want to say to her, and I’m not brave enough to say any of them face to face. But if she hears my song, maybe she’ll at least know how upset I am that I couldn’t be everything she wanted me to be. I better play it now, before she leaves.

  “Brooklyn?” Alex says. “Are you ready?”

  I send the universe an image of my lyrics working magic on Zoe, softening her and healing the huge rift between us. And then I start to play, singing the words loudly enough that she can hear my imperfect voice all the way across the room.

  I know that I have failed you, though I promise you I tried.

  I should’ve had tomorrow and tomorrow by your side.

  I thought you’d always be my braver half, my champion and my friend,

  and my love, my sweet love,

  I’m not ready for the end.

  I wish we could go backward to the way things were before.

  I should’ve stilled your quick, ambitious hands before they dripped with gore.

  The crowd loved Duncan, I loved you. How will we ever mend?

  Oh my love, my sweet love,

  I’m not ready for the end.

  Forgive me, please; I loved you in the best way I knew how.

  I know it wasn’t good enough; it doesn’t help you now.

  I thought that we were happy, but you had to have the throne,

  and once you did, it drove you mad, and now I am alone….

  Life’s but a walking shadow now that your brief candle’s out.

  It seems bizarre that I’m still here, still stumbling about.

  When your mind consumes you from within, there’s no way to defend,

  and my love, my sweet love,

  I’m not ready for the end,

  no, I’m not ready for the end.

  When I finish, Russell and Alex applaud, and I force myself to look up at them instead of at Zoe. “I really love it,” Russell gushes. “You did an awesome job.” It’s possible he’s saying that only because he knows what a terrible day I’m having, but his smile looks sincere.

  “Yeah, it’s a really good start, Brooklyn,” Alex says. “Maybe a tad maudlin, but we can fix that. Can you teach it to the pianist and Macbeth tomorrow, after we iron out some of the kinks?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Excellent. Really good work.”

  But I can’t even hear the praise, because I’m watching Zoe walk up the aisle and out the far door, chatting with her friends like I haven’t bared my soul to her. My music used to impress her so much, but now, when it matters most, she didn’t even bother to listen. It’s not like I expected her to rush up onstage and tell me she was wrong about everything, but I didn’t expect her to ignore me completely, either.

  She doesn’t look back as the door closes heavily behind her, and I feel something slam shut inside me, too.

  I expect that the pain of seeing Zoe at rehearsal every day will lessen as time passes, but it doesn’t, not even a little. Now that she’s unattainable, everything about her fascinates me again—her boisterous laugh, the inflections of her speech, the way she sings and does her eye makeup and acts like other people’s personal space is nothing more than a friendly suggestion. Little by little, her stuff disappears from our room, and it depresses me to imagine her dresses in someone else’s closet and her towel hanging on the back of someone else’s door. I only meant to cool things off with her, not end them completely, and the way she’s carved me out of her life is heartbreaking. A few days ago, I was the first person she saw when she opened her eyes in the morning and the last one she talked to before she went to sleep. Now I don’t even know where she’s living.

  The stupid, ironic thing is that the moment I’ve stopped being able to enjoy it, everything else at Allerdale is finally going well for me. I feel like an important part of the company, I have plenty of people to hang out with, and the show is coming together beautifully. By the time Thursday night rolls around and it’s time to tell my parents they shouldn’t bother to come upstate because I’m “too sick to perform,” part of me regrets that they won’t see what I’ve created. If only they had different ideas about what constitutes important work, they might actually be proud of me.

  I call home during the intermission of our dress rehearsal, and as the phone rings, I prepare to make my voice sound hoarse and phlegmy. But when my mom picks up, she doesn’t let me get a word out before she starts talking. “Brookie! I’m so glad you called. I have the best news! We ran into Kristen Viorst at a benefit earlier this week, and I convinced her to come up to Allerdale with us to see you perform tomorrow!”

  I can tell she expects this name to mean something to me, but it doesn’t. “Who?” I croak.

  “She’s on the admissions committee at Juilliard! Of course this won’t be an official audition, but it’s a perfect opportunity for her to get a sense of you as a performer before you—”

  “No,” I say, so panicked that I forget about my fake sore throat. “Mom, you can’t bring her here.”

  “Sweetheart, I know it’s scary, but you’re going to be wonderful. And it’s time to start thinking about your future if you want to—”

  “You have to call it off,” I say. “I’m serious. If you bring her here for nothing, it’s going to be really embarrassing for all of us.”

  “What do you mean? It wouldn’t be for nothing.”

  If I tell Mom I’m sick, I can shut this Juilliard thing down and keep my role in Bye Bye Banquo a secret. But even if I do, I’ll be safe for only a few more weeks; once my mom sinks her teeth into an idea, she never lets go. Kristen Viorst will probably show up at our next Family Night to watch me perform, and I’ll have to come up with a whole new set of excuses and lies. The idea of jumping through any more hoops for a career I don’t even want is suddenly too exhausting to bear. It’s time to tell the truth, once and for all.

  “Listen,” I say. “This show is really important to me, and I want you and Dad to come. But the role I have isn’t the kind of thing Juilliard would be interested in.”

  “Brookie, she knows you’re just part of the ensemble, and she’s still—”

  “That’s not it,” I say. “I’ll explain everything when you get here, okay? I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. Can you trust me on this?”

  She must hear the desperation in my voice, because she stops arguing. “Okay,” she says. “I won’t bring her. Are you all right? You’re worrying me.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, but I don’t feel fine. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster that has started its ascent toward the first dizzying drop, way before I’m ready. Now that I�
�m strapped in, the only way out is through.

  Time always speeds up when you want it to move more slowly, and before I know it, Friday has flown by and it’s time to walk into town and meet my parents for dinner. Before I leave, I do a few affirmations in front of the mirror: The Allerdale company respects me for what I’ve created, and Mom and Dad will, too. Even if I tell them I don’t want to sing anymore, I’ll still be part of the family. But talking into the mirror isn’t the same without Zoe, and I abandon the cause long before I start believing what I’m saying. Tonight is about being honest, and sugarcoating the truth for myself won’t make things any easier.

  I get to the bistro early so I’ll have some time to compose myself, but Mom is already there when I arrive. She looks so happy to see me that I wish I could freeze this moment and seal it in a glass jar, so I could take it out and stare at it in the future when nothing is the same between us anymore. I love her fiercely, and I know she loves me back, but sometimes love isn’t enough to mask disappointment.

  Mom springs to her feet, throws her arms around me, and rocks me back and forth. “It’s so good to see you,” she says. “It feels like it’s been forever, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I say. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Of course we’re here! We wouldn’t miss our girl’s first performance in Legrand for anything.”

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes—he’s parking the car. Sit down, sit down.”

  I do, and Mom settles in across from me and pours me water from the carafe on the table. “Is Zoe on her way?” she asks.

  I’ve been so focused on the other conversation I need to have with my parents that I completely forgot that they thought Zoe was joining us tonight. I consider telling my mom my “girlfriend” is busy—at least I could save face in one small way—but it’ll hardly make a difference in light of the huge bomb I’m about to drop on her. I might as well come clean about everything.

  “Zoe’s not coming,” I say. “We broke up.”

  My mom looks stricken. “Oh no! When did that happen?”

  Five days, eighteen hours, and six minutes ago, reports my brain, but my mouth says, “Earlier this week.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Was it because of her boyfriend? I know they have an open relationship, but men can be so possessive.”

  “No, it had nothing to do with him. I just…couldn’t do it anymore.”

  The sympathy on my mom’s face morphs into exasperation, and my stomach turns over; I’ve been here all of two minutes, and things are already starting to go sour. “Oh, Brookie, no,” she says. “I know dating women is new for you, but Zoe’s such a remarkable girl, and you can’t let someone like that slip away just because you’re nervous!”

  “It’s not because I was nervous,” I say. “And it’s not because she’s a girl, either. I’m not saying I’ll never like a girl. But I wasn’t into her the way I thought. I really tried, but it didn’t work out.” That explanation still doesn’t feel like enough, so I add, “I’m sorry.”

  Mom puts on the patient voice she uses when she’s explaining a vocal exercise to a small child. “Things don’t always come easily at first when you’re dating someone new. You have to give it a chance. Relationships take time and work. You had to work with Jason, didn’t you? And Zoe’s such a better investment. She has all her priorities in order, and she’s absurdly talented, and she would fit in so well with our family—”

  “But none of that matters if I’m not attracted to her,” I say. “I know it’s not the only part of being in a relationship, but it has to be a part, right?”

  “It’s only been a few weeks! That’s not nearly enough time to figure out what you want. If you stick it out for the rest of the summer, I think—”

  “Stop,” I say. “Please just stop, okay? It’s already done. And I love you, but you don’t get any say in this.”

  My mom blinks a couple of times, like it has never occurred to her that some things aren’t her business. I can tell there’s a lot more she wants to say, but she manages to swallow down the words. “Fine,” she says. “We won’t talk about it right now. Let’s talk about why—”

  Behind me, the door swings open, and I hear my dad’s voice say, “Hey, Brookie.” I jump up to hug him, grateful for the momentary reprieve, and that’s when I realize he’s not alone. My entire family is here, grinning at me from the doorway of the bistro. Uncle Harrison in his pink madras shorts. Desi with Twyla in his arms, and Jermaine, holding Sutton by the hand. Marisol, beaming and exhausted, with a tiny new baby strapped to her chest. Christa, toting the second twin in one of those car seats with a handle. A third woman, who looks like an older version of Christa, stands a few steps behind everyone with a giant diaper bag.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “What do you think, silly?” Marisol says. “We’re here to see your Allerdale debut!”

  “We’re so proud of you,” says my dad as he wraps me in his arms. I inhale his familiar wintergreen smell, and all of a sudden, I’m dangerously close to tears. My whole family came all this way to celebrate with me as I finally emerge from my chrysalis and open my shiny new wings on the Legrand stage. And instead, they’re about to find out I haven’t transformed into a talented, confident performer at all—and worse yet, that I never will. I can’t believe I have to disappoint everyone at once.

  I make the rounds and hug them all, and Christa introduces me to her mom, who’s here to watch the kids while she and Marisol come to the show. The baby in the car seat wakes up and starts flailing its tiny arms and legs, and I lean over and stare into two big blue eyes. “This one’s Jasmine,” Christa says. “Do you want to hold her?”

  “Can I?”

  She looks at me like I’m nuts. “Of course. You’re her family.”

  She unclips the car seat straps and hands the baby over, and I settle Jasmine into the crook of my arm so her head is supported. She’s wearing a onesie with FUTURE TONY WINNER printed across the front, and I send the universe an image of her growing up wildly talented and living up to my family’s every expectation. “Say hi to your Auntie Brooklyn,” Christa croons to her tiny daughter, and Owen lets out a cry and kicks his legs, like he’s annoyed by all the attention his sister is getting. Marisol starts bouncing up and down, which seems to soothe him. I wish I could be calmed that easily.

  The waiter pulls a bunch of tables together for us, and everyone talks over each other and moves chairs around and passes bags and children back and forth as they attempt to settle in. The second we’re all sitting, Twyla knocks over a carafe of water, and Sutton loudly demands noodles with no sauce over and over as Desi tries to mop her off with paper napkins. Being with my family is as chaotic and wonderful as always, and this time when everyone starts reminiscing about Allerdale, I’m able to chime in with experiences of my own. I’ve danced in the cage at Pandemonium. I know how it feels to be super-sleep-deprived during third rotation. I’ve taken a class with Marcus and tried all the coffee shops and ice cream places. One last time, I let myself pretend I’ve achieved the kind of camaraderie with everyone that I pictured during our last Family Night.

  But then Marisol grabs my hand and says, “So, how much of this show do we have to sit through before we get to see your gorgeous face onstage?”

  Everyone looks at me expectantly, and I spend one crazy minute wondering if there’s still a way I can keep my role in this show a secret. But that’s insane; my name’s on the front of the program, and my family will notice when I don’t appear onstage. My confession will sting like ripping off a Band-Aid, but the quicker I do it, the sooner it’ll be over.

  “Listen,” I say. “I’m so happy you guys are here, but…you should know that I’m not actually performing tonight.”

  “What?” My mom’s voice comes out higher than usual, skirting the edge of hysteria. “Why not? Is something wrong?”

  “Are you sick,
Brookie?” asks Uncle Harrison.

  “No, nothing’s wrong,” I say. “Here, look.”

  I pull a program out of my bag and slide it across the table, and everyone leans in to look at the glossy booklet. “BYE BYE BANQUO” proclaims the cover page in thick black letters. There’s a dagger in the O, and it’s dripping blood into a puddle below. Inside the puddle, it says, “Directed by Alex Kaufman and Rico Fernandez. Book by William Shakespeare. Lyrics by Russell Savitsky and Brooklyn Shepard.”

  “Wait, I don’t get it,” Marisol says. “Didn’t the songs already have lyrics?”

  I tell them all about the twenty-four-hour play festival, how well A Midsummer Night’s Dreamgirls went over with the company, how Bob decided to use our structure for the new show after the fire. I watch my family’s faces as I explain how integral Russell and I were in creating Bye Bye Banquo, hoping someone will look impressed, but they all still seem confused.

  “So, these songs are like the funny ones you write with Harrison?” Christa asks.

  The parodies Uncle Harrison and I write are always ridiculous—a melodramatic rant about the New York City subway system to the tune of “Memory” from Cats, or a tribute to a particularly weird street performer set to the tune of “Angel of Music.”

  “I mean, kind of,” I say. “But this is way more professional, and most of the songs aren’t funny. Russell and I really tried to embody the spirit of both Birdie and Macbeth.”

  My mom’s mouth is set in a hard line. “I can’t believe they pulled you out of the ensemble to write parodies,” she says. “That’s completely unfair to you! You came here to get performance training, not to do them favors. Your director should give you some individual voice lessons to make up for what you missed. I’m going to talk to him and—”

  I cut her off. “They didn’t pull me out. I was never actually in the show. I’m so sorry I lied to you, but I wasn’t cast in anything except that horrible side project.”