Look Both Ways

by Alison Cherry

  “What?” my mom yelps. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Working with the scenic and lighting crews, mostly.”

  Everyone starts talking at once, a wash of incredulity and sympathy, and Marisol starts rubbing my back. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I know you had really high hopes for your first summer at Allerdale.”

  My mom looks panicked. “Why didn’t you say something? You’ve wasted months of good training time, and your Juilliard audition is coming up! I could’ve called Marcus! Or I could’ve—”

  “I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” I say. “And I don’t think calling Marcus would’ve made a difference. He already did you a favor by letting me in, right?” I wait for her to deny it, but she doesn’t. At least now I know for sure.

  “Don’t worry too much about it, poodle,” Desi says. “All I got to do the first year I was here was hold a spear and shout, ‘Halt!’ Everyone has to pay their dues, right? And now you’ve gotten it over with.”

  Jermaine nods. “They’re definitely going to remember how much you helped them out when you come back next year. And then it’ll be your turn to be onstage, and someone else will be telling you what to sing.”

  I’m grateful to them for trying to build me back up; it’s obvious how much they care about me. But feeling supported and adored isn’t the same as feeling known, and it’s time to let my family really see me. I sit up a little straighter in my chair and hope against hope that my next confession doesn’t bring everything I love crashing down around me.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say. “Allerdale’s really great, and I totally get why you guys love it so much. But I don’t want to come back here next year, and I don’t want to audition for Juilliard, or anywhere else. I don’t want to perform at all anymore.” It’s hard to bite back the I’m sorry that springs to my lips, but I manage to keep it in. I shouldn’t have to apologize for what I want.

  Jermaine reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t give up on your dream because of one bad experience, Brookie. If you want it enough, I know you can—”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, though,” I say. “This isn’t my dream. I want to love performing like you guys do, but I don’t. And I think maybe it’s time to stop trying to force things and do something that actually makes me happy.”

  “But you’ve wanted this forever,” my mom says. “Everyone has doubts when the going gets tough, but you have to make an effort to push forward anyway. I know you feel comfortable writing parodies and playing the piano, but you can’t just give up and hide behind that. The only way to improve and become the best you can be is to step out of your comfort zone.”

  “I don’t want to write songs because it’s easy or comfortable,” I say. “It’s actually really hard. I want to do it because I love it.”

  “Sweetheart, writing parody lyrics isn’t the same thing as writing songs. You can’t make a career out of—”

  “But it’s not just that,” I say. “I write original stuff, too. There’s one in the show tonight, actually. Look.” I flip the program open to the list of musical numbers and point to my song, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow.” “I wrote that. It’s not from Birdie. And…I think it’s actually pretty good.”

  Everyone goes silent and stares at the program like they’re trying to make sense of a foreign alphabet. Finally, Uncle Harrison says, “You wrote the music, too?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I never knew I could do that, but apparently I can. Our music director helped with the orchestration, but I’m learning.”

  “Brookie, that’s awesome,” he says. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  I smile at him—at least someone’s on my side, even if it’s the black sheep of the family. “Thanks,” I say. “Listen, I know the rest of you must be so disappointed in me right now. But I hope you’ll still come to the show and try to keep an open mind, and—”

  “Wait, what?” Marisol says. “Why would we be disappointed in you?”

  “Because I didn’t live up to what you wanted me to be. You guys must think I’m a total failure.”

  “How are you a failure? You can write songs. That’s so cool.”

  “We’re just really surprised,” my mom says. “You can see how this is kind of coming out of nowhere, right? You’ve been begging to audition for Allerdale since you were in second grade.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you didn’t want to go anymore?” asks my dad. “We wouldn’t have forced you.”

  “I did want to,” I say. “I thought I did. You guys are always talking about this place and how perfect it is, and I thought if I could come here, it would…fix me, you know? Like, maybe it would finally make me love performing, and then I’d feel like I was really part of the family.”

  My mom looks so tired and sad all of a sudden. “Brookie, of course you’re part of the family. You know we’re proud of you no matter what, right?”

  I think of the way she told Uncle Harrison not to fill my head with trash, how she said Bye Bye Banquo sounded dreadful and ridiculous, how she’s spent my whole life reminding me that playing the piano takes time away from the things that “really matter.”

  “No,” I say. “I honestly did not know that. That’s not how you guys act at all.”

  “Sutton and Twyla and the babies are part of the family, and we don’t assume they’re going to be performers,” Christa says.

  “But you do assume that, even if you don’t mean to. Jasmine’s four weeks old, and you’ve got her in a FUTURE TONY WINNER onesie. What if she wants to be, like, a librarian? What if Sutton wants to be a doctor?”

  Sutton looks up from her crayons. “I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to be a dancer like Daddy and Papa. And then I want to be a firefighter. And then I want to be an astronaut. And then I want to be the president.”

  “You can be whatever you want,” Desi tells her. “You’re a superstar.”

  “I’m not a superstar. I’m Chinese.”

  “We thought the onesie was funny,” Marisol says. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “You see what I’m saying, though, right? Like, I know you guys love me no matter what, but that’s not enough if you don’t respect me.” I turn to my mom. “You’re always so disdainful of people who ‘aren’t like us,’ like Jason and Uncle Harrison’s girlfriend and stuff. And no offense, but sometimes it seems like you don’t even respect Uncle Harrison because he doesn’t perform and you don’t like the shows he produces. You’ve always made fun of him, and it sucked seeing that all the time and knowing you’d probably feel the same way about me if you knew I didn’t want to perform, either.”

  Mom and Uncle Harrison look at each other for a long moment, and I get ready to back my uncle up when he starts baring his soul and spouting long-held grievances. But instead, they both burst out laughing. “Harrison’s my little brother,” Mom says. “Of course I don’t respect him. It has nothing to do with his career.”

  Uncle Harrison leans across the table and looks at me very seriously. “It’s time you knew the truth,” he says. “Your mother’s a huge elitist.”

  “I am not! Just because I don’t like The Real Housewives of New York: The Musical, it doesn’t make me a snob!”

  “Oh, please. Your nose is so high in the air, I’m surprised you can walk straight.”

  My mom turns back to me. “Brookie, we never meant to make you feel excluded. We’re a family full of loudmouths, and we spout our opinions all over the place, but that has nothing to do with how we feel about you. I had no idea you were taking the things we said so personally. Next time I offend you, tell me to shut up, like everyone else does.”

  “So…you don’t wish I were more like Zoe?” I ask. “Or Skye?”

  “Oh God, Skye,” Christa says. “If I had a nickel for every time I wanted to slap that disingenuous little suck-up…”

  “You fit into this family better than anyone else,” my mom says. “You’ll still be ours even if you be
come a financial analyst. Okay?”

  My dad takes my hand. “You’re the love of our lives, kid.”

  I’m suddenly filled with so much relief, I’m afraid I might cry or explode or melt into a big Brooklyn-shaped puddle on the floor. But then the waiter arrives with our food, and my whole family starts talking at once again, stealing fries off each other’s plates and asking for the ketchup and the salt. Marisol plunks Owen into my arms so she can cut up her steak, and Desi explains to a wailing Sutton that the “sauce” on her macaroni is only butter, like they have at home. Everything’s exactly the same as it’s always been; I belong to these people, and even now that they know who I really am, they still want me.

  “It’s okay if you don’t like Bye Bye Banquo,” I tell my mom as I stroke my nephew’s downy head. “I’m glad you’re here to see it anyway.”

  “Honestly, I think it sounds kind of brilliant,” says Uncle Harrison. “I can’t wait.”

  “You’re such a philistine,” says my mother.

  They both snort-laugh, and this time, so do I.

  When I get to Legrand an hour later, the house isn’t open yet, but audience members are already congregating on the lawn and in the lobby. I walk around to the side door and slip into the empty auditorium, hoping for a few minutes alone to collect my thoughts. An assistant stage manager is setting props, and a couple of orchestra members are warming up in the pit, but otherwise the theater is serene and empty. I sit down in an aisle seat, close my eyes, and breathe in the smells of sawdust and paint as I try to pull myself together.

  Things with my family went way better than expected, but I’m totally wrung out from our conversation, and on top of that I’m nervous about the show. In half an hour, an audience of real, live theatergoers—ones who are used to Allerdale-quality productions—is going to see my work for the first time. Bob Sussman has been praising Bye Bye Banquo all week, but he’s genuinely delighted by everything, and the rest of these fifteen hundred people will probably have much higher standards. It’s possible I’m about to discover I’m not actually cut out for writing musicals, immediately after telling my entire family I want to make it my life’s work.

  “Hey,” Russell’s voice says very close to me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Oh my God, you have got to stop sneaking up on me like that.” I look up at my friend, who’s wearing a suit jacket and a green tie printed with tiny whales. His curls don’t look as wild as usual—he must’ve gelled them into place—and I have a weird urge to mess them up.

  “You look really nice,” I say.

  “Thanks. So do you.” He pulls a bunch of flowers wrapped in paper out from behind his back. “Happy opening night, Brooklyn.”

  I stand up, too surprised to speak, and he thrusts the flowers into my arms. They’re gorgeous, giant pink peonies with something small and blue filling the spaces in between. They look really expensive.

  “Russell, they’re beautiful,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that. I didn’t get you anything.”

  “That’s okay,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you that, um, it was…it was so much fun working on this show with you. You’re a really amazing lyricist. And composer. And an amazing person, in general.” He keeps shifting his weight from side to side and tugging on his cuffs.

  “Aw, thank you. You’re amazing, too.” I put the flowers down so I can hug him. He holds on to me a little longer than I expected, but it makes me feel calmer to be held so tightly. I close my eyes and lean my cheek against his crisp white shirt. “Thank you for everything,” I say. “Working with you has been the very best part of my summer.”

  “Me too,” he says. He pulls back a little bit, and I’m about to ask whether his parents are here to see the show, when my friend cups my face in his hand, leans in, and puts his lips on my lips.

  I stumble back a few steps. “What are you doing?”

  Russell stares at me in horror, like he’s just realized he’s naked in a room full of people. His hand still hovers in the air where it was resting on my cheek. “Wow, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I thought…Did you get back together with your boyfriend?”

  “My…what?”

  “The guy who…You said someone broke up with you earlier in the week?”

  “It wasn’t a guy,” I say, because I’m too shocked to keep my filter in place. “It was Zoe. I was dating Zoe.”

  “What? Didn’t you say she had a boyfriend?”

  “She did. She does. It’s complicated.”

  Russell blinks a bunch of times. “So, wait. You’re gay?”

  “No,” I say. “I thought for a while that I might like— I mean, I tried to— No. I’m not gay. But I, um, I thought you…”

  I didn’t think his eyes could get any wider, but they do. “Are you serious? I’ve had a crush on you the entire summer.”

  “But…I thought you and Olivier…”

  “Olivier? He’s, like, fifty! That’s disgusting!”

  “But you always seemed so happy whenever you were with him, and you said that thing about how you wanted to staple yourself to his side and how you’d die to get inside his studio. You complimented his hair. You have a picture of him in your phone.”

  “The other person in that picture is my sister,” Russell says. “He spoke at her school, and she went and got his book signed for me.”

  “Oh.” I feel unbelievably stupid now; it’s not like Russell ever said he had a crush on his boss. “Sorry. It’s just…you’re always talking about how great he is.”

  “He is great. That’s why I want him to give me a job. My career has a crush on Olivier. The rest of me likes you. I thought you knew that.”

  “No,” I say. “I had no idea.” But now that I’m looking back on my interactions with Russell, I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out sooner. He wasn’t even subtle about how much he liked me. I was just too preoccupied with Zoe to notice.

  Russell runs his fingers through his gelled hair, and the left half sticks straight up. “I mean, you never pulled away when I put my arm around you, and you, like, cuddled with me on my bed, and I guess I thought—”

  “Everyone here touches each other like that,” I say. “Tons of gay guys like to snuggle with girls. I thought you were one of those.”

  “Oh. I…Wow.” Russell looks around the empty theater, like he’s trying to find a solution scrawled on the wall. “So you don’t…I mean, you wouldn’t even consider…” He makes a vague gesture at himself.

  I look at him—really look hard at that face that’s become so familiar and comforting to me—and I try to figure out if I could have the sort of feelings for Russell that I thought I had for Zoe. But it’s not something you can pinpoint like that. Attraction’s not like a Breathalyzer test—blow into a tube, and you know if it’s in your system. It’s more like an unpredictable pet. Sometimes it plays dead at your feet when you expect it to jump up and lick your face. Sometimes it wakes you up in the middle of the night when all you want is to be left alone.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I like you so much, Russell. But I’ve never really thought about you like that, and I need to take a break from dating right now, anyway. I need some time to get over all the stuff with Zoe.”

  “What exactly happened with you guys?”

  I shrug. I don’t know how to talk about any of it yet, so I go for the simplest possible explanation. “We tried to be together. It didn’t work out.”

  “Because you don’t like girls.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t like her the way I thought.”

  “So you dumped her? I thought you said she broke up with you.”

  It’s so obvious, but somehow, I haven’t thought about it that way until right this minute. I’ve been waiting for Zoe to tell me she was wrong for yelling at me, that she was sorry for the way things turned out between us. But I’m the one who ended things. Of course she’s not going to apologize to the person who rejected her and made her feel worthless.
If I ever want her to speak to me again, it’s my responsibility to make things right. Playing a subtextual song about Macbeth in her vicinity doesn’t count. It’s not even a good start.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess I did.”

  “I get that you need some time,” Russell says. “But maybe someday, when you’re feeling better, we could give this a shot?”

  He looks so adorable and hopeful. And who am I to say things wouldn’t work between us? Russell’s the perfect creative partner for me; maybe he’d be the perfect partner in other ways. Maybe I could like him. Maybe I deserve the opportunity to find out. But I’m not ready to do that right now.

  “Can we just see what happens?” I say. “We’re both going to be in the city this year. Maybe we could…keep hanging out and see how we feel?”

  His face falls. “You’re not even going to let me take you on a date?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “But…not never. Okay?”

  For a second I’m afraid he’s going to storm out of the theater and never speak to me again, that I’ve managed to ruin things with the one real friend I have left at Allerdale. But then, slowly, he starts to nod.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll pencil you in for ‘not never.’ ”

  Half an hour later, I’m sitting next to Russell and Alex and Rico in the sixth row of Legrand, almost exactly where I sat during our first company meeting, and the houselights are going down on the opening performance of Bye Bye Banquo. As the curtain rises and the first witch says, “When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain,” Russell reaches down and takes my hand. Yesterday I would’ve laced my fingers through his without even thinking about it, but now that I know how he feels about me, everything is different. I give his hand a quick squeeze, then pull away and loop my arm through the crook of his elbow instead. Even though touching him is awkward now, I’m really glad he’s here next to me. I need something to hold on to.

  There are no songs in the first few scenes, and I can feel the audience settling into the rhythm of Shakespeare’s familiar text. But when the orchestra starts playing in the middle of scene three and witch doubles come out to replace the original witches, everyone seems to wake up a little, and programs start rustling all around me. Somewhere in this theater, I know Uncle Harrison is smiling.