Look Both Ways
Page 24
Banquo and Macbeth approach the witches, who start singing to the tune of Bye Bye Birdie’s title song:
We brew potions, newt’s eye and toe of frog,
and your future rises from the fog!
Thane of Glamis, draw near and hear us sing!
You’ll be Cawdor, then you shall be king!
We know we’re just a bunch
of crones upon a heath,
but gaze into our eyes.
We’re psychics underneath….
Hail to Banquo; no, you shall never reign,
but your sons will rule this whole domain.
When the song ends, nobody applauds at first, and I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating entirely. But then someone in the back starts clapping, and when everyone else joins in, it actually sounds pretty enthusiastic. “They don’t hate it,” Russell whispers into my ear. We smile at each other in the dark.
I feel almost removed from my body as I watch our creation unfold before us. The ensemble sings our version of “The Telephone Hour,” spreading the rumor around the kingdom that Macbeth has become thane of Cawdor. Lady Macbeth convinces her husband to murder Duncan, then does it herself when he’s unable to follow through. When Macbeth is crowned king, Lady M sings my favorite song in the show, our parody of “How Lovely to Be a Woman.” Her double is Julianna, the woman who was supposed to play Rosie in Birdie, and somehow she manages to seem scary-ambitious and darkly comic all at once as she sings our lyrics:
How lovely to be a monarch, and rule o’er all the land,
how lovely to mete out judgment and wear a crown so grand.
How lovely to have men slaughtered if they show too much vim,
and order a flashy banquet whene’er I have a whim!
How wonderful to know
that I can overthrow
the highest in the land
with this hand
and one good murderous blow!
How lovely to be a monarch, a castle for my home,
to order the men around, though I’ve no Y chromosome!
How lovely to bask in my regency….
Life’s lovely when you’re a monarch, like me!
The audience doesn’t seem to know quite what to make of the song at first, but the mood in the room shifts as the verses unfold, and soon they decide collectively that it’s okay to laugh. It’s one thing to have a few directors and cast members giggle at something you’ve written, but it’s entirely different to know a whole room full of people thinks what you’ve created is funny. I close my eyes and soak in the uproarious applause when the song is over, and for the first time, I feel like everything is going to be okay.
Things get more serious after Macbeth and Lady M have Banquo murdered and his ghost shows up at their dinner party that night. Macbeth’s double appears to hover on the brink of insanity while he sings our reprise of the title song:
Lord, it’s Banquo! Foul scorpions fill my mind.
You’re before me, though the rest seem blind.
Do you mock me? Will you expose my lies?
Must you stare so, with your cold dead eyes?
Oh, why did I assume your death would set me free?
I’m feeling such remorse. I should’ve let you be….
Bye bye, Banquo, good friend, our time is done.
Fleance flew, though, so you still have won.
Macbeth revisits the witches, and they sing a song full of prophecies, warning him to beware Macduff and that he’ll be safe until Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane Castle. Duncan’s son Malcolm raises an army and heads toward Scotland to challenge Macbeth. Lady M goes mad and kills herself, and Macbeth’s double does such a gorgeous job with my original song that someone actually yells “Bravo!” when it’s over. Finally, Macbeth rides into battle with his army and dies at the hand of Macduff.
The show closes with the royal soldiers grouped around Malcolm and Macduff, who holds Macbeth’s severed head aloft. Malcolm delivers his final soliloquy, and then the soldiers sing a cappella, their voices ringing eerily through the auditorium:
We love you, Malcolm, oh yes we do.
We love you, Malcolm, our sovereign true.
Let’s build our kingdom anew.
Oh, Malcolm, we love you….
Our sound designer puts a creepy reverb effect on the stage mics, so their voices linger for several moments after the lights go down. And then the curtain falls, and it’s over.
The audience is perfectly silent until the last traces of sound fade away, and then they go crazy. When the curtain rises again, everyone around me leaps to their feet, and we stand with them. The cast take their bows, and I whoop and cheer and smile so hard, my face hurts. This, right here, is the feeling I’ve been chasing all summer. This is what the rest of my family feels when they perform, and I’ve finally found my own way in.
The conductor climbs out of the pit and heads up the center aisle until he reaches our row, and I barely register what’s happening until he grabs my hand and tugs me toward the stage. My feet move forward without any input from my brain, and Russell, Alex, and Rico file out of the row behind me and follow me down the aisle, up a tiny flight of stairs, and onto the stage. Then the lights are in my eyes, blindingly bright, and the cast parts to make room for the five of us in the center of the line. We bow, and we smile, and we bow again, exactly like I dreamed about in the weeks leading up to the festival.
As the wave of applause and cheers sweeps over us, I scan the audience for my family. It takes a minute to find them, but right before the curtain comes down again, I spot my mom’s orange dress. My parents and Desi and Jermaine and Christa and Marisol and Uncle Harrison are all on their feet, beaming at me from the dark as they give me my very first professional standing ovation.
Out of habit, I close my eyes as the curtain drops, and I try to call up an image to send the universe. But nothing comes. For this one perfect moment, there’s not a single thing I would change.
After I’ve hugged my family in the lobby, shaken hands with Russell’s incredibly tall parents, and promised Stage Manager Lauren I’ll come to the cast party in Dewald, I slip out the side door of Legrand and into the cool night air. The audience is pouring out of the lobby and onto the front lawn, and I kind of want to lurk around the side of the building and listen to what they’re saying about our show. But there will be more nights for that. Right now I have a job to do.
Main Street is mostly dark, but Kayla’s Cakes is still open, and I get in line with the crowd waiting for post-show pastries and coffee. The barista looks confused when I order a single doughnut hole—“You know you can get a dozen of these for five dollars, right?”—but she takes my change and hands me a tiny pink bag.
On my way back to campus, I text Zoe.
Meet me outside Dewald? Really need to talk to you.
For ten minutes, my phone is quiet, and I start to think she’s not going to respond. It’s totally within her rights to ignore me if she wants. But when I round the corner and the dorm comes into view, there she is, waiting for me under the floodlights. She’s wearing that same black dress she wore to our failed romantic picnic, and a small stab of jealousy goes through me as I wonder who she’s trying to impress tonight. The little flyaway wisps of hair around her face are still wet from the dressing room sink, and she looks so beautiful, I can barely stand it. It seems impossible that she’s so close to me and I’m not allowed to put my arms around her.
When she sees me, her face hardens. She looks right into my eyes, but it doesn’t seem like she wants to; it’s like she’s trying to prove to herself that she can.
“Hey,” I say. “You sounded great tonight.”
Zoe doesn’t smile. “Thanks. What did you want to talk to me about?” Her voice isn’t cold, exactly, but it’s businesslike, as if she wants this interaction to be over as quickly as possible. It’s the kind of voice I might use if I were trying to cover up how much I was hurting.
I hold out the little pink bag. “Here.�
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“What’s that?”
“It’s for you. Just take it, okay?”
She accepts the bag and angles it toward the floodlights so she can see what’s inside. Her eyebrows scrunch together in that adorable way I’ve seen a million times, but now I’m not allowed to reach out and smooth the little crease between them. “Is this…a doughnut hole?”
“It’s the opposite of a doughnut,” I say, though the whole gimmick seems cheesy and ridiculous now that I have to explain it out loud. “I know it’s silly, but it’s supposed to symbolize that even though I don’t think we should date, I do really, really want to be your friend. And I know you’re not ready for that yet, and maybe you never will be, and I understand if you’re not. I know how much I hurt you, and I’m so, so sorry, and I hope you know that I never meant things to turn out this way. But you don’t have to, like, hide from me, okay? If you come back to the room, I won’t bother you. I won’t even talk to you, if you don’t want me to. I just don’t want things to feel so broken between us. And I’m sorry it took me so long to say all of this. I should’ve told you how I felt much sooner. And…that’s all, I guess.”
A tiny, irrational part of me hopes Zoe will throw herself into my arms and tell me she forgives me, that she wants to be friends, too. But of course that doesn’t happen. Zoe doesn’t say anything at all as she reaches into the little pink bag and pulls out the doughnut hole. For a few seconds, she holds it in her cupped palm and stares at it, like she thinks it might explode. And then she stuffs the whole thing into her mouth at once, cinnamon and sugar dusting the corners of her lips. As she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, I let a smile bloom across my face.
I can’t totally tell, because she’s chewing, but I think I see Zoe give me the ghost of a smile back. And when she turns around and walks into the party, she holds the door open for me.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to the following people:
My editor, Wendy Loggia, master of building a structurally sound story. Thank you for always challenging me to think bigger…and to express those big ideas in fewer words.
Holly Root, agent extraordinaire, who laughed the first time I said “Bye Bye Banquo” and assured me other people would find it funny, too. Thanks for staying on my case to write this book. I’m so lucky to have you on my team.
Everyone at Delacorte Press who works tirelessly to make my books beautiful. Special thanks to Krista Vitola; my cover designer, Angela Carlino; and my copy editor, Bara MacNeill.
My brilliant beta readers: Lindsay Ribar, Michelle Schusterman, Kayla Olson, Corey Ann Haydu, Jennifer Malone, and Claire Legrand. I have no idea how anyone manages to write books without your help. Thank you for your honesty, kindness, patience, and perspective. I would be lost without you.
Jenna Scherer, who taught me about voice class; Sean Kelso, who filled in the gaps in my technical theater knowledge; and Elizabeth Otto and Mark McCauley, who explained how to fight electrical fires.
Williamstown Theater Festival, where I spent the most exhausting summer of my life working as a “lighting design assistant” (read: manual laborer) in 2004. As I hauled equipment up endless flights of stairs with my wimpy spaghetti arms, I told myself these experiences would be useful to me someday. And now, twelve years and two professions later, they finally have been.
The Hangar Theater in Ithaca, New York, where I had nearly all the best moments of my lighting design career. Marianna Caldwell, Evelyn Gaynor, and Rachel Handshaw, whom I met on the Hangar stage and who continue to be the best friends a girl could ask for. Pesha Rudnick, the director who told me it was my responsibility as an artist to show my audience how I see the world—I still think about that every time I write. And Kevin Moriarty, our artistic director and the man who coined the phrase “warriors for art.” Thank you for your boundless enthusiasm and support, and thank you for telling me it was okay to quit theater and seek artistic fulfillment elsewhere.
Elizabeth Little, who somehow survived being my roommate during my lighting design years. I’m so sorry about the performances I made you sit through.
My wonderful community of YA writers, who cheerlead and commiserate like champions. Thank you for being my people.
My mom, Susan Cherry, and my sister, Erica Kemmerling, who have always supported me no matter what I chose to do. Knowing you’re there for me makes everything seem possible.
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