Look Both Ways Page 2

  “Third rotation?” guesses Skye.

  “Exactly!”

  She nods in sympathy, and I feel a stab of annoyance. This girl has known us all of thirty minutes, but she already has a mysterious, exclusive shorthand with my family, and I’m the one on the outside. I suddenly wish it were nine weeks from now, when I’ll be back on this couch with firsthand experience of what “third rotation” is like. I almost want to have been to Allerdale more than I want to actually go.

  When everyone’s finished with their food, my mom claps once like she always does when we’re about to transition into the performance part of the evening, and my stomach does a Pavlovian nervous twist. “Do you want to start us off tonight, Brookie?” she asks.

  Being asked to perform first is an honor, and if I were the right kind of Shepard, I’d jump at the chance. But instead I say, “Why don’t we let our newest guest start? I’m happy to play for her.” I put my empty plate on the coffee table and slide onto the piano bench, where I always take refuge during Family Nights. Since eighth grade, when I realized I didn’t have my parents’ superstar performance genes, I’ve become a master of dodging the spotlight, and acting as accompanist is a way I can participate without anyone scrutinizing me. Late in the evening, when everyone’s drunker and more forgiving, I always agree to sing an easy duet with someone. It gets me off the hook until the following week, and it hides the fact that my voice doesn’t stand on its own.

  Strategizing like this is exhausting, but tonight is the last time I’ll ever have to do it. Things will be totally different once Allerdale has worked its magic on me and shaped me into the performer I’m supposed to be. It’ll be such a relief to finally feel joy when I sing, like the rest of my family does. I can’t wait to slough off this sticky web of anxiety and shame that forces me to hide behind the piano.

  I wonder if my mom will insist I get up and sing, but her eyes slide right off me and onto Skye. I almost wish she’d put up a fight. “Would you like to go first?” she asks.

  Skye’s eyes go all wide and innocent, like she’s surprised to be singled out, but she’s on her feet almost before my mom finishes asking. “Oh, um, okay.” She turns to me. “Do you know ‘Out Tonight’ from Rent?”

  Of course she’d pick that—it’s a big, flashy, cliché number with lots of impressive high notes. I want to glance up and exchange a Look-with-a-capital-L with Uncle Harrison, but I already know he’s on the same page as me. “Sure,” I say. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  She nods, and I launch into the opening bars from memory; I’ve played this song enough times that I don’t need the music. Skye knows everyone’s watching her, sizing her up, but she bites her lower lip, closes her eyes, and moves to the music like she’s alone in her bedroom. It seems impossible that I could ever be that un–self-conscious. Sutton gets up and dances along, and Twyla giggles as Desi bounces her to the beat.

  The minute Skye starts to sing, I see why my mom took her on as a student. Her voice is flawless, warm and playful and caramel-rich. She doesn’t even seem like she’s trying, but every note is spot-on, even the really high ones. Like me, she has obviously listened to the original cast recording countless times—she mimics everything Daphne Rubin-Vega did when she played Mimi, including all the ad-libs. It doesn’t seem like there’s much of anything for my mom to teach her, aside from how to make the music her own. She seems like she’s having such a good time, like she never wants the song to end, and I envy that passion so much that it hurts.

  When Skye finishes, everyone claps and cheers, and she grins and does a stupid little curtsy. “Girl, you are freaking amazing,” Desi tells her. “Where has that voice been all my life?”

  “Thank you,” Skye says. She looks incredibly pleased with herself, and I try not to hate her, but I can’t help it. I take note of exactly how I feel right now so I can pull the memory out this summer whenever my motivation flags. That is what I have to become at Allerdale.

  The night progresses like it usually does. Jermaine sings “Being Alive” from Company, Marisol does “I’d Be Surprisingly Good for You” from Evita, and my mom does “Last Midnight” from Into the Woods. It’s obvious how much they all love the music, how happy they are to be sharing it with us—even my staid, quiet father seems delighted as he belts out “Stars” from Les Miz. By the time an hour and a half has passed, everyone’s starting to get tipsy and loud and a little bit silly, and when Uncle Harrison asks me to sing with him, it finally seems safe to agree.

  “Should we do the Phantom parody we were working on the other day?” he asks.

  I’m about to say yes, relieved that I’m getting off this easily; when you perform something funny that nobody’s ever heard before, everyone concentrates on the lyrics instead of the person who’s singing them. But before I can answer, my mom rolls her eyes. “Harrison, I know you like horrible puns, but that doesn’t mean you have to fill my daughter’s head with trash.”

  “There’s nothing trashy about parodies. They’re—” Uncle Harrison begins, but I cut him off.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll sing something else.” Even if the classics are more nerve-racking for me, it’s my last night with my mom, and I don’t want to antagonize her. I can suck it up one more time if it means she’ll be proud of me as she sends me off to Allerdale.

  Uncle Harrison and I decide on “Big Spender” from Sweet Charity, and Mom rewards me with a smile as she pours herself more wine. I’ve always liked the song, but the entire time we’re performing, I’m just waiting for it to be over, praying I can get through it without making a fool of myself. I don’t slip up in any obvious ways, but my rendition is mediocre at best, and by the time we’re finished, my heart is beating wildly and my palms are damp. I catch a smug smile on Skye’s face as she applauds for us, and I feel my cheeks going hot. I don’t open my mouth again.

  Uncle Harrison takes over as accompanist after a while, and my family keeps singing until Twyla’s asleep in my dad’s lap and Sutton’s conked out facedown on the rug. Around midnight, we all crowd around the piano for our final ensemble number; our neighbors are understanding up to a point, but when we go too late, they start whacking their ceiling with a broom handle. My uncle pats the bench, and I sit down beside him, hip to hip. As he plays the opening chords to another song from Rent, he shoots me a smile that says he’ll miss having me next to him.

  I look around at my family, their eyes bright, their arms twined around each other, and I vow that by the end of the summer, I’ll be the passionate, seasoned theater professional I’m supposed to be. I will push through my nervousness and uncertainty until I’m the kind of girl who can’t wait to nestle into the crook of the piano like it’s her boyfriend’s arm and let her voice fly free. The brilliant Allerdale directors will break me down and build me back up into a totally new person, and by the time they send me back home, I’m going to belong here.

  “No day but today,” everyone around me sings in perfect four-part harmony.

  Not for me, I think. Today is just the beginning for me.

  My first few minutes in the professional theater world feel a lot like the first day of high school. The Adirondack Trailways bus drops me off a couple of blocks from the Allerdale Playhouse, and when I reach the wide green lawns of the theater’s grounds, I find them swarming with strangers. As I try to wheel my suitcase up the path to the company management office, I have to keep ducking and dodging as shrieking girls and flailing guys fling themselves at each other. Some of them embrace so enthusiastically that they collapse on the ground and roll around like puppies. I have a brief fantasy that that’ll be me next summer, reuniting with all the friends I’m about to make.

  I finally find company management, where five or six people are waiting on line. Everyone seems tall and shiny and glamorous, even in their cutoffs and flip-flops, and I’m a little afraid to make eye contact with anybody as I shuffle toward the registration table. The company manager is wearing a polo shirt with the Allerd
ale logo, and a name tag that says “Barb.” Her boobs are so enormous, it’s almost like she has a shelf attached to her front.

  “Hi,” I say when I reach the front of the line. “Brooklyn Shepard, apprentice company.” I make an effort to say it confidently, like I totally deserve to be here.

  Barb searches her clipboard for my name, and I half expect she’s going to say this is all a joke and send me home on the next bus. But instead she makes a couple of check marks, riffles through the stack of manila envelopes, and slaps one into my palm a little harder than necessary. “You’re in Ramsey Hall. Room number, swipe card, and key are in here. Don’t lose them.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say. “I’m very organized.”

  “Company meeting tonight at seven. Cast lists’ll be posted at eight. Map, company rules, season calendar, and orientation packet are in your envelope. Read them carefully. It’s nobody’s fault but yours if you don’t show up where you’re supposed to be. Next!”

  “Thanks for your help,” I say, but Barb doesn’t even respond; she’s clearly waiting for me to move along. I scoot out of the way as fast as I can, trying not to whack anyone with my huge duffel bag as I push out the door.

  I’ve been to Allerdale a bunch of times to see shows my parents have worked on, but I’ve never been inside the dorms, and it takes me a while to find Ramsey Hall. As I walk, I catch myself staring at the trees and rolling hills in the distance with the same bug-eyed wonder as the Times Square tourists who drive me crazy at home. I’m only three hours upstate of the city, and it’s not like we don’t have plants in Manhattan. But New York City parks are more like urban spaces auditioning for the role of nature. It’s almost disconcerting to see the real thing.

  There’s no air-conditioning in the dorm, and by the time I lug all my stuff up two flights of stairs, I’m disheveled and sticky. The hall is filled with people chattering and laughing and shaking hands, and I know I should make an effort to meet some of them, but everything’s starting to feel a little overwhelming. I’ve always had trouble connecting to the other theater kids at school, who are ridiculously competitive and gossip about each other constantly. I can fake it well enough that they consider me part of the group, but I’m not sure I can handle living with people like that for nine whole weeks. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

  Put on your game face, I order myself. Allerdale is exactly what you need. I vow that after I put down my stuff and rest for a minute, I’ll come back out here with a big, bright smile and make some friends.

  My room is near the end of the hall, and I unlock the door and drag my luggage behind me as I back inside. It’s not till I hear a surprised “Oh!” that I realize there’s already someone in the room. The first thing I notice about the other girl is her long blond hair, which almost brushes the floor as she leans over to dig through her suitcase. The second thing I notice is that she isn’t wearing a shirt.

  I spin around so my back is to her. “Oh my God, sorry, I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. “I thought this was 309.”

  “It is,” she says. “I’m Zoe. You must be my roommate?”

  I had no idea I was getting a roommate, but I’m obviously in the right place, or my key wouldn’t have worked. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I am. I’m Brooklyn. I’m really sorry about barging in on you. I should’ve knocked.”

  “It’s okay. You can turn around.”

  Zoe’s holding a red tank top now, but she comes over and holds out her hand to me before she bothers to put it on. Her hand feels cool even in the heat, and I’m impressed by how purposefully she moves in her shorts and pink bra. I’m pretty sure I never look that comfortable, even when I’m fully dressed. I shake her hand, careful to keep my eyes on her heart-shaped face. There’s a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, and her eyes are big and blue with a ring of golden brown around the pupils. My mom calls those “sunflower eyes.” Zoe is way prettier than I am, but I try not to care.

  “It’s really nice to meet you,” she says. She lets go of my hand and pulls on her shirt, and I feel a little less awkward once she’s dressed. “I put my stuff over there, but if you’d rather have the left side, we can switch.”

  “No, this is fine. It’s good to meet you, too.” I plunk my duffel bag down on the bare mattress, which has a green stain near the end, like someone was eating a lime Popsicle as a midnight snack. “Are you in the apprentice company, too?” I ask.

  “Yup, it’s my first year here. I’m so excited.”

  “Me too.” As I start unpacking my sheets, I realize I forgot to bring my pillow, and an intense pang of sadness washes over me as I picture it sitting next to the front door of my apartment. “Crap,” I say. “Do you think there’s anywhere in town that sells pillows?”

  Zoe laughs. “Have you been into town yet? There’s, like, a bar and three restaurants and a bakery, and that’s pretty much it. You can have one of mine, though.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and she tosses me a pillow that smells faintly of grapefruit. “I’ll find one of my own soon so you can have it back.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I think there’s a Target, like, thirty minutes away, but that seems like a long way to go for one pillow.”

  “I don’t know how I’d get there, anyway,” I say. “I don’t have a car. I don’t even know how to drive a car.”

  I have no idea why I said that to a total stranger, but Zoe’s face lights up. “Are you from New York City?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Please tell me you live in Brooklyn.”

  This question usually annoys me, but somehow it’s different with Zoe; she looks like she’d be genuinely, unironically delighted if I were Brooklyn from Brooklyn. “My parents used to live there, but we live in Manhattan now,” I say. “I think they named me that because they felt bad about abandoning their bohemian roots or whatever.”

  “Man, I wish I’d grown up there. I’m from Colorado, and I feel like a total hick. I’ve only seen, like, four shows on Broadway. But I’m moving to the city in the fall, so I’ll make up for it then. You have to tell me all the good places to eat and stuff on the Upper West Side, okay?”

  “Totally. I actually live up there, too. Are you going to Columbia?”

  “Juilliard,” she says. I’ve heard a lot of people say that word, and it usually comes out sounding stuck-up, but Zoe manages to strike exactly the right balance of excitement and matter-of-factness. She’s not bragging about her talent, but she’s not apologizing for it, either. My heart sinks; she seems really nice, but I doubt she’ll stick around and be my friend once she realizes how vastly different our talent levels are.

  “Wow,” I say, trying not to let my disappointment show. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Zoe twists her hair up into a complicated knot, and when she turns around to search her dresser for a ponytail holder, I notice that the entire top of her back is inked with delicate twisting branches and tiny pink blossoms.

  “I love your tattoo,” I say. “What kind of flowers are those?”

  “Thanks! They’re cherry blossoms. In Japan, they symbolize that life is beautiful but short, so you should take advantage of every day.” She gives me a sheepish smile. “I know it’s kind of cheesy. Mostly I just like how they look.”

  “No, that’s cool. Did it hurt?”

  “Yeah, it totally sucked—it felt like being stung by a million bees. And I had to go back three different times so they could do the shading.”

  “Wow,” I say. She must be pretty badass to withstand that much pain for something beautiful. It makes total sense that she’d be a good actor.

  “So, you go to Columbia?” Zoe asks.

  “Oh, no. I’ve actually got one more year of high school. I’ll probably apply there and to Juilliard, but they’re both long shots.” Just thinking about spending four years under that kind of pressure makes my stomach turn over, but I push the thought away. By the time I’m done with Allerdale, I’ll be able to handle it.

  Zoe shrugs.
“You never know. That’s what I thought, too. Hey, are you hungry? I think the dining hall opened a couple of minutes ago. If we want to grab something before the company meeting, we should go soon.” I love the way she says “we,” like she automatically wants to eat dinner with me. Maybe it’ll be easier to connect with people here than I thought.

  The dining hall is packed when we arrive. Half the people seem to be sitting on each other’s laps, touching each other’s hair, and kissing each other’s cheeks, and it kind of reminds me of the way my family acts. As I pass a table full of girls, one of them squeals, “OH EM GEE, we have the same shoes!” and the other replies, “OH EM GEE, besties!”

  Zoe and I get in line for food behind a tall black girl with a poofy cloud of a ponytail and a tiny girl with a blond pixie cut. When we hear them mention Ramsey, we introduce ourselves, and it turns out their room is two doors down from ours. The blonde introduces herself as Livvy, and the other girl says her name is Jessa. When she shakes my hand, she squeezes so hard, it hurts.

  Zoe and I each grab two slices of pizza and a side salad. I was kind of afraid nobody here would eat, but it seems like she’s as hungry as I am. When we head into the fray to find an empty table, Livvy and Jessa trail along behind us, and I realize Zoe’s the alpha dog here. I stay close to her, hoping some of her coolness will rub off.

  The second we sit down, Zoe crams an enormous bite of pizza crust into her mouth, and I almost laugh—she seems like the kind of person who would eat in small, ladylike bites. “I’m so hungry,” she mumbles around the food. “Denver to New York is four hours, and I got to the airport too late to grab a sandwich.”

  Jessa stares at her. “Girl, didn’t anyone ever show you how to eat pizza? You’re supposed to start with the end.”