Look Both Ways (2 page)

“I know,” I say. I still have no idea how I managed to land a spot in such a renowned apprentice company. It’s not like my audition was
bad
or anything—I sang part of “Much More” from
The Fantasticks
and did one of Ophelia’s monologues from
Hamlet,
and they both went fine. None of the directors seemed very excited, though; they watched with stony, expressionless faces, and nobody even wrote anything down. When I was done, I thought for sure the artistic director, Marcus Spooner, would say something about how he’s known my mom forever, but he didn’t even bother to thank me before he told me to send in the next person. Two months later, I still have to remind myself that they wouldn’t have let me in if they hadn’t liked what they saw.

“What a wonderful opportunity for you, kiddo,” Uncle Harrison says. “Family Night won’t be the same without you, though.”

“It’s only nine weeks. You won’t even know I’m gone.” I drop my voice. “Plus, there’s someone in the living room who’s dying to take my place.”

“Oh no. Another one?”

The buzzer goes off again, and Uncle Harrison opens the door for Marisol and Christa, opera singers who used to study with my mom. Marisol is hugely pregnant, and after we kiss them hello, Christa steers her toward the couch and props her up with pillows. “She’s been on her feet all day,” she announces. “Nobody let her move again, or she’ll be up the entire night bitching about her ankles.”

Marisol swats at her. “I will not. My ankles are willowy and delicate. They are, right? I can’t actually see them.”

“Like slender little reeds,” I say, and she reaches out and affectionately pats my butt.

Skye introduces herself, her eyes pinned to Marisol’s monstrous belly like it’s a candy-filled piñata. “When are you due?” she asks.

“Not soon enough. If you can believe it, I’ve got another six weeks of this hell.”

“She’s having twins,” Christa says.

“Twins!” I swear Skye’s eyes would glow in the dark like a raccoon’s if someone switched off the lights. “Boys or girls?”

“One of each,” Christa says. “She wants to name the boy Pierre.
Pierre.
Please tell her he’s gonna get his ass kicked on the playground.”

“But I could dress him in tiny sailor suits!” Marisol says. “It would be
adorable.
”

“Your giant farm baby is not going to fit into tiny sailor suits.”

Skye’s eyes bounce back and forth between the women like she’s watching a tennis match. “Is your husband a farmer?”

Marisol laughs. “No, honey. Pierre’s daddy is a canister of sperm.”

“Strapping Ohio farm-boy sperm,” Christa adds. She sweeps her dreadlocks up into a ponytail. “I need wine. What can I get you, baby?”

“Sparkling water, please,” Marisol says.

The buzzer rings again, and when I open the door, Jermaine, Desi, and their daughters spill into the apartment in an explosion of noise. Twyla, who’s eighteen months, reaches out to me from Jermaine’s arms, and four-year-old Sutton wraps both arms around my leg. “Did you know I have two daddies at the
same time
?” she demands.

I stroke her shiny hair and try not to laugh at her belligerent tone. “I did know that. What are you wearing? You look so fancy.”

Sutton spins around to show off her red-and-gold satin pajamas with a dragon embroidered on the back. “It’s for Chinese New Year. Did you know I’m Chinese?”

“Yes. I remember when Daddy and Papa went to China to get you.” I turn to Desi. “Isn’t Chinese New Year in, like, January?”

He shrugs. “Whatever. It’s good to see her embracing her cultural identity.”

Jermaine kisses both my cheeks. “How are you, poodle? Ready for your big summer?”

“So ready,” I tell him. Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll start being true.

“What’re the main stage shows this year?”

“
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Catch Me If You Can, Hedda Gabler, Dreamgirls, Bye Bye Birdie,
and
Macbeth.
”

Desi nods. “Good season.”

“You don’t know what-all you’re in yet, right?” asks Jermaine.

“They post the cast lists after the first company meeting, so I’ll know by this time tomorrow.” I’ve spent entire nights lying awake, imagining myself effortlessly playing Rosie in
Birdie
or Hermia in
Midsummer,
but I know there’s no way that’s going to happen. “I’d really be happy with anything,” I say. “Being in rehearsals and watching those directors work is going to be amazing no matter what.”

“That’s exactly the right attitude,” Desi says. “I played Spear-Carrier Number Four in
Richard III
my first time there, and it was still one of the best summers of my life.”

Desi and Jermaine shout hello to my dad in the kitchen as we head inside, and Sutton marches up to Skye with her tiny fists on her hips. “Did you know I’m
adopted
?” she challenges.

Skye’s eyes go all soft and gooey. “Aren’t you precious,” she croons.

“I’m not precious. I’m
Chinese.
”

Jermaine leans over to kiss Marisol’s mouth, then her belly. “How’re you feeling, sweet girl?”

“Like a giant bacon-wrapped scallop trying to balance on a tiny, unsupportive toothpick,” she says. “Ooh, are there any bacon-wrapped scallops? I have the strongest craving all of a sudden.”

Mom comes in with overfull wineglasses for Desi and Jermaine and a half glass for me. “Where’s your girlfriend tonight, Harrison?” she asks. “What’s this one’s name? Candy? Cinnamon?”

“Her name is Cassandra, and she’s working late.”

“What does your girlfriend do?” Skye asks.

My mom snorts. “Yes, Harrison, remind us all what Cassandra does.”

“She’s a financial analyst,” he says, the way most people might say “She’s a call girl.” He takes a very large gulp of wine as my mom breaks into riotous laughter.

“Oh man, that never gets less funny. My mainstream little brother. Before we know it, you’re going to start ditching us for Monday Night Football.” She’s obviously teasing, but the word “mainstream” is a pretty serious insult around here, and my uncle flinches. This is exactly why I tried to keep my last boyfriend away from my parents; Jason loved things like laser tag and video games and the Super Bowl. He had never been inside a Broadway theater until I dragged him to see the
Les Miz
revival for our two-month anniversary. He fell asleep fifteen minutes in.

“I’ll make sure the next person I date is a burlesque dancer, okay, Lana?” Uncle Harrison says. “Because my love life is a hundred percent your business.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you end up with someone who suits you! Financial analysts aren’t like us.”

“Simon, how’re we doing on dinner?” Uncle Harrison shouts toward the other room.

“Almost ready,” my dad calls back. “Are we waiting on anyone?”

“No, this is it for tonight.” My mom beams at me. “A nice intimate gathering in honor of our girl.” There are eleven people in the apartment, but this is what counts as intimate for the Shepard clan.

“What are we celebrating?” Skye asks.

When Uncle Harrison explains that I’m leaving for Allerdale tomorrow, Skye looks genuinely interested in me for the first time. “Oh, that’s great, Brooklyn! I was there the last two summers. Are you in the non-equity company?”

“Maybe next year. I’m an apprentice this time.”

“Oh,” Skye says, her voice falling just short of supportive. “Well, everyone has to start somewhere, I guess.”

I’m grateful when my dad distracts everyone by carrying in giant serving platters of mango chicken and coconut rice. “Thanks for cooking,” I say to him as we get on line to serve ourselves. “It smells delicious.”

Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders, and his salt-and-pepper beard hooks on to my hair like Velcro when he kisses the side of my head. He’s wearing a frilly pink apron, and even after cooking curry all afternoon, he smells like wintergreen Life Savers. “I have to feed you while I can,” he says. “Summer-stock kids survive on ramen and ice cream.”

“Dad, I have a meal plan.”

My dad looks skeptical that anyone else can nourish me properly. He has always been a man of few words—Mom has such a big personality that he’s had to retreat a few steps into himself to make room for her—but food is how he says he loves us. Mom can barely heat up canned soup without setting something on fire, but she tells everyone she lets Dad do all the cooking because we don’t believe in heteronormative gender roles.

When everyone is settled with heaping plates balanced on their laps, my mom raises her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast to my beautiful daughter, who’s headed off on her very first summer theater adventure,” she says. “She deserves the best of the best. May Allerdale teach her as much as it taught the rest of us.” Her eyes are bright and kind and focused right on me, and it makes me feel warm all the way through. It’s not easy to impress her, and even though I know how much she loves me, times like these are few and far between.

“We’re so proud of you, Brookie,” Uncle Harrison adds, and my dad chimes in with a “Hear, hear.”

“And while she’s at Allerdale,” my mom continues, “may she meet a nice boy or girl to date. Or one of each. Or more than one of each!”

I roll my eyes. “You know I’d be totally happy with one boy.”

“You don’t
know
that if you haven’t tried—” she starts, but I cut her off.

“Let’s just eat, okay?”

To my relief, the conversation turns away from my love life and toward everyone’s favorite Allerdale memories. My family tells me which ice cream place is better, which coffee shop I should avoid, and—because my mother is who she is—which nooks and crannies of the theaters are best for illicit sex. (She was horrified when she offered to have her doctor prescribe me birth control pills last month and I told her I was a virgin.) Mom raves about how brilliant Marcus Spooner is, and Desi reminisces about Pandemonium, the legendary party that happens midfestival. Skye tells us about her friend who was so exhausted, she fell asleep in the catwalks while running a follow-spot, and Jermaine screams with laughter and says the same thing happened to him.

“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.