You in Five Acts(18)

In class that morning my ankle had throbbed, but keeping it warm with an Ace bandage and leg warmers had kept the discomfort hovering just above tolerable. For the time being, I could shove it out of my mind. Unlike the drama with Liv.

I wasn’t sure what the dynamic would be when we all met for lunch. It seemed possible that Dave wouldn’t be joining us after the disaster that had been our collective first impression. You had texted me at two A.M. on Saturday morning to say that Liv was safely asleep in her bed and Ethan was passed out on the couch, but that was all I knew. So when I stepped into Lincoln Center proper and saw everyone, including Dave, clustered in our usual spot, interacting in a way that didn’t seem (at least to the naked eye) openly hostile, it was a pleasant surprise. The weather had gotten nicer, too, so that the ice had melted into a slushy sheen on the pavement, and coats could be left partially unzipped without fear of frostbite.

“What up, girl!” Liv yelled when she saw me. She was sitting on the bench between you and Ethan, who was busy annotating one of his scripts with a mechanical pencil. You were wolfing down a hotdog and Liv was clutching a diet soda in one hand and her phone in the other. Dave stood in front of you, looking fine from behind in his bomber jacket and skinny jeans. When Liv called out, he turned and waved, shielding his eyes from the bright winter sun. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or grimacing. I wasn’t sure if I was, either.

“Hey,” I said cautiously, sliding onto the bench next to you.

“Hey!” You raised your eyebrows. “I didn’t think you were coming. You didn’t reply to any of my texts.”

“Oh, sorry.” I’d left my phone off since 10:15, when pointe had started. “You know Adair and vibrate.” She had an ear like a bat, able to detect faint buzzing in a packed duffel from twenty feet away.

“Yeah, well, check your shit,” you said in a low voice.

“Check what?” Liv asked, peering into her bag, which was Mary Poppins–sized, the better to hold the entire drawer’s worth of makeup and up to four half-finished Smartwaters she carried on her at any given time. “Cast lists won’t be up for at least another forty minutes.” She fished out a lip balm and glared pointedly at Ethan. “Apparently they’re being guarded like the f*cking Oscar ballots.”

“No special treatment,” Ethan said, without looking up from his script. “People would talk.” He smiled to himself and moved his right hand to Liv’s legging-clad left leg. Dave looked at the ground. I unzipped my duffel and slipped my hand in, searching for my phone.

“What’s the point of all that, anyway?” you asked, balling up your mustard-smeared foil. “I mean, can’t we just get e-mails or something? Why’s it gotta be posted in the public square like we’re getting news in the Middle Ages?”

“Seriously,” Dave said. “I’d rather get the call from my agent, even if everyone else still knows I didn’t get it.” I found my phone and turned it on, setting it in my lap alongside my container of yogurt and can of ginger ale. It looked like diet food but it wasn’t—my stomach had just been weird all morning from nerves, and I would have sooner forfeited Showcase altogether than risked an emergency Number Two situation at school.

“Isn’t your agent your mom?” Ethan asked. “That must make it weird.” My phone buzzed to life against my thigh.

“No, she’s my manager,” Dave said.

“Aw, a momager!” Liv cried.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dave said, shrugging. “It’s not as cute as it sounds.”

8:12 am: just saw e walking down the hallway like travolta in saturday night fever. asked how his weekend was and he said “transcendent.” lol wtf

“Anyway, posting cast lists is all about building expectation,” Ethan said, putting his pencil down. “Life-changing moments deserve a little drama.” He looked adoringly at Liv. “Pun intended.”

9:02 am: saw liv, she said her weekend was “boring.” the plot thickens . . . [crying laughing emoji]

And one from Liv:

10:13 am: NEED to talk at lunch. CRAZYTOWN. #helpme

“No offense, but I don’t think too many lives are going to be changed by your play,” Liv said, pulling down her cat-eye sunglasses. “And what about the losers? If you’re gonna let someone down, it should be in private. Especially after all of that . . .” she shifted ever so slightly away from Ethan “. . . expectation.” She shot me a look, hashtag “help me” in eye contact form, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

11:12 am: lunch should be interesting at least. buy u some street meat?

My stomach lurched. I didn’t feel like eating a dirty-water hotdog or talking to Liv—I definitely couldn’t do either until I found out my Showcase fate. I had been trying to keep my expectations in check all weekend. I reminded myself how every single dance major was going to cross that stage one way or another, and that I could make the most of whatever I got. In my more confident moments I even sort of hoped they’d stick me in the corps, just so I could show them how good I was, and how they couldn’t keep me down, blinding them even from the back row. But it was getting too close, and too real, for any of my lies to work anymore. If I saw the word ensemble next to my name, I knew I was going to be completely devastated.