Look Both Ways(11)

“I’m so happy for you,” I say, but I’m already pulling away and scanning the list for my own name. The first time through barely registers—I’m so nervous, I can’t even see straight—so I make myself start over and look again carefully. There’s Zoe’s name, third from the top. I laugh a little when I see that Livvy has been cast as Kim’s little brother. And then I’m at the bottom of the list again, and I still haven’t seen my name.



“Are you in it with me?” Zoe asks.

“No,” I say, and the word comes out oddly detached and calm.

“Aw, man, that sucks,” Zoe says. “What did you get?”

“I, um. I can’t actually find my name anywhere.”

A crinkle of confusion appears between Zoe’s eyebrows. “You must’ve missed it,” she says. “Come on. Let’s look again. I’ll go with you.”

We circle the kiosk in the other direction this time, but when we end up back at Dreamgirls and I see Zoe’s face, I know I wasn’t wrong. “Is it possible not to get cast at all?” I ask, and my voice shakes in a way that makes me sound very young.

“I don’t think so. They wouldn’t put you in the company if they didn’t have a part for you, right?”

Maybe they would if I’m here as a favor to my mom, but I obviously can’t say that to Zoe. “Do you think there’s been a mistake?” I ask. “Should I find Barb?”

“I don’t know. Did you check the list of side projects? Maybe you’re in a bunch of those.”

I completely forgot about the side projects, which are run by directing interns and performed in the smaller, experimental theaters after the main stage shows are over each night. I don’t even know which shows they’re doing. “Where are the lists?” I ask.

Zoe points to a freestanding notice board off to the side. “Come on.”

There are six sheets of paper on the board, and I start scouring them. I’ve gotten through three without finding my name, when Zoe calls, “Brooklyn, over here.”



I look where she’s pointing, my heart in my throat. Maybe it’s a really good show after all, even if it’s not on the main stage. Please, I ask the universe, without any specific instructions, and then I look at the list.

Se?or Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders, it reads.

What the hell is that? It sounds like an animated television show for preschoolers. There are six other names on the list besides mine, but there’s no corresponding list of roles.

Zoe has a weird look on her face. “Your last name is Shepard?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, but I can’t deal with the implications of that right now. “Do you know what this show is?”

“No. It’s probably new—playwrights workshop stuff here all the time. That’s kind of exciting, right? You might be the very first one in this part.”

I don’t point out that there aren’t even any parts listed. Across the bottom of the page, it says, “Please report to the Slice for an introductory meeting at 9:00 PM on Friday.”

“What’s the Slice?” I ask.

“It’s one of the experimental spaces,” Zoe says. “It’s called that because it’s shaped like a triangle, like a slice of pizza. My sister did a show there when she was an apprentice.” It’s embarrassing how much more Zoe knows about Allerdale than me, considering I’m the one who’s been here before.

“What am I supposed to do until Friday? That’s three entire days from now.”

“You’re probably on one of the tech crews first rotation. The assignments are on the other side of this board. Maybe we’ll have a rotation together!” I can tell Zoe feels bad for me, even though she’s trying hard to sound positive. Her kindness nearly makes my eyes well up, but I forbid myself to cry. I have to learn to deal with rejection or I’m never going to be a real actor.



The crew call sheets are surrounded by people rolling their eyes and groaning, but I push my way through like I’m trying to get on the L train at rush hour. This time it’s not hard to find my name—it’s all over the board. I’m doing tech for all three rotations, never in the same department as Zoe. Tomorrow I’m supposed to report for lighting crew at Legrand at eight-thirty in the morning. I’m also on run crew for Midsummer, which means I’ll have to show up at every single performance and creep around in the dark like a cockroach while my new friends frolic around the stage in their fairy wings.

I have a sudden urge to sit down on the ground with my arms over my head and let the crowd swirl around me like a river around a rock. I’m so glad I didn’t tell anyone who my mom is, or I’d be even more embarrassed right now. What am I going to tell my family? And how is Allerdale supposed to teach me to love performing if I’m barely allowed to perform?

Zoe puts a hand on my back, and as I look at her, I think, Well, it was nice while it lasted. This is clearly where things end between us. Tomorrow, she’ll start learning her solos, and I’ll start learning…how to use a wrench or something, I guess. Honestly, I have no idea what the lighting crew even does.

“Hey,” Zoe says, and I’m sure she’s going to say, “I’m sorry for how things turned out,” or even “It was nice meeting you.” But instead she says, “I’m going to call my boyfriend for a second, but then do you want to walk into town and get ice cream?”