Look Both Ways(22)

“Honestly?” I say. “No. Not at all.”

“At least egg is good for your hair, right?”

I laugh. “How do you know that?”

“Olivier told me. He says his hair is so thick and soft because he uses these egg yolk treatments on it. I mean, it sounds weird, but it’s definitely working for him. You think I should try it?”



I want to laugh at his intimate knowledge of his boss’s hair texture, but it seems too early in our friendship to tease him about his crush. So I say, “I can’t say I recommend it, after yesterday. Your hair looks nice as it is.”

“Thanks.” Russell holds the door for me, and we head across the lawn toward the dorms.

“So, are you going to stop coming to rehearsals, since Clark doesn’t want a set?” I ask.

“No, he’ll probably change his mind. Plus, watching you all pretend to walk through a lake of tar was pretty glorious.”

I shove his shoulder. “Ugh, shut up.”

“Don’t blame me,” Russell says. “If you weren’t so good at strutting like a peacock, I wouldn’t be forced to keep showing up.”

He flounces down the path in a ridiculous imitation of my peacock walk, twitching his butt from side to side, and I burst out laughing. “You’re a terrible person,” I say.

“But you’re glad I’m not leaving, right?” He elbows me in the arm. “Admit it. You’d be supersad if I weren’t around.”

“I would. I don’t think I could face this insanity without you.”

Russell smiles and pats my shoulder, and the unexpected force makes me stumble forward. He’s a lot stronger than he thinks. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I wouldn’t leave you alone in there. I’ve got your back.”





By the time I get back to the dorm, the warm, fuzzy feeling of Russell’s companionship has worn off, and the futility of my situation hits me like a canoe paddle to the face. I’m not cast on the main stage. The master classes are humiliating bullshit masquerading as brilliant lessons in technique. My “show” is so nebulous that the person writing it doesn’t even seem to know what it’s about. So what am I doing here at Allerdale? Slinging a wrench all summer isn’t going to teach me how to be a real performer or help me fit in with my family. I might as well be working at the Pinkberry down the street from my apartment. It would certainly make my back hurt less.

When I open the door to my room, Zoe’s on the phone, but the second she registers the expression on my face, she says, “Hey, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Love you.” She makes a kissing noise and hangs up. “You all right?” she asks. “How’d rehearsal go?”



I drop my bag onto the floor. “I think ‘absurd’ pretty much covers it?”

“Oh no. What happened?”

I tell her everything, imitating put-upon Clark and silent Alberto and Pandora’s sexy animal walks. Zoe listens to the whole thing with wide, sympathetic eyes, but she’s also laughing. She has this boisterous, unrestrained giggle that’s way goofier than I’d expect from someone so put-together. When I’m done, I flop facedown onto my bed. “I’m glad my pain amuses you,” I say.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. The whole thing sounds awful. It’s just, you looked exactly like Pandora when you did that sexy cat walk. She’s in Midsummer with us, and that’s her fairy walk, too.”

“Well, enjoy my impressions while you can, because it’s obviously the only acting I’m going to be allowed to do here.”

“Aw, don’t say that,” Zoe says. “It’s possible it’ll get better, right? When Alberto finally manages to write a script, maybe—”

“It’s not going to get better,” I say. “The whole thing is a complete joke. Seriously, if they thought I wasn’t good enough to be here, they should’ve rejected me. They didn’t have to punish me with Se?or Hidalgo.”

“Brooklyn, you’re obviously good enough to be here, or you wouldn’t be here.”

She has no idea. “And yet I’m not allowed to set foot on the main stage unless I’m holding tools. I’m not even good at that. You should’ve seen—”

Zoe cuts me off. “Okay, that’s enough.” She stands up, and I’m positive she’s about to walk straight out the door and find someone better to hang out with.



“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t bitch about this so much. I’ll try to—”

“No, that’s not the problem. Stand up.”

“Why? Are you going to throw eggs at me?”

“Just do it!”

I stand, and she marches me over to the full-length mirror on her closet door. “Shoulders back, chin up,” she says. “Look your reflection in the eyes.”

I look at her reflection instead. “What are we doing?”

“You’re doing what I say.”

“So bossy,” I complain, but I smile, and she smiles back. Her hands feel warm and steady on my shoulders. I make eye contact with myself, stand up straight, and lift my chin. Even the posture change makes me feel a tiny bit better.