Look Both Ways(29)

We finish the song by getting slower and slower, tapering off like a music box that’s winding down. When the last note has faded away, we sit there for a second, motionless, still caught up in the web of what we’ve created together. Then Russell says, “That was awesome.”

“Wasn’t it?” I feel weirdly giddy.

“You’re really talented.”

I shrug and smile. “Not the kind of talented that matters around here. But thank you. So are you.”

“Are you a music major?”

“I don’t start college till next year, actually, but I wasn’t planning on it. I don’t have any formal training or anything. My uncle taught me to play.”

“That’s cool. Is he a professional pianist?”

“No, he’s a producer for the New York Musical Festival. He’s really good, though, and we both get a ton of practice accompanying my family. They’re all theater people, and everyone gets together every Monday night to eat dinner and get drunk and sing.”



“Like, show tunes and stuff?” I nod. “Nice. Today’s Monday; they’re probably doing it right now.”

I hadn’t even noticed it was Monday; when you work seven days a week, it’s easy to lose track. I picture everyone gathering without me—Marisol’s belly getting bigger, Sutton and Twyla growing taller, Skye getting closer and closer to everyone. I must have my feelings painted all over my face, because Russell says, “You miss them, huh?”

“Yeah. A lot, actually.”

“Play something for me.” He moves over a little so I can have access to the lower keys, but his shoulders are so broad that he’s still taking up most of the bench.

“What should I play?” I ask.

“I don’t know, anything. The Sound of Music.”

I start laughing. “Really? That’s the first thing you thought of?”

“Shut up and play it!”

I roll my eyes and play the introduction to “Edelweiss,” and Russell starts to sing. His voice is rough and untrained, but he wouldn’t embarrass himself doing karaoke or anything. Instead of the real lyrics, he makes up his own: “Crazy Clark, crazy Clark, never runs a rehearsal…We stand by, wond’ring why. Is this just universal?”

I smile and pick up where he leaves off. “This is so dumb, why’d I even come, when I could be sleeping? Crazy Clark, crazy Clark, you might make me start weeping.”

Russell laughs and high-fives me. “Damn. A stellar pianist and a master of parody, and you have a pretty voice. You didn’t list that stuff under your special skills.”

I blush a little and look down so he won’t see. “My uncle and I make up silly lyrics all the time. He loves this kind of stuff. He once produced a parody of Cats that took place in a tattoo shop. It was called—”



“Tats?”

“Quick on the uptake,” I say.

“Was it funny?”

“I thought so. My mom left at intermission. She thinks stuff like that is an insult to real theater.”

“All theater is real theater. Except maybe Se?or Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders.” He puts his hands back on the keys. “Let’s do another one.”

Russell may not be a performer, but he knows his musicals inside and out, and we work our way through song after song, cracking each other up with ridiculous lyrics. It feels so relaxing and familiar that when Zoe finally texts to ask where I am, I can’t believe how late it is. Russell and I have been playing for almost an hour.

“Wow,” I say. “I’ve gotta run.”

“Meeting someone?” He says it casually, but I can tell he’s asking if I’ll have to bring doughnuts for my crew tomorrow. I can practically see him repressing a teasing eyebrow-waggle.

“Just my roommate,” I say, but there’s no just about it. She could be hanging out with anyone at all right now, but she wants to know where I am.

“Let’s play together again sometime, okay?” Russell says. “This was really fun.”

“Definitely,” I answer, but I’m already halfway out the door, hoping Zoe will be up for another epic game of Love or Hate.





The timeline for the first show of the season is unbelievably short, and tech rehearsals for Midsummer start at the end of our second week at Allerdale. I’m excited that I’ll finally get to be in the same room as Zoe twelve hours a day, but the performers and the run crew barely get to interact at all. I have only three jobs during the show—carry a chair onstage during a blackout, remove it during another blackout, plug in a set of twinkly LEDs on one of the moving set pieces—but I keep missing my cues because I’m too busy watching Zoe. It’s impossible to take my eyes off her as she leaps and spins and climbs the set, which is made of giant, architectural-looking flowers. Her costume is a long-sleeved unitard, but the lighting makes it look like she’s practically naked, decorated only with strategic swoops and swirls of glitter. Her hair is down, wound with tinsel and flowers. It doesn’t seem possible that this otherworldly creature is the same girl who sat on the floor of our room with me and talked about sex and George Clooney.



Opening night is a huge success. The music and choreography are beautiful, the actors do a phenomenal job, and even though I’m standing in the wings with a headset on, it’s easy to get swept up in the magic. When the curtain comes down at the end, everyone behind it squeals and jumps up and down, and despite the fact that I had practically nothing to do with the show, I feel that joyful, relieved swelling in my chest that a good performance always brings on. Zoe and Livvy and a bunch of the other fairies crush into a group hug, and I stand in the dark and watch them glitter.