Look Both Ways(3)

“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.