Look Both Ways(35)

But when I open the door, she’s pacing the room and texting furiously, eyes wide and manic. “Did you hear?” she breathes.

“Hear what? What happened? Are you okay?”

“You’re not even going to believe this. We have another master class tomorrow, and it’s with”—she pauses for effect—“Lana. Blake. Shepard.”

“What?” I say. “Are you serious?”

“I know, right?” Zoe flops onto her bed and hangs off it upside down so her hair trails onto the floor. “Holy shit, we get to meet Lana Blake Shepard tomorrow, Brooklyn. Lana Blake Shepard.”

I really wish Zoe would stop saying her name. “Where did you hear that?” I ask. Maybe it’s another one of those wild rumors that are always flying around Allerdale. The other day, someone told me Rob Lowe was going to be in Macbeth.

“It’s on the call board!”

I grab my laptop and pull up the electronic call board, and there it is in print: “Monday, July 14, apprentice company: vocal performance master class with Lana Blake Shepard, 1 PM.”



“Oh God,” I manage to choke. This is bad. This is so, so bad.

“What do you think we’ll do with her?” Zoe asks. “Do you think she’ll like us? Should we go downstairs and practice our audition songs?”

I’m not even aware of having stood up, but I find myself holding my hoodie and my phone and moving toward the door. I have to talk to my mom immediately, and I definitely can’t do it in here. “Where are you going?” Zoe calls. “I already told the other girls. Livvy’s totally flipping out.”

“I’m…I’ll be right back,” I say.

“Is everything okay?” she calls after me, but I let the door close and pretend I haven’t heard her.

My mind spins itself into a froth as I head downstairs and out onto the dark lawn. I’ve misled my mom into thinking I’m in Bye Bye Birdie. I’ve misled everyone at Allerdale into thinking I’m a regular, worse-than-average actor who got unlucky with casting, not the freakish, talentless offspring of one of the country’s best vocal coaches. By this time tomorrow, my cover will be blown with everyone, including Zoe. I’ve spent weeks trying to build up the trust between us, and when she finds out I’ve been keeping something so important from her, she might never forgive me.

I send the universe images of my mother having a fight with Marcus, of her Zipcar breaking down on the way to Allerdale, of her waking up tomorrow with a horrible case of laryngitis. But it doesn’t help like it usually does, and I’m finding it more and more difficult to breathe. Why was I stupid enough to think I could keep anything a secret in a place like this?



When I finally manage to dial the phone, my mom picks up on the first ring, almost like she was expecting me. “Hi, sweetheart!”

“Mom. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” I can picture her wide-eyed, fake-innocent expression.

“That you’re teaching here tomorrow!”

She squeals. “They finally announced it! I’ve been absolutely dying to tell you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Isn’t it wonderful?” When I don’t respond, she says, “Brookie? You’re not upset, are you?”

I’m about to say that I’m very upset, but it’s not like I can explain why. “No, of course not,” I say. “I’m really glad you’re coming. I just wish I’d known so I could prepare.”

“Oh, you don’t need to have anything prepared in advance,” she says. “You’ve done all these exercises before.”

I try to figure out the best way to ask her to pretend we don’t know each other while she’s here, but then she says, “I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I miss you like crazy,” and I can’t do it. She would assume I was ashamed to be associated with her. How can I let her think that, when I’m the shameful one in this equation?

So instead, I say, “I miss you, too.”

“I’m teaching a class for the non-equity company right after yours, but I thought we could have dinner in the evening. Does that work for you? I know it’s last-minute, but I was hoping to have some time alone with my girl.”

Under normal circumstances, I’d love to have dinner with my mom. But twisting the truth on the phone is nothing like sitting across a table and lying straight to her face. I can try to avoid the topic of Birdie entirely, but I’m pretty sure anecdotes about Se?or Hidalgo won’t fill an entire meal. She’s going to find out I wasn’t cast, and I’ll have to watch all the pride and excitement drain out of her face as she realizes her only kid is a liar and a failure.



I’m about to tell her I won’t be able to make it because of an important rehearsal, but then I have a better idea. If I give my mom something else exciting and shiny to focus on, maybe I can keep the conversation away from my fictional main stage debut after all. “Can I bring my roommate?” I ask.

“The Juilliard roommate?” I can tell Mom’s practically salivating, already preparing to add my friend to her entourage of talent. “Of course you can, Brookie. That’s a wonderful idea. I can’t wait to meet her.”

I picture Zoe attending Family Night in my living room every week long after I’ve left for college, and a wave of jealousy hits me hard. But I force the image out of my head; I’ll worry about that when it happens. Right now, I need a distraction, and Zoe is a perfect one.