Look Both Ways(37)

I shake my head. “I was hoping maybe I wouldn’t have to?”

“What, you want me to tell them?”

“No, I mean, maybe they don’t have to know at all. Maybe my mom will treat me like everyone else, and then you and I can say we’re going into dinner in town, and—”

“Brooklyn, they’re not stupid. They’re going to figure it out.”

I put my head in my hands. “They’re going to hate me.”

“They’re not. I don’t hate you.”

“But they don’t know me like you do.”

Zoe sits down on the end of my bed. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to have to own it,” she says. “If you don’t tell them and then they figure it out, it’ll be much worse than if you said something, right? Just act like it’s not that big a deal, and maybe that’s how they’ll act, too.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” I say.

Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I can convince myself it’s true.





I mean to tell my other friends about my mom. I really do. But I keep putting it off, and by the time we’re walking to Haydu Hall for class the next day, I still haven’t said anything. Zoe keeps looking at me like, What are you waiting for? But I think there’s still a chance I could get away with this, and I don’t want to ruin everything if I don’t have to. Every time one of my friends jokes around with me or asks my opinion about something, I soak it up and try to fix the feeling of camaraderie in my mind. If things don’t go as I want them to, this might be the last time I’m allowed to be part of the group.

My plan is to drop my friends off in the classroom, say I’m going to the bathroom, and then wait for my mom in front of the theater—she loves making a grand entrance, so she’s always late to everything. I figure we can get all the gooey “I love you, I missed you” stuff out of the way in private, and then she’ll treat me like any other student the rest of the day. I almost believe this is going to work, that everything’s going to be fine.



And then we enter room 214, and Livvy whisper-screams, “Guys, that’s her!”

My mom turns away from the piano, where she’s been chatting with Pandora. When her eyes land on me, she breaks into a nine-thousand-watt smile and holds out her arms.

For a split second, I consider turning away and pretending I don’t know her. It’s possible she’d get the message and back off. But that’s completely insane; that’s not the person I want to be. So my mom is famous. Fine. Zoe’s right; it’s time for me to own it. If my friends think I bought my way into the company, I’ll prove them wrong by rocking this workshop. My mom already told me I’ll be ahead of the game today. I’ll show everyone I do have Lana Blake Shepard’s genes in me after all.

I deserve to be here, I whisper inside my head. And then I walk straight into my mom’s arms.

“Brookie,” she croons as she wraps me up in the folds of her voluminous dress. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Despite all the stress her presence is causing me, she’s my mom, and I love her, and it really is great to see her. I breathe in the familiar smell of her lotion and the cinnamon incense sticks she keeps in her closet.

“Hey, Mom,” I say a little more loudly than necessary, in case anyone is confused.

I once saw one of those charts psychologists give autistic kids to help them parse people’s facial expressions—cartoon face after cartoon face in neat little rows, labeled “angry” and “scared” and “sad” and “excited.” When my mom finally pulls away and I look out at the rest of the company, it’s a lot like scanning one of those charts. Livvy, Jessa, Kenji, and Todd are staring at me with total shock and disbelief, like they’re not exactly sure who they’ve been hanging out with all this time. Pandora looks like she wants to punch me, but she always looks like that. Zoe has a huge smile on her face, and for a second I think she’s proud of me for stepping up, but then I realize her eyes are firmly fixed on my mom. I don’t see any expressions I’d label as “supportive.”



“Is she for real?” Jessa mutters to Livvy, and I pretend not to hear.

My mom is totally oblivious. “Hello, everyone!” she says. “I’m Lana, and I’m thrilled that my dear friend Marcus has invited me to teach your vocal performance master class. I’ve had the privilege of teaching several Allerdale apprentice companies, but this one is particularly special to me, for obvious reasons.”

Jessa leans over and whispers something to Zoe, and my roommate gives a half shrug and mouths, I’ll tell you later.

“We’ll begin with a guided relaxation exercise,” my mom says. “Everyone lie down on your backs, close your eyes, and concentrate on my voice.”

My friends will pepper me with whispered questions if I go anywhere near them now, so I lie down right where I am, next to Pandora and Natasha. My mom kicks off her shoes and starts pacing the room, and the sound of her barefooted gait is as familiar to me as the Manhattan traffic that constantly rushes by my bedroom window. “To attain optimal vocal technique, every muscle and tissue in your body must be a relaxed, supple resonator,” she says in a lulling, steady voice. “We’re going to relax each of our muscles, one by one. Start at the very top of your head. Picture your scalp melting like an Italian ice on a hot day….”