Look Both Ways(39)

I label the top of my handout with the word “VALIDATE.”

I’m pretty sure my mom is going to pick me to go first, so I’m extra careful and deliberate about my emotional arc. By the time the ten minutes are up, I have some pretty solid ideas for how to make this song about me. When my mom gathers us back around the piano, my heart starts pounding and my lyrics sheet grows damp in my sweaty hand, but I tell myself I can do this, that I want to do this. If I don’t make a good impression on the other apprentices now, I’ll probably never have another chance.

“Let’s get started,” my mom says, and her eyes sweep over the group. When they land on me, I shift my weight and prepare to get up, even though I’m so nervous now that I feel a little dizzy. But then her gaze moves to my right and settles there.

“Zoe, would you like to go first?” she asks.

Okay, this is fine; I didn’t really want my mom to single me out or give me special treatment. Guests always get to go first on Family Night, and this is kind of the same thing. Maybe she didn’t want someone seasoned to go first and influence the rest of the group. But as Zoe moves to the front of the room, looking excited and full of emotional arcs, I can’t help thinking there’s something else going on here. Maybe my mom does want to start with the strongest example, and she knows I’m not the right person to deliver it.



“Should I tell you my active verb first?” Zoe asks.

“You can go ahead and sing.” Mom turns to the rest of us. “Let’s see if we can guess Zoe’s intention.”

The accompanist starts playing, and Zoe closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her whole physicality is different—she looks hopeful but vulnerable and unsure. Even though “Anything Goes” is a bouncy, confident song, Zoe sings it hesitantly, but with an undercurrent of quiet, tentative flirtation woven through every line. It’s like she’s trying to gauge someone’s interest in her, but in such a subtle way that it wouldn’t be too embarrassing if she were rejected.

My mom usually doesn’t believe in applause during class—she says it changes the energy of the space—but she’s the one who starts clapping when Zoe is finished. “That was marvelous,” she says, and my friend’s smile lights up the room. “You brought a whole new set of emotions to that song. Well done, Zoe.” She turns to us. “Who wants to tell us what you thought Zoe was conveying?”

Livvy raises her hand. “She kind of made the lyrics sound like, ‘I think you might like me, but I’m not totally sure.’?”

Zoe beams. “That’s exactly what I was going for!”

“Good,” my mom says. “This is a wonderful example of how a singer can really make a song her own. What was your active verb, Zoe?”



“My verb was ‘assess,’?” Zoe says. For a split second she glances at me, but I can’t tell if it’s on purpose.

My mom picks Todd next, and he sings the song like he’s landed in a foreign country and has absolutely no idea what’s going on; his verb is “bumble.” Jessa sings it supersarcastically and explains that her verb is “scorn” and she’s singing to a guy who cheated on her. Pandora unsurprisingly picks “seduce” and sings the song like she’s trying to convince someone to cheat. Everyone sounds really, really good, and the longer I sit there waiting for my turn, the less confident I feel. Each time my mom calls up a new person, I find myself thinking, Don’t choose me, don’t choose me. I start to wonder if she’s saving me for last. I hope she’s not; I’m not sure how long I can hold this much tension in my body before something snaps.

I’m still waiting for my turn to perform when the choppy-haired non-eq from Never Have I Ever opens the door. “Oh, sorry,” she says. “We’ll wait in the hall.”

My mom looks at her watch. “Wow. How is it three o’clock already?” she says, and I take a normal breath for the first time in an hour. “Time flies when you’re surrounded by talent, I guess. Thank you all for giving me the privilege of listening to your unique points of view. It was such a pleasure to work with you.”

I know I should be upset right now, but all I feel is relief that I don’t have to sing in front of these insanely talented people. If I’m honest with myself, the second impression I made probably wouldn’t have been any better than my first. Everyone else here pulled off way better performances than I could’ve managed, even though I’m the only one who has done the exercise before. No matter how hard I try or how many master classes I take, I’m never going to be as good as they are. That should inspire me to work even harder, the way listening to Skye did on my last Family Night at home. But more and more, the thought of struggling toward something I’ll likely never achieve is starting to feel exhausting. The entire point of coming here was to grow as a performer, but maybe nothing—not even Allerdale—is going to make me want this like I should.



If I never make it as an actor, will I be exiled from Family Night? I think about my mom saying, Oh, my daughter? She’s so mainstream. She’s not like us, and it stings like crazy. But it hurts just as much to lie and make excuses for myself and pretend to love something because I’m genetically predisposed to love it.

I’m so deep in thought that I don’t even realize my mom’s next to me until her hand lands on my arm. “That went so well, didn’t it?” she says. “What remarkable people. You’re so lucky to be in this group of apprentices, Brookie.” She doesn’t say, You could learn so much from them, but I hear it anyway.