Look Both Ways(5)

Uncle Harrison takes over as accompanist after a while, and my family keeps singing until Twyla’s asleep in my dad’s lap and Sutton’s conked out facedown on the rug. Around midnight, we all crowd around the piano for our final ensemble number; our neighbors are understanding up to a point, but when we go too late, they start whacking their ceiling with a broom handle. My uncle pats the bench, and I sit down beside him, hip to hip. As he plays the opening chords to another song from Rent, he shoots me a smile that says he’ll miss having me next to him.

I look around at my family, their eyes bright, their arms twined around each other, and I vow that by the end of the summer, I’ll be the passionate, seasoned theater professional I’m supposed to be. I will push through my nervousness and uncertainty until I’m the kind of girl who can’t wait to nestle into the crook of the piano like it’s her boyfriend’s arm and let her voice fly free. The brilliant Allerdale directors will break me down and build me back up into a totally new person, and by the time they send me back home, I’m going to belong here.

“No day but today,” everyone around me sings in perfect four-part harmony.

Not for me, I think. Today is just the beginning for me.





My first few minutes in the professional theater world feel a lot like the first day of high school. The Adirondack Trailways bus drops me off a couple of blocks from the Allerdale Playhouse, and when I reach the wide green lawns of the theater’s grounds, I find them swarming with strangers. As I try to wheel my suitcase up the path to the company management office, I have to keep ducking and dodging as shrieking girls and flailing guys fling themselves at each other. Some of them embrace so enthusiastically that they collapse on the ground and roll around like puppies. I have a brief fantasy that that’ll be me next summer, reuniting with all the friends I’m about to make.

I finally find company management, where five or six people are waiting on line. Everyone seems tall and shiny and glamorous, even in their cutoffs and flip-flops, and I’m a little afraid to make eye contact with anybody as I shuffle toward the registration table. The company manager is wearing a polo shirt with the Allerdale logo, and a name tag that says “Barb.” Her boobs are so enormous, it’s almost like she has a shelf attached to her front.



“Hi,” I say when I reach the front of the line. “Brooklyn Shepard, apprentice company.” I make an effort to say it confidently, like I totally deserve to be here.

Barb searches her clipboard for my name, and I half expect she’s going to say this is all a joke and send me home on the next bus. But instead she makes a couple of check marks, riffles through the stack of manila envelopes, and slaps one into my palm a little harder than necessary. “You’re in Ramsey Hall. Room number, swipe card, and key are in here. Don’t lose them.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say. “I’m very organized.”

“Company meeting tonight at seven. Cast lists’ll be posted at eight. Map, company rules, season calendar, and orientation packet are in your envelope. Read them carefully. It’s nobody’s fault but yours if you don’t show up where you’re supposed to be. Next!”

“Thanks for your help,” I say, but Barb doesn’t even respond; she’s clearly waiting for me to move along. I scoot out of the way as fast as I can, trying not to whack anyone with my huge duffel bag as I push out the door.

I’ve been to Allerdale a bunch of times to see shows my parents have worked on, but I’ve never been inside the dorms, and it takes me a while to find Ramsey Hall. As I walk, I catch myself staring at the trees and rolling hills in the distance with the same bug-eyed wonder as the Times Square tourists who drive me crazy at home. I’m only three hours upstate of the city, and it’s not like we don’t have plants in Manhattan. But New York City parks are more like urban spaces auditioning for the role of nature. It’s almost disconcerting to see the real thing.



There’s no air-conditioning in the dorm, and by the time I lug all my stuff up two flights of stairs, I’m disheveled and sticky. The hall is filled with people chattering and laughing and shaking hands, and I know I should make an effort to meet some of them, but everything’s starting to feel a little overwhelming. I’ve always had trouble connecting to the other theater kids at school, who are ridiculously competitive and gossip about each other constantly. I can fake it well enough that they consider me part of the group, but I’m not sure I can handle living with people like that for nine whole weeks. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

Put on your game face, I order myself. Allerdale is exactly what you need. I vow that after I put down my stuff and rest for a minute, I’ll come back out here with a big, bright smile and make some friends.

My room is near the end of the hall, and I unlock the door and drag my luggage behind me as I back inside. It’s not till I hear a surprised “Oh!” that I realize there’s already someone in the room. The first thing I notice about the other girl is her long blond hair, which almost brushes the floor as she leans over to dig through her suitcase. The second thing I notice is that she isn’t wearing a shirt.

I spin around so my back is to her. “Oh my God, sorry, I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. “I thought this was 309.”



“It is,” she says. “I’m Zoe. You must be my roommate?”