Look Both Ways(65)

“What’d your mom say when you told her you’re writing the new show?” Zoe asks.

At the mention of my mom, everything starts to feel less bubbly and bright. “Um…I actually haven’t told her yet,” I say.

“Oh my God, call home right now! She’ll still be awake, right? Where’s your phone? Put it on speaker. I want to hear how she reacts.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it later.”

“I don’t have to listen if you don’t want me to, it’s fine. You should call, though. You must be dying to tell everyone.”

It’s weird how Zoe knows me so well in some ways and doesn’t understand me at all in others. “Honestly? Not really,” I say.

“Why not?”

I shrug. “You’ve met my mom. You know how she is.”

Zoe looks confused. “Um, yeah. She loves you like crazy and she’s supersupportive.”

“She is when you’re doing things she approves of.”

“Why wouldn’t she approve of you writing a show for a world-renowned festival? That’s insane.”

“Because I’m not performing in anything,” I say. “That’s what’s important to my family. Plus, my mom hates parodies. You heard how she talked about my uncle’s online dating musical when we were at dinner. It’s better if I let everyone think I’m in the ensemble and then ‘get sick’ at the last second. They’ll never know the difference.”

“That sucks, though. This show is important to you, right? You seem way more excited about it than anything else you’ve done here.”



“Yeah,” I say. “This is way better than being onstage, honestly.” It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud. I take another gulp of champagne, and I’m not sure if the fizzy rush that goes through me is from the bubbles or the words.

“Then I don’t get why your family would be upset,” Zoe says. “It’s not like all of them perform. Your mom teaches, and your uncle’s a producer, and you said your dad directs, right?”

“Yeah, but my parents proved they were good enough to be onstage before they did other stuff. My uncle’s the only one who doesn’t have some sort of performance degree, and I know everyone thinks less of him for it.”

“I just don’t see how anyone could think less of you for writing a show,” she says. “What you’re doing is ridiculously impressive.”

“That doesn’t matter, though. I’m still failing at the career they want for me, you know? They’re going to find out I’m not good enough eventually when I don’t get into any acting schools, but is it so bad if I want them to believe I fit in for a little longer?”

“They’re your family. Of course you fit in.”

“I don’t, though.” I sigh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all angsty about it. I’m totally ruining our picnic. I think maybe I’m a little drunk?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. C’mere.” Zoe lies back on the blanket and holds out her arms to me, and I sink down and settle my body against hers. It’s weird how comfortable and familiar it already feels to lie like this, our limbs all tangled together.

“Let’s not talk about it right now,” she says. “Let’s focus on the good stuff, okay? I bet I can cheer you up.”



“I bet you can, too,” I say, because no matter what’s wrong, Zoe can always make me feel like I’m worth something. I wait for the pep talk to start, but instead she leans in and starts kissing me, warm and deep and unhurried. Her mouth tastes like champagne and chocolate frosting, and I tell myself this is good, too. I’m in the most romantic situation ever with a gorgeous, fascinating girl who loves making out with me. This is exactly what I should want, isn’t it?

Zoe runs her fingers through my hair and kisses the spot where my ear meets my jaw. “Feeling a little better now?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say, because I’m trying to trick myself into believing I do.

She pulls away and sits up, and for a second I think maybe she’s done kissing me for now and is ready to talk again. But then she straddles me, slips the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and pulls it down around her waist, eyes locked on mine the whole time. She isn’t wearing a bra.

“How about now?” she asks, her voice low and sultry.

My throat seizes up, and it’s suddenly very difficult to swallow or speak. It’s not that I don’t like what I see; Zoe’s skin is so beautiful in the candlelight that she almost looks more like a painting than a person, and her breasts are perfect. But there’s this sudden metallic tang at the back of my throat that overpowers all the fluttery feelings I should be having, the same panicky sensation I always get when the subway train stops in a tunnel between stations and I don’t know how long it’ll be before we start moving again. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me; I’ve seen plenty of breasts in my life, and none of them have ever scared me.



Then again, I’ve never been expected to do anything with them, either.

“Um,” I manage. I wish I hadn’t drunk all that champagne. Or maybe I haven’t had enough?

Zoe laughs, so low and deep, it’s almost a purr. “It’s okay,” she says. She takes my hand and tries to guide it toward her chest, but I resist.