Look Both Ways(70)

Zoe picks up her messenger bag and starts cramming things into it—pajama pants, toiletries, a book. Her face is red and splotchy, and I want to wrap her up in my arms and tell her to calm down, that I’ll make it all okay. But I can’t be her solution right now, because I’m the problem.



“What are you doing?” I ask from the safe little island of my bed.

“I’m going out.” She tries to shove a bottle of shampoo into the bag. It’s too big to fit, but she leaves it poking precariously out the top.

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Brooklyn, okay? Somewhere you’re not. I want to be by myself.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.” She slings the bag over her shoulder, and the bottle of shampoo falls to the ground, but she doesn’t bother to pick it up before she storms out. It’s still rolling around on the floor, trying to find its equilibrium, long after she’s gone.





I lie awake most of the night, crying and waiting for the sound of Zoe’s key in the door, but she doesn’t come home. When my alarm goes off at seven, I feel like I’ve had about thirty minutes of sleep, and even after a shower, my eyes look red and puffy. I know I have to pull myself together; we’re moving into the theater today and attempting a stumble-through of act one with the orchestra. Under normal circumstances, I’d be super-excited about seeing all our hard work up on its feet. But last night’s conversation has colored everything, and all I feel is sadness and desperation and dread. It’s like I’ve finally made it to the top of a mountain, only to find that the beautiful view I was promised is shrouded in thick, gray fog.

I’m psyching myself up to walk over to the theater and face Zoe when my phone rings and my mom’s picture pops up on the screen. I’ve been dodging her calls for days, but right now I really need to talk to someone who loves me, so I answer.



“I finally got you!” my mom says. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all week!”

“I’m here,” I say. My voice comes out flat.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just really, really exhausted.”

My mom makes a sympathetic noise. “Third rotation is so hard. It’s okay, Brookie. Things will calm down a little after opening night. Tell me about this new show they’re cobbling together. Is it any good? The email Bob sent said they’re combining Macbeth and Birdie into one thing, but I can’t imagine how that’s even possible.”

Here I was, thinking my parents wouldn’t find out about the new show unless I told them myself. I’ve been a complete idiot; of course the Allerdale administration would notify all ticket-holders about the change in the programming. At least my mom doesn’t seem to know what my role in the new show is, and there’s still plenty of time to put my fake-illness plan into action later this week.

“It’s kind of like a mash-up,” I say. “We left most of the Macbeth text intact, but we’re inserting songs from Birdie with all the words rewritten so they’re about the witches’ prophecies or about murdering Duncan or whatever.”

My mom laughs. “That sounds dreadful. I’m so sorry your very first Allerdale show turned out to be such a disaster. But I know you’ll be flexible and make the best of it.”

“I think it’s kind of clever, actually,” I say. “Uncle Harrison will probably like it.”

“Probably, but we all know he has questionable taste at best. I swear, some of the stuff he produces at that festival of his. Why would anyone put that much effort into something that’s essentially a bunch of jokes?”



Because it makes people happy, I want to say, but her tone stings so much that I can’t squeeze the words out. This past week, the Allerdale company has finally accepted me as one of their own, even though I’m not performing. They seem to think writing a show is kind of a big deal. It hurts to remember that to my family, my hard work is just a bunch of jokes.

Fortunately, my mom doesn’t even pause for a response. “Speaking of terrible shows, what ever happened with that awful side project, Se?or Magellan’s Flying Circus? I haven’t heard anything about it in weeks.”

I don’t bother to correct her. “It…got canceled,” I say.

“The playwright couldn’t get it together, huh? That’s what happens when you put someone untrained in charge of a show. Marcus should really know better by now. But having that over with must be a relief for you, right? Now you can give all your attention to Bye Bye Banquo, or whatever they’re calling it.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“We’ll see you on Friday before the show, right? I made us a nice early dinner reservation at that lovely bistro we went to last month. Zoe’s invited, too, of course. I’ve been telling absolutely everyone about your hot new girlfriend.”

“Mom,” I moan.

“What? It’s exciting. Everyone’s thrilled for you. I’m so proud of you for opening yourself up to the possibility of dating girls, Brookie. Your life is going to be so much richer for it. I always hoped that if I had a daughter, she would want to date women. Men are so difficult to understand.”