Look Both Ways(73)

“Yeah, it’s a really good start, Brooklyn,” Alex says. “Maybe a tad maudlin, but we can fix that. Can you teach it to the pianist and Macbeth tomorrow, after we iron out some of the kinks?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Excellent. Really good work.”

But I can’t even hear the praise, because I’m watching Zoe walk up the aisle and out the far door, chatting with her friends like I haven’t bared my soul to her. My music used to impress her so much, but now, when it matters most, she didn’t even bother to listen. It’s not like I expected her to rush up onstage and tell me she was wrong about everything, but I didn’t expect her to ignore me completely, either.

She doesn’t look back as the door closes heavily behind her, and I feel something slam shut inside me, too.





I expect that the pain of seeing Zoe at rehearsal every day will lessen as time passes, but it doesn’t, not even a little. Now that she’s unattainable, everything about her fascinates me again—her boisterous laugh, the inflections of her speech, the way she sings and does her eye makeup and acts like other people’s personal space is nothing more than a friendly suggestion. Little by little, her stuff disappears from our room, and it depresses me to imagine her dresses in someone else’s closet and her towel hanging on the back of someone else’s door. I only meant to cool things off with her, not end them completely, and the way she’s carved me out of her life is heartbreaking. A few days ago, I was the first person she saw when she opened her eyes in the morning and the last one she talked to before she went to sleep. Now I don’t even know where she’s living.

The stupid, ironic thing is that the moment I’ve stopped being able to enjoy it, everything else at Allerdale is finally going well for me. I feel like an important part of the company, I have plenty of people to hang out with, and the show is coming together beautifully. By the time Thursday night rolls around and it’s time to tell my parents they shouldn’t bother to come upstate because I’m “too sick to perform,” part of me regrets that they won’t see what I’ve created. If only they had different ideas about what constitutes important work, they might actually be proud of me.



I call home during the intermission of our dress rehearsal, and as the phone rings, I prepare to make my voice sound hoarse and phlegmy. But when my mom picks up, she doesn’t let me get a word out before she starts talking. “Brookie! I’m so glad you called. I have the best news! We ran into Kristen Viorst at a benefit earlier this week, and I convinced her to come up to Allerdale with us to see you perform tomorrow!”

I can tell she expects this name to mean something to me, but it doesn’t. “Who?” I croak.

“She’s on the admissions committee at Juilliard! Of course this won’t be an official audition, but it’s a perfect opportunity for her to get a sense of you as a performer before you—”

“No,” I say, so panicked that I forget about my fake sore throat. “Mom, you can’t bring her here.”

“Sweetheart, I know it’s scary, but you’re going to be wonderful. And it’s time to start thinking about your future if you want to—”

“You have to call it off,” I say. “I’m serious. If you bring her here for nothing, it’s going to be really embarrassing for all of us.”

“What do you mean? It wouldn’t be for nothing.”



If I tell Mom I’m sick, I can shut this Juilliard thing down and keep my role in Bye Bye Banquo a secret. But even if I do, I’ll be safe for only a few more weeks; once my mom sinks her teeth into an idea, she never lets go. Kristen Viorst will probably show up at our next Family Night to watch me perform, and I’ll have to come up with a whole new set of excuses and lies. The idea of jumping through any more hoops for a career I don’t even want is suddenly too exhausting to bear. It’s time to tell the truth, once and for all.

“Listen,” I say. “This show is really important to me, and I want you and Dad to come. But the role I have isn’t the kind of thing Juilliard would be interested in.”

“Brookie, she knows you’re just part of the ensemble, and she’s still—”

“That’s not it,” I say. “I’ll explain everything when you get here, okay? I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. Can you trust me on this?”

She must hear the desperation in my voice, because she stops arguing. “Okay,” she says. “I won’t bring her. Are you all right? You’re worrying me.”

“I’m fine,” I say, but I don’t feel fine. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster that has started its ascent toward the first dizzying drop, way before I’m ready. Now that I’m strapped in, the only way out is through.

Time always speeds up when you want it to move more slowly, and before I know it, Friday has flown by and it’s time to walk into town and meet my parents for dinner. Before I leave, I do a few affirmations in front of the mirror: The Allerdale company respects me for what I’ve created, and Mom and Dad will, too. Even if I tell them I don’t want to sing anymore, I’ll still be part of the family. But talking into the mirror isn’t the same without Zoe, and I abandon the cause long before I start believing what I’m saying. Tonight is about being honest, and sugarcoating the truth for myself won’t make things any easier.