Look Both Ways(76)

Jermaine nods. “They’re definitely going to remember how much you helped them out when you come back next year. And then it’ll be your turn to be onstage, and someone else will be telling you what to sing.”

I’m grateful to them for trying to build me back up; it’s obvious how much they care about me. But feeling supported and adored isn’t the same as feeling known, and it’s time to let my family really see me. I sit up a little straighter in my chair and hope against hope that my next confession doesn’t bring everything I love crashing down around me.



“Here’s the thing,” I say. “Allerdale’s really great, and I totally get why you guys love it so much. But I don’t want to come back here next year, and I don’t want to audition for Juilliard, or anywhere else. I don’t want to perform at all anymore.” It’s hard to bite back the I’m sorry that springs to my lips, but I manage to keep it in. I shouldn’t have to apologize for what I want.

Jermaine reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t give up on your dream because of one bad experience, Brookie. If you want it enough, I know you can—”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, though,” I say. “This isn’t my dream. I want to love performing like you guys do, but I don’t. And I think maybe it’s time to stop trying to force things and do something that actually makes me happy.”

“But you’ve wanted this forever,” my mom says. “Everyone has doubts when the going gets tough, but you have to make an effort to push forward anyway. I know you feel comfortable writing parodies and playing the piano, but you can’t just give up and hide behind that. The only way to improve and become the best you can be is to step out of your comfort zone.”

“I don’t want to write songs because it’s easy or comfortable,” I say. “It’s actually really hard. I want to do it because I love it.”

“Sweetheart, writing parody lyrics isn’t the same thing as writing songs. You can’t make a career out of—”

“But it’s not just that,” I say. “I write original stuff, too. There’s one in the show tonight, actually. Look.” I flip the program open to the list of musical numbers and point to my song, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow.” “I wrote that. It’s not from Birdie. And…I think it’s actually pretty good.”



Everyone goes silent and stares at the program like they’re trying to make sense of a foreign alphabet. Finally, Uncle Harrison says, “You wrote the music, too?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I never knew I could do that, but apparently I can. Our music director helped with the orchestration, but I’m learning.”

“Brookie, that’s awesome,” he says. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

I smile at him—at least someone’s on my side, even if it’s the black sheep of the family. “Thanks,” I say. “Listen, I know the rest of you must be so disappointed in me right now. But I hope you’ll still come to the show and try to keep an open mind, and—”

“Wait, what?” Marisol says. “Why would we be disappointed in you?”

“Because I didn’t live up to what you wanted me to be. You guys must think I’m a total failure.”

“How are you a failure? You can write songs. That’s so cool.”

“We’re just really surprised,” my mom says. “You can see how this is kind of coming out of nowhere, right? You’ve been begging to audition for Allerdale since you were in second grade.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you didn’t want to go anymore?” asks my dad. “We wouldn’t have forced you.”



“I did want to,” I say. “I thought I did. You guys are always talking about this place and how perfect it is, and I thought if I could come here, it would…fix me, you know? Like, maybe it would finally make me love performing, and then I’d feel like I was really part of the family.”

My mom looks so tired and sad all of a sudden. “Brookie, of course you’re part of the family. You know we’re proud of you no matter what, right?”

I think of the way she told Uncle Harrison not to fill my head with trash, how she said Bye Bye Banquo sounded dreadful and ridiculous, how she’s spent my whole life reminding me that playing the piano takes time away from the things that “really matter.”

“No,” I say. “I honestly did not know that. That’s not how you guys act at all.”

“Sutton and Twyla and the babies are part of the family, and we don’t assume they’re going to be performers,” Christa says.

“But you do assume that, even if you don’t mean to. Jasmine’s four weeks old, and you’ve got her in a FUTURE TONY WINNER onesie. What if she wants to be, like, a librarian? What if Sutton wants to be a doctor?”

Sutton looks up from her crayons. “I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to be a dancer like Daddy and Papa. And then I want to be a firefighter. And then I want to be an astronaut. And then I want to be the president.”

“You can be whatever you want,” Desi tells her. “You’re a superstar.”



“I’m not a superstar. I’m Chinese.”