Look Both Ways(77)

“We thought the onesie was funny,” Marisol says. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You see what I’m saying, though, right? Like, I know you guys love me no matter what, but that’s not enough if you don’t respect me.” I turn to my mom. “You’re always so disdainful of people who ‘aren’t like us,’ like Jason and Uncle Harrison’s girlfriend and stuff. And no offense, but sometimes it seems like you don’t even respect Uncle Harrison because he doesn’t perform and you don’t like the shows he produces. You’ve always made fun of him, and it sucked seeing that all the time and knowing you’d probably feel the same way about me if you knew I didn’t want to perform, either.”

Mom and Uncle Harrison look at each other for a long moment, and I get ready to back my uncle up when he starts baring his soul and spouting long-held grievances. But instead, they both burst out laughing. “Harrison’s my little brother,” Mom says. “Of course I don’t respect him. It has nothing to do with his career.”

Uncle Harrison leans across the table and looks at me very seriously. “It’s time you knew the truth,” he says. “Your mother’s a huge elitist.”

“I am not! Just because I don’t like The Real Housewives of New York: The Musical, it doesn’t make me a snob!”

“Oh, please. Your nose is so high in the air, I’m surprised you can walk straight.”

My mom turns back to me. “Brookie, we never meant to make you feel excluded. We’re a family full of loudmouths, and we spout our opinions all over the place, but that has nothing to do with how we feel about you. I had no idea you were taking the things we said so personally. Next time I offend you, tell me to shut up, like everyone else does.”



“So…you don’t wish I were more like Zoe?” I ask. “Or Skye?”

“Oh God, Skye,” Christa says. “If I had a nickel for every time I wanted to slap that disingenuous little suck-up…”

“You fit into this family better than anyone else,” my mom says. “You’ll still be ours even if you become a financial analyst. Okay?”

My dad takes my hand. “You’re the love of our lives, kid.”

I’m suddenly filled with so much relief, I’m afraid I might cry or explode or melt into a big Brooklyn-shaped puddle on the floor. But then the waiter arrives with our food, and my whole family starts talking at once again, stealing fries off each other’s plates and asking for the ketchup and the salt. Marisol plunks Owen into my arms so she can cut up her steak, and Desi explains to a wailing Sutton that the “sauce” on her macaroni is only butter, like they have at home. Everything’s exactly the same as it’s always been; I belong to these people, and even now that they know who I really am, they still want me.

“It’s okay if you don’t like Bye Bye Banquo,” I tell my mom as I stroke my nephew’s downy head. “I’m glad you’re here to see it anyway.”

“Honestly, I think it sounds kind of brilliant,” says Uncle Harrison. “I can’t wait.”

“You’re such a philistine,” says my mother.

They both snort-laugh, and this time, so do I.





When I get to Legrand an hour later, the house isn’t open yet, but audience members are already congregating on the lawn and in the lobby. I walk around to the side door and slip into the empty auditorium, hoping for a few minutes alone to collect my thoughts. An assistant stage manager is setting props, and a couple of orchestra members are warming up in the pit, but otherwise the theater is serene and empty. I sit down in an aisle seat, close my eyes, and breathe in the smells of sawdust and paint as I try to pull myself together.

Things with my family went way better than expected, but I’m totally wrung out from our conversation, and on top of that I’m nervous about the show. In half an hour, an audience of real, live theatergoers—ones who are used to Allerdale-quality productions—is going to see my work for the first time. Bob Sussman has been praising Bye Bye Banquo all week, but he’s genuinely delighted by everything, and the rest of these fifteen hundred people will probably have much higher standards. It’s possible I’m about to discover I’m not actually cut out for writing musicals, immediately after telling my entire family I want to make it my life’s work.



“Hey,” Russell’s voice says very close to me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Oh my God, you have got to stop sneaking up on me like that.” I look up at my friend, who’s wearing a suit jacket and a green tie printed with tiny whales. His curls don’t look as wild as usual—he must’ve gelled them into place—and I have a weird urge to mess them up.

“You look really nice,” I say.

“Thanks. So do you.” He pulls a bunch of flowers wrapped in paper out from behind his back. “Happy opening night, Brooklyn.”

I stand up, too surprised to speak, and he thrusts the flowers into my arms. They’re gorgeous, giant pink peonies with something small and blue filling the spaces in between. They look really expensive.

“Russell, they’re beautiful,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that. I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you that, um, it was…it was so much fun working on this show with you. You’re a really amazing lyricist. And composer. And an amazing person, in general.” He keeps shifting his weight from side to side and tugging on his cuffs.