Parallel

7

HERE


MONDAY, OCTOBER 12, 2009

(my audition for the Yale Freshman Show)


I scream as they wheel the stretcher past me, but no sound comes out. I run after them, but they close the doors in my face. I look back at the car and see Ilana lying on the pavement, her tiny frame bent like a rag doll. “Wait!” I yell as the ambulance pulls away. I try to run after it, but my feet are frozen in place.

“Abby.” The voice is urgent. “Abby, wake up.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. You’re dreaming, I tell myself.

“You’re dreaming,” another voice says.

“No,” I hear myself mumble. And then I’m awake.

I blink my eyes open, and my bedroom comes into view. Marissa is kneeling beside me, her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes are wide with concern.

“You were screaming,” she says.

I just nod. My throat is sandpaper.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asks me.

I just shake my head, unable to push the image of Ilana’s broken body from my mind. “My phone,” I whisper hoarsely. “Could you get me my phone?” I point at my desk, where I left it plugged in.

“Sure.” Marissa gives me another concerned look, then gets to her feet. She disconnects my phone from its charger and hands it to me. “I’ll be in the common room.” She closes the door softly behind her as she leaves.

For the first time, I want less information, not more of it. I don’t want to know that Ilana was in a horrible car accident the night Tyler broke up with her. Or that my parallel is the reason he did it. But I already know those things. The memories are seared into my mind, bright and unflinching. What I don’t know is whether my parallel’s attempt to play Cupid cost Ilana her life.

With trembling fingers, I make the call. It goes straight to voicemail.

It’s Monday. Caitlin is in class until twelve forty-five. It’s only ten fifteen now.

Staring vacantly at my screen, I scroll through my photo log. All the pictures are there. I should feel relieved. But seeing them only makes me feel worse. What if Ilana is dead? What if I’m here smiling for photos while she’s—

Please, God, don’t let her be dead.

I contemplate calling Michael, but I don’t have the energy to pretend that my dream was just a dream when I know that it wasn’t. Even if I don’t tell him about it, he’ll try to cheer me up as soon as he hears how upset I am, and I don’t deserve to feel better. Not until I know what happened to Ilana. I move from my bed to my desk, intending to Google the accident, but my fingers just hover above the keyboard. I can’t. I can’t see photographs of the wreckage. I can’t read some reporter’s sensationalist spin on the facts. The images in my mind are harrowing enough.

My vision blurs as I picture Tyler throwing up in the grass as Ilana’s ambulance pulls away. The look on that police officer’s face as he tells us what happened. Ilana was coming around the curve when a pickup truck crossed over the center line going nearly twice the speed limit and hit her head-on. The driver was handcuffed in the back of a police car when we got there, passed out against the window glass, his only injury a broken hand.

Another memory springs to the surface. One that feels like mine, even though I know it isn’t. Standing in the Grand Lobby of the High Museum, lying to Tyler’s face.

Why did she do it? Why would my parallel make something like that up? So what if she had good intentions. Didn’t she realize what was at stake? “Don’t play Cupid,” is right there below “Don’t lie” in the BFF code. Cardinal don’ts, especially if your best friend is Caitlin Alexandra Moss. Things are black or white with her. Right or wrong. True or false. And for someone who thinks religion is a crutch for the lonely and stupid, she has a ridiculously strict moral code.

Fresh air. I need fresh air.

I quickly change into running clothes, then grab my phone and keys. Marissa is waiting for me in the common room with a mug of something frothy. She doesn’t drink coffee or milk or anything else they sell at Durfee’s, so she’s set up a little barista bar by our bay window where she brews, steams, and froths her decaffeinated nondairy creations with the espresso machine her parents gave her for graduation. She makes a very tasty vanilla rooibos soy latte. Her hemp milk green tea cappuccino, on the other hand, tastes like the inside of a lawn mower.

“Chamomile with soy and stevia,” she says, handing me the mug. “I thought you could use something calming.”

“Thanks.” I try to smile.

“Are you okay?” she asks gently. “That dream seemed pretty gnarly. Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “I think I’m gonna go for a run,” I say, setting the mug down.

“But I thought . . . I skipped econ so we could run lines. Your audition’s today, right?”

Crap. I’m supposed to be at the drama school at two o’clock. I nod distractedly, too preoccupied with the awfulness of the accident to feel relieved that I still have the audition—part of me was sure it’d be erased with the next reality shift, which is why I’ve put off quitting the YDN. But it appears my decision to try out for the Freshman Show belongs on the growing list of recent events that haven’t yet been overwritten. Caitlin says the list makes sense; that because I kept my memories, there are certain things I’ve done since the collision that my parallel can’t undo as easily. “There’s a causal disconnect,” Caitlin said when I asked her to explain it. “Your parallel can’t undo the fact that you kept your memories, so she can’t undo the things that have happened because you did.” I’m still not clear on the nuances of this rule, but I’m not arguing.

“Actually, I think I’m good,” I tell Marissa. “I’ve been over it so many times, I think going through it again will jinx me.”

“Whatever you need,” she says. But a hint of annoyance flashes across her never-annoyed face.

I take another step toward the door, then stop. Of all the roommates I could’ve ended up with, I got the girl who is kind and funny and generous and willing to skip class to run lines with me. Meanwhile, she got stuck with the forgetful, spacey girl who makes lame excuses for her increasingly odd behavior.

“I’m really sorry to bail like this,” I say, turning back around. “I think I’m just rattled from that dream.”

The annoyance disappears. “I get it, Ab. Do what you need to do. Just remember—it was only a dream.” She smiles reassuringly, her brown eyes wide and warm.

Oh, Marissa. How I wish you were right.

Fighting back tears, I jog up Hillhouse Avenue toward Sterling Lab, where Caitlin’s chem class meets. Lined with nineteenth-century mansions and shaded by towering oak, Hillhouse is one of the most beautiful streets on campus. This morning I barely notice it, though. All I see is Ilana.

Please let her be okay.

When I get to Sachem Street, I turn down Prospect and do the loop again, faster this time. By the time I get back to Sachem, I’m heaving and sweating and still thinking about the accident. So I do it a third time, and then a fourth. After the fifth, my lungs are burning and my heart feels like it might burst through my rib cage and my brain is still locked on Ilana.

Sweaty and spent, I park it on a bench to wait. I try to focus on my breath, counting each inhalation, but the exercise is pointless. My mind is on an unrelenting loop, replaying those awful moments over and over again in garish detail.

My phone rings, jarring me back to the moment. I haven’t moved in over an hour.

“Hey!” Caitlin’s voice is bright. Cheery. It fills me with hope. “Isn’t your audition—”

“Ilana.”

The line goes quiet.

“What—what happened to her?” The words are like sand in my throat, but I force them out. I have to know. “After the accident. Is she . . .”

Caitlin doesn’t say anything.

“She’s dead,” I whisper. “Oh my God, she killed her.”

“Wait, what? Who killed her?”

“My parallel,” I choke out. “It was her fault. And now Ilana is dead.”

“Abby, Ilana’s not dead. She was in a coma for a couple of weeks, but she didn’t die.”

My body floods with relief. Then my brain registers what Caitlin just said.

“But she was in a coma? Did it . . . does she—”

“There was some damage to her brain,” Caitlin says carefully. “We should talk about this in person. Where are you?”

“Corner of Hillhouse and Sachem,” I manage, tears streaming down my cheeks. Damage to her brain.

“I’ll be right there,” Caitlin says.

I’m still holding the phone to my ear when Caitlin arrives, out of breath from running.

“Damage to her brain,” I repeat.

“It could’ve been much worse,” she says, sitting down next to me. “Speech or movement problems, long-term memory loss, personality changes. But she doesn’t have any of that.”

“Then what does she have?”

“Her short-term memory is impaired,” Caitlin says. “She can remember stuff that happened before the accident, but she has trouble remembering things that have happened after it.”

I’m quiet as I process this.

“It’s not debilitating,” Caitlin continues, trying to sound upbeat. “I mean, it made taking tests pretty impossible, so finishing school was a challenge. And she had to give up acting.” I blink back fresh tears, unable to imagine Ilana doing anything else. As unpleasant as she was in real life, she was captivating onstage. “But last I heard, she was doing really well,” Caitlin adds. “Living with an aunt in Florida. Tyler keeps up with her, I think.”

The “I think” gets my attention. Caitlin should know if Tyler still talks to Ilana.

“I don’t understand why you thought your parallel killed her,” Caitlin is saying. “Why would you—”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Who, Tyler?” Caitlin looks at me strangely. “I dunno, right before we left for school?” I can literally feel the color drain from my face, trickling down my neck.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“Abby, what?”

“You’re supposed to be together,” I say. “You’re supposed to—”

“Whoa. What? Like, a couple?” Caitlin blinks in surprise. “Since when?”

“August.” I stare at the backs of my hands. “Max Levine’s party. Ty got up on a chair and told everyone he’d been in love with you since ninth grade.”

“Seriously? He used the word ‘love’?” Caitlin is staring at me, slack-jawed.

“So did you,” I say softly, sorrow like a dead weight inside me. “Not then. But two weeks ago, when he came to visit.”

“He came to visit me here? We were that serious?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Wow.”

I just nod, too sad to tell her what she said when he left. That she could see herself with him for the rest of her life. Or what he told me the night he arrived. That he was a better version of himself when she was around.

“Wow,” Caitlin says again.

“She’s the reason you’re not together,” I say glumly. “It’s my parallel’s fault. She thought she was helping, but she messed everything up.”

“How?” Caitlin doesn’t sound upset. Just curious.

“She told Tyler you liked him. The night of my mom’s—her mom’s—gala at the High. It’s the reason he broke up with Ilana.” The words come tumbling out. “If he hadn’t, Ilana wouldn’t have left that party when she did, angry and upset, and the accident—” My voice breaks.

“Abby, Ilana was hit head-on by a drunk guy going seventy in a thirty-five. The accident was nobody’s fault but his.” I look away, knowing it’s not that simple. “Listen to me,” Caitlin says, grabbing my hand. “Your parallel didn’t cause that accident.”

“But why did she have to lie to him?” Anger swells inside me. “Screw her motives. You told her you didn’t like Tyler. But she just had to trust that stupid hunch—”

Caitlin’s eyes light up. “What hunch?”

“She was convinced that you and Tyler were supposed to be together,” I tell her. “Convinced. It sounds crazy, but it’s almost as if—”

“She knew.” Caitlin and I just look at each other.

“But that’s impossible, right?” Do I even believe in impossible anymore?

Caitlin stands up and starts pacing, her stiletto boots click-clacking on the sidewalk. “Why couldn’t it go both ways? Why couldn’t she be getting your memories the same way you’re getting hers? Not all of them, obviously—but fragments.” The excitement in her voice is mounting. She paces faster. “It makes sense that she wouldn’t recognize that information as memory—how could she, since it relates to something that hasn’t happened in her world yet? So her brain is storing it as something else. Premonition. Intuition.”

“But that premonition was wrong,” I point out. “You and Tyler don’t end up together. Not in her world.”

“The premonition wasn’t wrong,” Caitlin replies. “You said it yourself: Ty and I would’ve ended up together if your parallel hadn’t tried to orchestrate it.”

I picture the photograph taped to the back of Caitlin’s phone, taken two days before she left for school. She and Tyler are on a roller coaster at Six Flags, grinning like idiots. Idiots in love. That picture is gone now, the moment along with it. Who knew fate was so fragile?

“Maybe it’s not too late,” I offer. “Maybe you and Tyler could give it a try now. He could come visit and you could—”

Caitlin just laughs. “Yeah, I think that ship sailed about a year ago.”

“But you guys are meant to be,” I say. The words sound silly, even to me. I expect Caitlin to laugh again, but she just looks at me thoughtfully.

“I said I loved him?” she asks. I nod. She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I’ve thought about it before,” she admits, her cheeks flushing just a bit. “What it would be like.” Her face reddens, and she looks away.

“Call him!” I say, holding out my phone.

She waves the phone away. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “What’s done is done. Besides, it’s not like it would’ve lasted anyway.” She pulls out her own phone to check the time. “I should probably go,” she says. “I don’t want to miss my train.”

“Train to where?”

“New London,” she replies. “I’m meeting with Dr. Mann to convince him he needs a research assistant.” She points at the clock on her phone. “Isn’t your audition at two? It’s one fifty-four.”

“Ah!” I leap up from the bench, nearly twisting my ankle on the uneven sidewalk.

“Break a leg!” Caitlin shouts as I sprint down Science Hill.

“Name, please?” A short guy holding a clipboard is checking people in at the door.

“Abby Barnes,” I tell him, heaving from my run.

He marks my name off. “Just take a seat inside. They’ll call your name when they’re ready for you.”

A quick scan of the theater gallery leaves my palms sweaty and my throat uncomfortably dry. There must be a hundred people here, and at least two-thirds of them are girls, all of whom look like actors. Long scarves, vintage hats, funky boots. I, meanwhile, am wearing running shorts and a sweatshirt with bleach stains on the sleeve. So much for my perfect audition outfit. Since Metamorphoses is a series of eleven vignettes from Greek mythology, my plan was to channel Aphrodite in understated Greek-chic. But the gauzy white dress I scored at Goodwill yesterday is still hanging on the back of my bedroom door, and I am in butt-huggers. A girl in gladiator sandals and a peasant blouse smirks as I pass. Butterflies swarm my stomach.

Breathe, Abby. Just breathe.

Actors get nervous before their auditions. It’s perfectly natural and not something to freak out about. Jitters are just part of the process. Bret told me once that he still pukes before every one of his (then again, he hasn’t actually had an audition since his first big movie). The fact that I’m anxious doesn’t mean I’m going to choke.

I’m totally going to choke.

It’s happened before. Sixth-grade play. My part was tiny: I had two lines. And on the night of the performance, I forgot them both. If Ms. Ziffren hadn’t made the audition for Arcadia a mandatory part of our grade last fall, I never would’ve set foot on a stage again. Everyone was shocked when she gave me the lead. We all expected Ilana—

My stomach squeezes. Oh, Ilana.

“I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out whether his balls are that color,” the voice beside me says. Its owner is sitting cross-legged in the seat next to mine, the latest issue of US Weekly balancing on her knee. Her jet-black hair is cropped boy short, and she’s wearing black fishnets and combat boots under a flowery dress that looks like it belongs on someone’s grandma.

I glance down at the magazine in her lap and see Bret smiling up at me. Despite the ubiquity of publications with his face on the cover, I haven’t seen a picture of him in over a month. I made the mistake of Googling him the day after my birthday and spent the next four hours gorging on celebrity gossip and Nutella. Even though I was ambivalent about the experience while I was living it, it was hard to see pictures of my cast mates—especially Kirby, who was an unknown just like me before she was cast in EA and now is everywhere—and not feel a pang of regret for my old life.

“I mean, there’s no way that tan is real, which means someone had to spray it on him,” the girl next to me is saying. She holds up the magazine to give me a better view. “Can you imagine that conversation? ‘Sir, please lift your junk so I can chemically enhance the shade of your nutskin.’” She laughs. “I’m Fiona, by the way,” she adds, sticking out her hand. There’s a tattoo of a leaf on the inside of her wrist.

“Abby,” I say.

“So what other plays are you going out for?” Fiona asks, closing the magazine and slipping it into her bag. Just like that, from testicles to theater.

“I only know about this one,” I admit, feeling like a fraud.

“You need this, then,” she says, pulling a printed blue flyer out of the bag. “It’s a list of all the shows this semester. And if you’re serious about the acting thing, you should totally join the Dramat,” she tells me.

“That’s a drama club, right?” I should just tape a sign on my forehead that says I AM AN IMPOSTER.

“Abby Barnes?” a male voice calls.

“That’s me,” I say, and stand. Don’t be nervous, don’t be nervous, don’t be nervous.

“Kill it!” Fiona whispers, making bullhorns with her fists.

Legs shaking, I climb the steps to the stage, joining a guy with man-boobs and wire-framed glasses. He wears an overconfident smile aimed squarely at the third row, where the director (an Indian guy wearing a bright pink Team Jolie T-shirt) and the producer (a hefty blonde in lavender barrettes) sit clutching coffee cups and iPhones.

“Ready when you are!” my stage mate bellows.

The director smiles serenely. “We are not deaf, and the characters we’re casting aren’t deaf,” he says. “Inside voices are fine.”

“Great!” Still shouting.

The director and producer exchange glances. Fiona gives me double thumbs-up.

“Anytime you’re ready,” the producer calls. “And again, no need to shout.”

Unfortunately, the shouting is either his normal speaking voice or a stage affectation he won’t abandon. Either way, he maintains it for the duration of the audition.

I do my best not to let him throw me off. He’s reading the part of Erysichthon, which actually is quite fitting, given his size. Cursed by the gods with an insatiable hunger after cutting down a sacred tree, Erysichthon eventually eats himself.

“We’ll post the cast list on the theater door at seven,” Lavender Barrettes tells us with a bland smile, halfway through our first scene. “Thanks for auditioning.”

“Thank you!” Shouty shouts.

There is no way I’m not a casualty of this disaster.

Fiona and I walk back to Old Campus together. “You were amazing,” I tell her, meaning it. She went right after me and knocked it out of the park as Demeter, goddess of the harvest. We stayed till five to watch the rest of the auditions, and none of the other girls were anywhere near as good.

“So were you!” Fiona enthuses.

“Ha. Hardly.”

“I’m serious,” she says. “You totally kept your cool, even as flecks of spit ricocheted off your face.”

“Fiona!” a male voice calls. A hulk of a guy in a shirt that could double as a bedsheet is waving from across the courtyard. His forearm is the size of my thigh.

“Be right there!” Fiona shouts. “My boyfriend,” she explains. “And yes, the size thing is an issue in bed. I once tried to straddle him and pulled my hamstring. Hey, you wanna eat with us? We’re going to the Doodle for burgers.”

The idea of making small talk with Fiona and her boyfriend while I mentally obsess over my audition is even less appealing than the thought of eating a greasy hamburger right now, both of which are infinitely more appealing than the mental image of her straddling him, now seared into my brain.

“I’d love to,” I lie, “but I promised my roommate I’d have dinner with her.”

“Right on,” Fiona says. “Another time then. Here.” She digs through her bag and pulls out an index card with the lines from her audition scene written on the back. “My email,” she says, scribbling it down on the blank side. “In case I don’t see you later.”

“We’ll hang out!” I say enthusiastically, imagining us bonding over arty movies and obscure literary references.

When I get back to my room, there’s a note from Marissa on the coffee table. @ Commons w/ girls across the hall. Meet us!

I drop my bag on the floor and plop down on the couch, too revved to eat. What I should do is catch up on my philosophy reading. I have a midterm on Thursday, and I haven’t even cracked open my course pack. It’s remarkably easy to procrastinate when you’re not sure you’ll be around to take the test you’re supposed to be preparing for.

I flip through the first section of the packet, a collection of essays on free will, predestination, and foreknowledge, and scan over the sample questions at the end. What did John Calvin mean when he said that God “freely and unchangeably ordains whatsoever comes to pass”? Ugh. Philosophy of Theology seemed like a good choice when I was picking classes, but now the subject matter hits a little too close to home. Did God know Ilana would get into that accident? Was it somehow predestined?

Did all this—the collision, the entanglement, the fact that I kept my memories—happen for some specific purpose, or is it all just a crazy cosmic fluke?

I want to believe there’s a reason behind it all, but it’s hard to come up with one. If God had something he needed help with, I’m guessing he wouldn’t pin his hopes on the girl who can barely remember to pray (except, of course, when she’s studying for a super-hard theology midterm. Please, God, don’t let me fail.).

Feeling my eyes glaze over, I abandon my theology reading for DVRed episodes of The Hills. An episode and a half later, Marissa comes through the door, carrying a plastic cup full of dining hall frozen yogurt, layered with Cap’n Crunch and Oreos. “I figured you might need a snack,” she says, handing it to me.

“Thanks,” I say, suddenly starving.

“How’d the audition go?” she asks as I shovel a heaping spoon of yogurt into my mouth. She kicks off her shoes and plops down on the couch next to me.

“Eh,” I say between bites. “I couldn’t tell. Hey, this is really tasty. Want some?”

She shakes her head. “No, thanks.”

“HFCS?”

“The trifecta,” she replies, making a face. “High fructose corn syrup, trans fats, and aspartame.”

“Mmmm. Yum.” I take another massive bite.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I reply, crunching on an Oreo.

“Does Caitlin like Ben?”

I stop mid-bite. My mind jumps to the night of my birthday dinner. In the version I remember, Caitlin was with Tyler, but she and Ben were acting awfully cozy at the table. Marissa didn’t act like she noticed it, though. But things have changed now. Because of what happened in the parallel world yesterday, Caitlin was single on my birthday. Was the flirty banter between Ben and her even more intense. Marissa is still waiting for me to answer her question. When I don’t right away, her face falls. “She does, doesn’t she? She likes him and you’re afraid to tell me. I knew it.”

“What? No! Caitlin does not like Ben,” I assure her. After unwittingly ruining Craig’s marriage that summer, Caitlin has adopted a zero-tolerance policy for guys who are taken. It’s the reason she felt the need to wait four days after Tyler broke up with Ilana to go out with him. Relationship boundaries mean something different to her than they did before. Falling for someone who failed to mention his wife (at least, not until that wife called Caitlin, demanding to know why her husband had Caitlin’s number in his phone) shattered something inside her, and there was nothing I could do to put it back together again. She wouldn’t even let me try. After sobbing through the gory details the day after it happened, sick with sadness and regret, Caitlin made me promise never to bring it up again, and I haven’t.

Marissa looks relieved. “I didn’t think so, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” I say firmly. “Caitlin would never like a friend’s boyfriend. Ever.”

Marissa smiles. “Speaking of friend’s boyfriends . . . how’s Michael?”

“What did Ben tell you?” I demand.

“Nothing!” she insists. I raise my eyebrows, not buying it. “Okay, fine. He said that Michael told him you guys were an official thing now. I was surprised you hadn’t mentioned it to me, that’s all.”

“That’s because it’s news to me!” Things with Michael are going well, but I didn’t think we’d reached label-level yet. “An ‘official thing’? What does that even mean?”

“I’m pretty sure it means he’s your boyfriend,” Marissa replies.

“But we’ve only been on two real dates,” I point out, then flinch. Boat ride. “I mean three.”

“So?”

My phone rings. “See?” Marissa points at my phone, the screen lit up with Michael’s name. “He’s calling to see how the audition went. Total boyfriend move. Accept it, Ab. You’re a couple.” My heart flutters a little at the thought of it. What it would be like to let myself get attached, to stop worrying that a new reality will sweep him away. Maybe I’m overthinking it. In every relationship there’s a risk that it’ll end before you want it to. That’s the nature of love.

Love. My heart flutters again.

“So? How’d it go?” Michael asks when I pick up.

“Eh.”

“You realize that’s not an actual response, right?”

“I’m not sure I have an actual response,” I tell him. “The guy I read with shouted and spit his way through the scene. I’m not optimistic.”

“Well, I’m sure you nailed it. What time are they posting the cast list?” he asks.

“Not till seven,” I say.

“It’s seven-oh-five.”

“Ah!” I fly off the couch. “I’ll call you back!” Without waiting for a response, I toss my phone on the table and dash out the door.

“Good luck!” Marissa calls.

Although I didn’t really expect to see my name on the cast list, I’m still bummed when it’s not there. Not even an understudy role. The chatter of the crowd gathered around the theater intensifies and blurs, the voices melding into one indecipherable chorus. The words on the cast list are hazy, as if I’m seeing them through warped glass. My eyes fall to the sidewalk and a drop of water appears there, barely visible in the weak yellow glow of the bulb above the stage door. I study the wet spot, resisting the bodies that push against me, vaguely wondering where it came from. Someone murmurs, “She’s crying,” and it’s not until I touch my cheek that I know.

Get it together, Abby. It’s just a stupid play.

But it isn’t. Not to me. This was supposed to be my big identity-defining moment. My breakaway move. Getting cast in this particular play—one whose name means “transformation”—was supposed to be the beginning of my metamorphosis, from pathetic take-whatever-I’m-dealt Abby to powerful define-my-own-future Abby.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

I had the exact same thought three months ago, the night I found out the studio had extended production a third time, eliminating any remaining chance of my starting college on time. I was sitting on a stoop on the backlot, watching two men change the facade of the building across the street from a bank to a bakery. I’d walked off set and just ended up there, on a street I’d seen in a hundred movies but never in real life. Of course, in the movies, you never see that the road just ends. It doesn’t go anywhere or connect to anything. I remember thinking that as I watched the men across the street mount a giant cupcake over the building’s fake door. People think this road goes somewhere. They don’t realize it’s a dead end. I hadn’t realized I was crying until my phone rang. When I pressed it to my ear, the keys were damp.

The moment I heard my dad’s voice, I started bawling. “This isn’t the path,” I kept saying, my words garbled with tears and snot. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.” I remember feeling as though everything I had worked for had been snatched away. Dad saw things differently.

“Well-worn paths are boring,” he said. “Embrace the detour.”

But how can you tell a detour from a dead end?

The crowd around the theater is beginning to thin. I blot my tearstained cheeks, grateful for the dark, and look around for Fiona, wanting to congratulate her on her part (cast as “Eurydice and Others,” she essentially got the lead). But she must’ve come and gone.

As I’m making my way through the handful of people still gathered on the sidewalk, trying not to appear dejected, a male voice calls out to me.

“Abby!” The show’s director is sitting on the theater’s main steps, away from the hullabaloo, smoking a cigarette. He waves me over.

“Hey,” he says as I approach. “Great audition today.”

Unsure if he’s sincere, I respond with a vague “Thanks.”

“I had ulterior motives for not casting you,” he says then, his words punctuated by little puffs of smoke. “I want you to audition for the Spring Mainstage, and rehearsals overlap by a couple weeks.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to process this. I don’t really know what the “Spring Mainstage” is, but the words “main” and “stage” lead me to believe it’s a big show. “Are you directing it?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be busy with this one. But you’d be perfect for the part of Thomasina.”

“As in Coverly?”

He smiles. “You know the play.”

I’m too rattled by the coincidence to form a coherent response.

“So I was right about your being perfect for it,” he says. “Auditions are the week before Thanksgiving. I’ll tell the director to look out for you.” He drops his cigarette and stamps it out. “Have a good one,” he says, then slips around the corner of the building, disappearing into the shadows.

“Thanks,” I say, even though he’s not around to hear it. Then I raise my eyes to the sky and say it again.

Arcadia. Of all the plays he could’ve suggested, he picked the one that changed my life. A story about the connection between past and present, order and chaos, fate and free will.

You’d be perfect for the part of Thomasina.

A young girl who thought that nothing was random, who believed that everything—including the future—could be reduced to an equation.

It doesn’t sound so crazy anymore.