Look Both Ways by Alison Cherry
For Marianna, Evie, and Rachel,
my fellow warriors for art
It’s weird how you can feel nostalgic for something that hasn’t actually happened yet.
My last Family Night of the summer is about to start. Our guests will arrive any second, and Dad is in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on my favorite dinner. The apartment smells like curry and chocolate and warmth, and I should be in a penny-bright mood, buoyed by the big band music on the stereo and the prospect of seeing all my favorite people. But it’s hard to focus on the sweetness of now when I’m already anticipating the bitter tang of later, when I’ll have to hug my family goodbye and try to squeeze enough love out of them to last nine weeks. Part of me wishes I could hit pause, wrap this moment around me like a quilt, and live inside it forever.
But then I’d never make it to the Allerdale Playhouse, and if I don’t go, how can I come back better?
When our buzzer rings for the first time, I dash out of my bedroom and press the intercom button that unlocks the lobby door. I’m sure it’ll be Uncle Harrison; he always arrives first, bearing a bag of weird produce from the fruit stand near his office. But when I open the door, ready to unburden myself of all my pre-nostalgic feelings, I’m surprised to see an unfamiliar girl. It’s not unusual for strangers to show up at Family Night—when you’re raised by theater people, “family” is a stretchy, nebulous word that can encompass practically anyone. But since tonight is doubling as my goodbye party, I’m not expecting someone new.
The girl’s a little older than me and almost model-beautiful, but her teeth are a tiny bit too big for her mouth, which keeps her from looking generic. Several layers of lace-edged tank tops peek out from under her filmy blue romper, and there’s an ostentatious feather clip in her hair. She’s obviously surprised to see me, too, but she rallies and holds out her hand, palm down like she thinks I might kiss it.
“Hi, I’m Skye,” she says. “Is Lana here?”
She’s projecting from her diaphragm in this way that’s totally unnecessary for a face-to-face conversation, so she must be one of my mom’s voice students. Mom takes on a new college senior almost every year, but it kind of seems like the same person over and over, bright and shellacked and trying too hard.
I try to force my face into a friendly, welcoming mask as I shake her hand. “I’m Brooklyn,” I say. “Come on in. My mom should be out in a second.”
“Lana’s your mom?” Skye’s voice goes breathy, and her eyes widen to show her entire pale gray-green irises. She’s probably the kind of person who refers to that color as “seafoam.” “Oh my God, what is that like? Is it so amazing?”
My mom’s students ask me this constantly, like I’ve had a bunch of mothers to compare and contrast. “She does a pretty good job,” I tell Skye. “I’m housebroken and everything.”
Before she can answer, my mother comes sweeping down the hall, and I step aside so she can gather her latest protégé into her arms. “Lovely Skye,” she says in her warm-honey voice. “I’m so delighted you could make it.”
“I’m delighted to be here,” Skye says from inside the voluminous folds of my mom’s dress. The word sounds wrong in her mouth, but I can see her resolving to use it more often. She pulls back and thrusts a sweating bottle of wine into my mom’s hands. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”
“It’s a pleasure to have you. I see you’ve met my daughter?”
“Yes. It’s such an honor to meet your family.”
My mom has always told me to visualize what I want out of life so the universe will know what to give me. I take a moment to picture Skye being swept up in a Wizard of Oz–style tornado and being deposited gently in Los Angeles.
“Come in and say hello to my husband,” my mom says, and we follow her into the living room. There’s a lot to take in—the teetering piles of books stacked on the floor; the mismatched Oriental rugs; the enormous black-and-white photograph of my naked, pregnant mother. My dad’s Drama Desk Award and my mom’s Tony share mantel space with a framed cross-stitch of David Bowie’s face. Skye turns in a slow circle, her eyes huge and her mouth half-open, and then she drops her purse onto the armchair closest to the piano. It’s prime real estate; she obviously knows what happens after dinner.
The buzzer rings again, and it really is Uncle Harrison this time, wearing his standard madras shorts and button-down shirt. He hands me a bag of dragon fruits I won’t have time to eat before I leave and pulls me into his arms, squeezing so hard that my feet leave the ground. I can barely breathe, but it feels safe and familiar.
“How’s my summer-stock girl?” he asks.