The crew call sheets are surrounded by people rolling their eyes and groaning, but I push my way through like I’m trying to get on the L train at rush hour. This time it’s not hard to find my name—it’s all over the board. I’m doing tech for all three rotations, never in the same department as Zoe. Tomorrow I’m supposed to report for lighting crew at Legrand at eight-thirty in the morning. I’m also on run crew for Midsummer, which means I’ll have to show up at every single performance and creep around in the dark like a cockroach while my new friends frolic around the stage in their fairy wings.
I have a sudden urge to sit down on the ground with my arms over my head and let the crowd swirl around me like a river around a rock. I’m so glad I didn’t tell anyone who my mom is, or I’d be even more embarrassed right now. What am I going to tell my family? And how is Allerdale supposed to teach me to love performing if I’m barely allowed to perform?
Zoe puts a hand on my back, and as I look at her, I think, Well, it was nice while it lasted. This is clearly where things end between us. Tomorrow, she’ll start learning her solos, and I’ll start learning…how to use a wrench or something, I guess. Honestly, I have no idea what the lighting crew even does.
“Hey,” Zoe says, and I’m sure she’s going to say, “I’m sorry for how things turned out,” or even “It was nice meeting you.” But instead she says, “I’m going to call my boyfriend for a second, but then do you want to walk into town and get ice cream?”
I stare at her. There are joyful groups of actors all over the lawn, singing snippets of songs from their new shows and passing flasks around. Those are her people, not me. “Don’t you want to celebrate?” I ask.
Zoe looks puzzled. “I am celebrating,” she says. “Do you want to come with me?”
I’m in no mood to act cheerful, but that’s not really the point. Zoe is telling me it doesn’t matter to her that I wasn’t cast; she’s offering me her friendship anyway. If I say I don’t want any ice cream and go back to our room to sulk, there’s no guarantee she’ll reach out again.
“Of course I want to come,” I say.
“Perfect,” Zoe says. And before I know it, her arm is linked through mine, and we’re walking away from the horrible, disappointing cast lists and toward the glorious sunset.
I’m headed over to Legrand Auditorium the next morning, clutching the biggest available cup of watery dining hall coffee, when my phone rings. My mom’s picture pops up on the screen, one I took of her wearing three pairs of sunglasses at a flea market, and I’m surprised that she’s up this early. I really don’t want to talk to her right now, but I ignored her texts last night, and I know she’ll keep calling until I answer.
I hit talk. “Hey, Mom.”
“I got you!” She sounds genuinely delighted. “How are you, Brookie? Do you love it there? How did casting go last night? Tell me everything.”
“This place is pretty incredible,” I say. “I’ve only got a minute to talk, though. I’m headed to the theater.”
“Your very first rehearsal!” she squeals. “Which show is it for? I’m so excited for you.”
“This is just a crew call. My rehearsals aren’t starting for a while, so I’m doing lighting and run crew first rotation.”
“Well, everyone has to pay her dues,” my mom says. “Tell me what you’re in, sweetheart! I’m dying from the suspense!”
I steel myself for the sympathy in her voice when I tell her I’m not cast in anything. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is, “I’m in the ensemble of Bye Bye Birdie.”
My mom gasps. “Oh, Brookie, that’s wonderful! Birdie means you’ll get coaching in singing and dancing and acting! The full Allerdale experience. Are you thrilled?”
I can’t believe I just flat-out lied to my mother. What am I going to do when she comes up to see the show and I’m not in it? I guess I could fake an injury or the flu at the last minute. Birdie is the last show of the season, so I have some time to figure it out.
“Yeah, totally,” I say. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”
“When is it running?”
“The last two weeks. I’m in a side project, too, but I don’t know anything about that yet.”
“Ugh, I remember those side projects.” I can hear my mom’s eye-roll even over the phone. “They’re so silly. I was in one that was a series of monologues about going to the post office. Don’t spend too much of your energy on that; you have bigger things to worry about.”
I definitely do, but not the way she means. “Hey, Mom?” I say.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
I’m about to ask her if she pulled any strings with Marcus to get me into the festival; maybe it would be easier to know so I can make peace with it and move on. But I can’t make myself ask the question. If I don’t hear her say it, I can keep believing there’s a chance it’s not true.