“Nervous. But excited? But really nervous.”
“You’re going to blow them away, Brookie. Allerdale doesn’t take just anyone.” He says the word “Allerdale” the way everyone else does, with the same sort of reverence usually reserved for Nobel laureates and Olympic gold medalists.
“I know,” I say. I still have no idea how I managed to land a spot in such a renowned apprentice company. It’s not like my audition was bad or anything—I sang part of “Much More” from The Fantasticks and did one of Ophelia’s monologues from Hamlet, and they both went fine. None of the directors seemed very excited, though; they watched with stony, expressionless faces, and nobody even wrote anything down. When I was done, I thought for sure the artistic director, Marcus Spooner, would say something about how he’s known my mom forever, but he didn’t even bother to thank me before he told me to send in the next person. Two months later, I still have to remind myself that they wouldn’t have let me in if they hadn’t liked what they saw.
“What a wonderful opportunity for you, kiddo,” Uncle Harrison says. “Family Night won’t be the same without you, though.”
“It’s only nine weeks. You won’t even know I’m gone.” I drop my voice. “Plus, there’s someone in the living room who’s dying to take my place.”
“Oh no. Another one?”
The buzzer goes off again, and Uncle Harrison opens the door for Marisol and Christa, opera singers who used to study with my mom. Marisol is hugely pregnant, and after we kiss them hello, Christa steers her toward the couch and props her up with pillows. “She’s been on her feet all day,” she announces. “Nobody let her move again, or she’ll be up the entire night bitching about her ankles.”
Marisol swats at her. “I will not. My ankles are willowy and delicate. They are, right? I can’t actually see them.”
“Like slender little reeds,” I say, and she reaches out and affectionately pats my butt.
Skye introduces herself, her eyes pinned to Marisol’s monstrous belly like it’s a candy-filled pi?ata. “When are you due?” she asks.
“Not soon enough. If you can believe it, I’ve got another six weeks of this hell.”
“She’s having twins,” Christa says.
“Twins!” I swear Skye’s eyes would glow in the dark like a raccoon’s if someone switched off the lights. “Boys or girls?”
“One of each,” Christa says. “She wants to name the boy Pierre. Pierre. Please tell her he’s gonna get his ass kicked on the playground.”
“But I could dress him in tiny sailor suits!” Marisol says. “It would be adorable.”
“Your giant farm baby is not going to fit into tiny sailor suits.”
Skye’s eyes bounce back and forth between the women like she’s watching a tennis match. “Is your husband a farmer?”
Marisol laughs. “No, honey. Pierre’s daddy is a canister of sperm.”
“Strapping Ohio farm-boy sperm,” Christa adds. She sweeps her dreadlocks up into a ponytail. “I need wine. What can I get you, baby?”
“Sparkling water, please,” Marisol says.
The buzzer rings again, and when I open the door, Jermaine, Desi, and their daughters spill into the apartment in an explosion of noise. Twyla, who’s eighteen months, reaches out to me from Jermaine’s arms, and four-year-old Sutton wraps both arms around my leg. “Did you know I have two daddies at the same time?” she demands.
I stroke her shiny hair and try not to laugh at her belligerent tone. “I did know that. What are you wearing? You look so fancy.”
Sutton spins around to show off her red-and-gold satin pajamas with a dragon embroidered on the back. “It’s for Chinese New Year. Did you know I’m Chinese?”
“Yes. I remember when Daddy and Papa went to China to get you.” I turn to Desi. “Isn’t Chinese New Year in, like, January?”
He shrugs. “Whatever. It’s good to see her embracing her cultural identity.”
Jermaine kisses both my cheeks. “How are you, poodle? Ready for your big summer?”
“So ready,” I tell him. Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll start being true.
“What’re the main stage shows this year?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Catch Me If You Can, Hedda Gabler, Dreamgirls, Bye Bye Birdie, and Macbeth.”
Desi nods. “Good season.”
“You don’t know what-all you’re in yet, right?” asks Jermaine.
“They post the cast lists after the first company meeting, so I’ll know by this time tomorrow.” I’ve spent entire nights lying awake, imagining myself effortlessly playing Rosie in Birdie or Hermia in Midsummer, but I know there’s no way that’s going to happen. “I’d really be happy with anything,” I say. “Being in rehearsals and watching those directors work is going to be amazing no matter what.”