“My verb was ‘assess,’?” Zoe says. For a split second she glances at me, but I can’t tell if it’s on purpose.
My mom picks Todd next, and he sings the song like he’s landed in a foreign country and has absolutely no idea what’s going on; his verb is “bumble.” Jessa sings it supersarcastically and explains that her verb is “scorn” and she’s singing to a guy who cheated on her. Pandora unsurprisingly picks “seduce” and sings the song like she’s trying to convince someone to cheat. Everyone sounds really, really good, and the longer I sit there waiting for my turn, the less confident I feel. Each time my mom calls up a new person, I find myself thinking, Don’t choose me, don’t choose me. I start to wonder if she’s saving me for last. I hope she’s not; I’m not sure how long I can hold this much tension in my body before something snaps.
I’m still waiting for my turn to perform when the choppy-haired non-eq from Never Have I Ever opens the door. “Oh, sorry,” she says. “We’ll wait in the hall.”
My mom looks at her watch. “Wow. How is it three o’clock already?” she says, and I take a normal breath for the first time in an hour. “Time flies when you’re surrounded by talent, I guess. Thank you all for giving me the privilege of listening to your unique points of view. It was such a pleasure to work with you.”
I know I should be upset right now, but all I feel is relief that I don’t have to sing in front of these insanely talented people. If I’m honest with myself, the second impression I made probably wouldn’t have been any better than my first. Everyone else here pulled off way better performances than I could’ve managed, even though I’m the only one who has done the exercise before. No matter how hard I try or how many master classes I take, I’m never going to be as good as they are. That should inspire me to work even harder, the way listening to Skye did on my last Family Night at home. But more and more, the thought of struggling toward something I’ll likely never achieve is starting to feel exhausting. The entire point of coming here was to grow as a performer, but maybe nothing—not even Allerdale—is going to make me want this like I should.
If I never make it as an actor, will I be exiled from Family Night? I think about my mom saying, Oh, my daughter? She’s so mainstream. She’s not like us, and it stings like crazy. But it hurts just as much to lie and make excuses for myself and pretend to love something because I’m genetically predisposed to love it.
I’m so deep in thought that I don’t even realize my mom’s next to me until her hand lands on my arm. “That went so well, didn’t it?” she says. “What remarkable people. You’re so lucky to be in this group of apprentices, Brookie.” She doesn’t say, You could learn so much from them, but I hear it anyway.
“Yeah, definitely,” I say, and it comes out sounding flat.
“Hey.” She tilts my face toward her. “What’s the matter?”
I can’t tell her what I’m thinking, so I say, “Nothing. I just hoped I’d get a chance to perform, that’s all.” If I were a real Shepard, that’s what would be bothering me.
My mom rubs my back. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t expect to run out of time. But you’ve done this exercise before, and this is the only chance I’ll ever get to work with your classmates. You can perform for me later, if you want.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Well, the offer stands if you change your mind. I hope you’re not too upset.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Have a good time with the non-eqs.”
On the way out the door, I toss my handout labeled “VALIDATE” into the trash.
I leave the classroom before my friends are done gathering their things, slip into the bathroom, and crouch down in the corner of the handicapped stall where nobody can see me. I’m going to have to face everyone sooner or later, but right now I’m feeling too fragile. I send the universe an image of my friends telling me it doesn’t matter who my mom is or that I lied, that they like me for me. But I know deep down that’s probably not going to happen. Not everyone is as understanding as Zoe.
As if I’ve summoned her, the bathroom door opens, and I hear Zoe’s voice. “Brooklyn? You in here?”
I’m about to answer, but then I hear Jessa. “Why do you care? I don’t get why you even hang out with her.”
“She’s funny and smart and supersweet,” Zoe says. “And right now she’s really upset, so be nice to her, okay?”
“She’s upset? We’re the ones who should be upset. Did you know Lana Blake Shepard was her mom?”
“I found out last night,” Zoe says. “Why does it really matter, though?”
“Are you serious right now? It matters because she obviously bribed her way into this festival! I have tons of supertalented friends who didn’t get in here, and that spoiled brat is taking up space because Marcus is friends with her mommy.”