“That thing your mom said at dinner. The thing about finding you a nice boy or girl?”
I try to keep my voice light, like this conversation isn’t a big deal at all. “Yeah, she says stuff like that a lot. She’s really into me ‘experimenting.’ Sorry if it was weird.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was cool. I can’t imagine my mom ever saying anything like that.”
“But your parents are okay with that stuff, right? They wouldn’t be upset if you liked girls?”
“No, they know I do,” Zoe says. “I dated this girl Carina for a while junior year, and we talked about it then. They weren’t thrilled at first, but they got used to it. Of course, then she decided she was straight and totally broke my heart.”
Holy shit, my mom was right—Zoe really is bisexual. If I wanted something to happen between us, it’s possible she might be kind of, sort of available to me. It’s weird how everything suddenly looks a little softer and brighter when a “no” turns into a “maybe.”
“Brooklyn?” she says, and I realize it’s been way too long since I’ve said anything. “You’re not freaked out, are you?”
“God, no, of course not. You just never said you liked girls.”
“I didn’t think it was important. Is it important?” Her voice is small.
“No, it’s totally not. Like, half the people I know at home are bi.”
“Right, okay.” She’s quiet for a minute, and then she says, “But…you don’t like girls, right? Even though your mom wants you to experiment?”
My heart is beating so hard now that I’m sure she can hear it across the room. People can probably hear it all the way down the hall. “I mean, I don’t not like them,” I say. “I’ve never really been attracted to a girl before, like, in the past, but I’m not saying it couldn’t happen. If there were someone I, um, felt stuff for, I wouldn’t discount it. Like, on principle, or anything. You know?”
It’s probably the most inarticulate string of words I’ve ever put together. I half expect Zoe to burst out laughing and say, I’m sorry, what? But instead she says, “Yeah. I think I know what you mean.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
I can hear the smile in her voice, and even though we can’t see each other in the dark, I smile back.
That Thursday is the closing night of Midsummer and my last day on the lighting crew, and on Friday morning, I switch to the scenic department. I don’t know any more about building sets than I do about lighting, but this time Russell is there with me, so everything is less scary. He introduces me to the other scenic interns, and it’s a relief to meet people who have no idea who Lana Blake Shepard is. The head of the scene shop gives me a bunch of huge Styrofoam balls and sets me to work covering them with blue and pink sequins for the Dreamgirls set. It’s unbelievably tedious, but I don’t actually mind—it’s not dangerous, it doesn’t involve any heavy lifting, and I can listen to music on my phone and think about Zoe all day. Whenever Olivier comes into the shop to check on our progress, I get to watch Russell light up and frolic in circles like a puppy. Since I’m too embarrassed to go to the dining hall and face the other apprentices, Russell and I walk into town every night and get sandwiches at Sammy’s, where everything on the menu is named after a celebrity. The Tina Fey is particularly tasty.
The following Monday is the midpoint of the festival, and that means it’s time for Pandemonium, the legendary midseason party. We’ve all been working seven days a week for a month now, and this is the company’s chance to go crazy and forget about our responsibilities for one glorious night. All through the season—and for my whole life, really—I’ve heard stories about people getting injured, destroying property, and hooking up with ill-advised partners during Pandemonium. Douchebands claims to have hooked up with fourteen different girls in one evening last year, and I’m pretty sure I believe it. The party is all anyone talks about, but nobody’s more excited than me. On a night so centered around debauchery, it seems possible that something real could finally happen between Zoe and me.
Our directors and shop heads let us out early so we have time to get ready for the party. When I get back to our room, Zoe’s blowing her hair dry in front of the mirror. She has on a tight white dress with a low back, which showcases the delicate branches and flowers inked onto her skin. I’ve never actually seen her whole tattoo, and I suddenly have an intense desire to know how far down it goes.
Zoe clicks the blow-dryer off and spins around. The front of the dress is cut much higher, but somehow that makes it even sexier. “Hey!” she says. “I was wondering when they were going to let you out. Jessa and Livvy are coming to get us in half an hour.”
I have no desire to go to the party with Jessa and Livvy, but I can’t very well say that; Zoe still doesn’t know I overheard their conversation in the bathroom. “You look really great,” I tell her instead.