“Thank you,” Skye says. She looks incredibly pleased with herself, and I try not to hate her, but I can’t help it. I take note of exactly how I feel right now so I can pull the memory out this summer whenever my motivation flags. That is what I have to become at Allerdale.
The night progresses like it usually does. Jermaine sings “Being Alive” from Company, Marisol does “I’d Be Surprisingly Good for You” from Evita, and my mom does “Last Midnight” from Into the Woods. It’s obvious how much they all love the music, how happy they are to be sharing it with us—even my staid, quiet father seems delighted as he belts out “Stars” from Les Miz. By the time an hour and a half has passed, everyone’s starting to get tipsy and loud and a little bit silly, and when Uncle Harrison asks me to sing with him, it finally seems safe to agree.
“Should we do the Phantom parody we were working on the other day?” he asks.
I’m about to say yes, relieved that I’m getting off this easily; when you perform something funny that nobody’s ever heard before, everyone concentrates on the lyrics instead of the person who’s singing them. But before I can answer, my mom rolls her eyes. “Harrison, I know you like horrible puns, but that doesn’t mean you have to fill my daughter’s head with trash.”
“There’s nothing trashy about parodies. They’re—” Uncle Harrison begins, but I cut him off.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll sing something else.” Even if the classics are more nerve-racking for me, it’s my last night with my mom, and I don’t want to antagonize her. I can suck it up one more time if it means she’ll be proud of me as she sends me off to Allerdale.
Uncle Harrison and I decide on “Big Spender” from Sweet Charity, and Mom rewards me with a smile as she pours herself more wine. I’ve always liked the song, but the entire time we’re performing, I’m just waiting for it to be over, praying I can get through it without making a fool of myself. I don’t slip up in any obvious ways, but my rendition is mediocre at best, and by the time we’re finished, my heart is beating wildly and my palms are damp. I catch a smug smile on Skye’s face as she applauds for us, and I feel my cheeks going hot. I don’t open my mouth again.
Uncle Harrison takes over as accompanist after a while, and my family keeps singing until Twyla’s asleep in my dad’s lap and Sutton’s conked out facedown on the rug. Around midnight, we all crowd around the piano for our final ensemble number; our neighbors are understanding up to a point, but when we go too late, they start whacking their ceiling with a broom handle. My uncle pats the bench, and I sit down beside him, hip to hip. As he plays the opening chords to another song from Rent, he shoots me a smile that says he’ll miss having me next to him.
I look around at my family, their eyes bright, their arms twined around each other, and I vow that by the end of the summer, I’ll be the passionate, seasoned theater professional I’m supposed to be. I will push through my nervousness and uncertainty until I’m the kind of girl who can’t wait to nestle into the crook of the piano like it’s her boyfriend’s arm and let her voice fly free. The brilliant Allerdale directors will break me down and build me back up into a totally new person, and by the time they send me back home, I’m going to belong here.
“No day but today,” everyone around me sings in perfect four-part harmony.
Not for me, I think. Today is just the beginning for me.
My first few minutes in the professional theater world feel a lot like the first day of high school. The Adirondack Trailways bus drops me off a couple of blocks from the Allerdale Playhouse, and when I reach the wide green lawns of the theater’s grounds, I find them swarming with strangers. As I try to wheel my suitcase up the path to the company management office, I have to keep ducking and dodging as shrieking girls and flailing guys fling themselves at each other. Some of them embrace so enthusiastically that they collapse on the ground and roll around like puppies. I have a brief fantasy that that’ll be me next summer, reuniting with all the friends I’m about to make.
I finally find company management, where five or six people are waiting on line. Everyone seems tall and shiny and glamorous, even in their cutoffs and flip-flops, and I’m a little afraid to make eye contact with anybody as I shuffle toward the registration table. The company manager is wearing a polo shirt with the Allerdale logo, and a name tag that says “Barb.” Her boobs are so enormous, it’s almost like she has a shelf attached to her front.
“Hi,” I say when I reach the front of the line. “Brooklyn Shepard, apprentice company.” I make an effort to say it confidently, like I totally deserve to be here.