But then Marisol grabs my hand and says, “So, how much of this show do we have to sit through before we get to see your gorgeous face onstage?”
Everyone looks at me expectantly, and I spend one crazy minute wondering if there’s still a way I can keep my role in this show a secret. But that’s insane; my name’s on the front of the program, and my family will notice when I don’t appear onstage. My confession will sting like ripping off a Band-Aid, but the quicker I do it, the sooner it’ll be over.
“Listen,” I say. “I’m so happy you guys are here, but…you should know that I’m not actually performing tonight.”
“What?” My mom’s voice comes out higher than usual, skirting the edge of hysteria. “Why not? Is something wrong?”
“Are you sick, Brookie?” asks Uncle Harrison.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” I say. “Here, look.”
I pull a program out of my bag and slide it across the table, and everyone leans in to look at the glossy booklet. “BYE BYE BANQUO” proclaims the cover page in thick black letters. There’s a dagger in the O, and it’s dripping blood into a puddle below. Inside the puddle, it says, “Directed by Alex Kaufman and Rico Fernandez. Book by William Shakespeare. Lyrics by Russell Savitsky and Brooklyn Shepard.”
“Wait, I don’t get it,” Marisol says. “Didn’t the songs already have lyrics?”
I tell them all about the twenty-four-hour play festival, how well A Midsummer Night’s Dreamgirls went over with the company, how Bob decided to use our structure for the new show after the fire. I watch my family’s faces as I explain how integral Russell and I were in creating Bye Bye Banquo, hoping someone will look impressed, but they all still seem confused.
“So, these songs are like the funny ones you write with Harrison?” Christa asks.
The parodies Uncle Harrison and I write are always ridiculous—a melodramatic rant about the New York City subway system to the tune of “Memory” from Cats, or a tribute to a particularly weird street performer set to the tune of “Angel of Music.”
“I mean, kind of,” I say. “But this is way more professional, and most of the songs aren’t funny. Russell and I really tried to embody the spirit of both Birdie and Macbeth.”
My mom’s mouth is set in a hard line. “I can’t believe they pulled you out of the ensemble to write parodies,” she says. “That’s completely unfair to you! You came here to get performance training, not to do them favors. Your director should give you some individual voice lessons to make up for what you missed. I’m going to talk to him and—”
I cut her off. “They didn’t pull me out. I was never actually in the show. I’m so sorry I lied to you, but I wasn’t cast in anything except that horrible side project.”
“What?” my mom yelps. “What have you been doing all this time?”
“Working with the scenic and lighting crews, mostly.”
Everyone starts talking at once, a wash of incredulity and sympathy, and Marisol starts rubbing my back. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I know you had really high hopes for your first summer at Allerdale.”
My mom looks panicked. “Why didn’t you say something? You’ve wasted months of good training time, and your Juilliard audition is coming up! I could’ve called Marcus! Or I could’ve—”
“I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” I say. “And I don’t think calling Marcus would’ve made a difference. He already did you a favor by letting me in, right?” I wait for her to deny it, but she doesn’t. At least now I know for sure.
“Don’t worry too much about it, poodle,” Desi says. “All I got to do the first year I was here was hold a spear and shout, ‘Halt!’ Everyone has to pay their dues, right? And now you’ve gotten it over with.”
Jermaine nods. “They’re definitely going to remember how much you helped them out when you come back next year. And then it’ll be your turn to be onstage, and someone else will be telling you what to sing.”
I’m grateful to them for trying to build me back up; it’s obvious how much they care about me. But feeling supported and adored isn’t the same as feeling known, and it’s time to let my family really see me. I sit up a little straighter in my chair and hope against hope that my next confession doesn’t bring everything I love crashing down around me.
“Here’s the thing,” I say. “Allerdale’s really great, and I totally get why you guys love it so much. But I don’t want to come back here next year, and I don’t want to audition for Juilliard, or anywhere else. I don’t want to perform at all anymore.” It’s hard to bite back the I’m sorry that springs to my lips, but I manage to keep it in. I shouldn’t have to apologize for what I want.