She sat still, looking torn.
“Please,” I said, low, intent. “The guys can’t find out. It’s three more weeks. Singing with them is the one thing since June that’s made me feel like—I don’t know. Like I’m going somewhere. Like this wasn’t all for nothing.” This whole process. Class after class, audition after audition, fight after fight with my parents just to stay.
“It’s not for nothing,” Victoria said. “What happens if the Sharps win the competition?”
The question didn’t even feel like it mattered. The whole thing had been a ridiculous dream. I shook my head, studying my hands at the edge of the table.
“You could still do it,” she said quietly. “They pay for the whole thing.”
“I mean, yeah. But then I’ll have to tell my parents.”
“So tell your parents.” Her voice gained strength. “You would have had to anyway. What do you have to lose?”
I met Victoria’s gaze. She didn’t look away, didn’t back down. I saw myself in there, all stubborn conviction, hungry ambition, eyes on the prize.
Tell my parents I’d been posing as a guy in every spare hour since September. Gamble on the chance that they’d let me travel with a group of high school and early-twenties guys. Gamble on our winning the competition in the first place.
When was I going to run out of bets to make?
On Thanksgiving night, my parents video-called me, sitting in the kitchen, sink and cabinets out of focus over their shoulders. Mom had her hair out of its ponytail for once, two streams of tangled black. As the resolution of the video flickered and cleared, I felt my intestines form a deliberate pretzel.
I asked about Thanksgiving. They’d gone over to the Davises’ for dinner, as usual—the Davises had six kids, so they never said no to a couple of extra adults to balance things out. Hopefully, they’d managed to keep their tensions out of the Davises’ apartment.
Finally, Dad asked, “What did you want to talk about?”
“I need to tell you something.” My heart pattered. “So, this year, I got into this singing group.”
My parents traded a look. “You what?” Mom said.
“It’s a vocal group, and they’re really good. There’s this competition we’ve been working for, and it—”
“Why is this the first we’re hearing about this?” Dad asked.
I swallowed, improvising. “Since it’s not theater, I thought you might not want me to be doing it. But I love it, okay? I really love it. And this competition is a big deal. We’ve got a chance to tour all over the world with a professional singing group. A famous group.”
My parents looked as if I’d switched to speaking Arabic.
“They expense the whole trip,” I rushed on. “We wouldn’t need to pay anything or do anything. If we win, I—can I go? It’s over winter break. Please? It’s a big deal. A huge deal. It could be a career-making thing.”
They looked at each other, then back at me, in unison. My mom said slowly, “I don’t see a problem with that. Who’s in the group?”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “I mean, the tour’s going to be a bunch of adults. You know, professionals. But my singing group is, um . . . well, it’d be me and seven boys.”
“Absolutely not,” Dad said. At the same time, Mom spluttered, “What singing group has seven boys and one girl?”
“They sort of . . .” I winced. “I mean, they think I’m a boy, is the thing. I’ve been kind of pretending. To be a boy. So. Um.”
Both of them sat absolutely still for a moment, so still I wondered if the screen had frozen. Then they came back to life. “What?” my mom said, aghast.
My dad said, “How on earth have you been pretending to be—”
I tugged off my wig.
My parents’ mouths dropped open. I was tempted to screencap the sight and send it out as a Christmas card.
“You cut all your hair,” my mom said. She sounded as if she might pass out. “You cut it off.”
“Yeah. Yep.”
My dad sank a hand into his own hair as if reassuring himself that it was still there. Mom gave her head a violent shake and said in a low, dangerous voice, “So, you’re saying you lied to your school?”
“No! Kind of. Not really. It’s a club, so there’s only one teacher who’s involved. The school doesn’t . . . really know. It’s just the guys.”
If my mom heard a word I said, it made no visible impact. She was still studying my hair with unqualified horror.
I bit my lip. “If it makes it better, people cut their hair for parts in shows all the time.”
Then Dad let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.
Mom looked at him with astonishment. After a second of restraint, Dad cracked. “How dumb do these people have to be not to see she’s a girl?” The burst of laughter that came from his mouth was too much for the computer: The audio peaked and cracked, sending across a robotic blare of mirth.
Slowly, my mom looked back at me, and after a second, she started laughing, too. Stunned, I sat there, watching Dad transition from howling to wheezing. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles, caught Mom’s eyes again, and they collapsed against each other’s shoulders in hysterics.
What the fuck, I thought.
When they finally got themselves together, I said, “So, is that a yes, or?”
“I think,” Dad said, looking at Mom, “if it’s worth it, you should do the competition.”
Mom jumped in. “It really costs nothing?”
“Zero.”
“Well,” she said, and folded her hands. “If you win, we’ll talk more about it. But if you do win, no more of this lying to these boys. No more telling your school you’re—” She brandished an indicating finger at the camera. “You know.”
“Yes. Okay. Absolutely.” If I made it that far, then, I’d have to figure out a way to have my cake and also eat all of the cake. I’d have to explain who I was—but too late for anyone to take it back. I imagined an e-mail from overseas, or possibly a carrier pigeon. Smoke signals?
My plans slowed in their swirling patterns for a moment, stilling as I examined my parents. I wanted to thank them, but I couldn’t form a sound. Their laughter had struck a strange, sweet note inside me. I hadn’t seen them like that in so long, unified, looking at each other as if they were allies. They looked so much younger, it made me feel ancient.
“Who is it?”
“Julian,” I called through Isaac’s door.
After a second’s muffled noise, the door swung open. Isaac’s bun was messier than normal; a thick fistful of dark hair hung under one of his pointy ears. A pair of bulky headphones hung around his slender neck, branded with thick white text reading Audio-Technica. Wires snaked around his wrist, black and red.
For a second, we eyed each other. There were fragments of something swimming under his usual careless expression. Had five days changed his mind? Had he thought over everything and decided to tell the others after all—or never talk to me again?