Panic

by Sasha Dawn

  “My tap shoes are pretty worn.”

  “It’s your mother’s turn to buy a set, yes?”

  A lump forms in my throat. I hate when they do this. “But maybe you could pick up the tab this time? For your favorite client?”

  Dad takes a deep breath. “Maddy, I want to talk to you about something.”

  He’s the only one who calls me Maddy, and usually I don’t mind, but something about the way he says it raises my hackles tonight. Or maybe I’m pissed about the car, the dinner out when we were supposed to eat together at his house, the weekend visit that has somehow whittled down to only an hour or so at Morton’s, and the fact that he’s ready to haggle with my mother over a pair of tap shoes.

  “Your mom’s taking me back to court,” Dad says.

  “What? Why?” And now I’m pissed at Mom. I’m so over their fighting.

  “She wants more money, but with the visitation schedule being fifty-fifty, I don’t see any reason for it.”

  “Can you meet her halfway?” I ask. “Settle out of court?”

  “I give her extra occasionally, when things come up and I can’t see you when I’m supposed to. I don’t know what more she thinks she needs.”

  Well, that sounds reasonable. Still—“She wouldn’t take this step unless things were bad.”

  And even though Dad technically has me fifty percent of the time, he reneges almost weekly—case in point, this cop-out dinner at Morton’s—so Mom’s left robbing Peter to pay Paul. Several weekends once last month, she skipped breakfast and lunch when I was home but was supposed to be with Dad. She said she wasn’t hungry, but now I wonder if she hadn’t planned on my being there and was trying to save food.

  “Didn’t your mom go on a trip just last month?” Dad asks.

  I nod.

  “Maybe she shouldn’t be going on vacation if money is tight.”

  Three days in Minnesota isn’t much of a vacation compared to his taking Miss Karissa, Jennica, and the boys to Italy this past spring break. But I don’t correct him. I just don’t want to talk about it.

  “Maddy.”

  I don’t want to look up at him, either, but I meet his gaze.

  “I’m not the one who did this. I’m not the one serving the papers, you understand? I’m not the one fighting.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t you see the position she’s putting me in? I give her ample support. If she mismanages the funds, that doesn’t automatically mean that I have to come to the rescue. It means she has to better manage her finances.”

  I’m not hungry anymore, but our dinner arrives. I pick at my plate.

  “It’s not my responsibility to find her a decent job,” he goes on. “And if she hadn’t moved in with Mr. Wonderful, she wouldn’t have forfeited her alimony.”

  I bite my tongue. It’s called maintenance, actually, and it’s been two years since Mom lost it, but it’s still a sore spot for all of us. Ted Haggerty was actually really nice to me. Picture an absent-minded professor—graying ponytail, corduroy trousers and plaid button-down included—and you’ve got Ted. He’s a psychiatrist who fancies himself an artist. He used to go to the Factory on open mic nights—it’s where Mom met him—and he’d bite on an unlit cigar, sit in the spotlight, and rant about whatever happened to be on his mind. He never prepared, but his off-the-cuff commentary was always entertaining, always had the crowd cheering.

  For the six months he lived with us, I knew sort of what it felt like to have a normal dad . . . the kind of dad who stops for cheese fries on the way home because he knows you’ve had a bad day. The kind of dad who talks about buying you a dog because you’ve never had one before.

  Mom asked me to keep the cohabitation a secret from Dad—nothing like putting me in an impossible situation—but Dad found out anyway. And then he was pissed at me, and bam! Dad changed the security code at his house because he said he couldn’t trust me even with that, my visits there ceased, and my parents were back in court again to nullify maintenance.

  As for Ted? Mom’s diagnosis came two days before we were supposed to pick up a dog from the shelter.

  Ted left the day after she went to the doctor. Too much reality for him, according to Mom. I have my own theories, but it was obviously a mistake for Mom to have him move in.

  He still checks in with me occasionally. And every so often, he posts pictures of the dog that was supposed to be mine on his Facebook page. He went with the name I’d suggested: Vinny. Every time I see the dog, my heart aches a little.

  “Your mom will have to work it out on her own,” Dad says. “I can’t be responsible for her choices. I’m not going to bail her out of this. She could always ask Mr. Wonderful to pony up.”

  Dad has a point. Mom could have thought of me, or at least made sure Ted was in it for the long haul, before she pulled the trigger on cohabitation.

  Still, Mom’s had some bad luck, and my career aspirations aren’t exactly inexpensive. It’s been tough and even though we moved in with Nana Adie, Dad can obviously still help.

  I wonder if he would be more willing if Miss Karissa and her kids weren’t part of the equation.

  “That’s kind of apples and oranges, isn’t it?” I say. “Ted’s not the one who lives in a mansion on the lake.” This is guaranteed to piss him off, but I can’t help it.

  “I’m entitled to spend my money where I see fit,” he says, in a voice you’d use to explain a simple rule to a toddler. “You never go without, do you? But what kind of dad would I be if I made everything easy for everyone? What message would that send to you? That you wouldn’t have to work hard for everything you get.”

  There’s no point in turning this into an argument. “Okay.”

  “What your mother needs is a little tough love,” Dad says. “She’s going to have to figure things out. She’s a smart girl.”

  “Woman.”

  Finally, a smile appears on his face.

  “So. Let’s talk about something else. Have you been thinking any more about college?” Dad asks.

  “NYU,” I say.

  “Still NYU.” Dad nods. “Only NYU?”

  “I know it’s competitive—and expensive—but—”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  A shot of relief rushes through me.

  Dad clears his throat. “You do what you have to do to get there. Study hard. Dance, sing, and act harder. And I can definitely pony up half the tuition for NYU.”

  Just like that, the feeling of panic returns to me. Half is not nearly enough.

  “It’s in our papers,” Dad reminds me.

  “Well, then, what about performing arts high school?” I say. “Couldn’t you at least pay for me to go to the academy next year? It’s where I truly belong. You know that.”

  “I agree.”

  “Well, Mom can’t afford to pay half of the tuition for a special high school—even paying for Saint Mary’s is a stretch—”

  “We both contribute to your education, and that wasn’t my decision. That was the order of the court, of the judge.”

  “But that was when she was getting maintenance.” It hits me that this is probably why she’s going back to court now; this is what she wants Dad’s money for. My tuition at the high school of my dreams.

  “And again: it’s not my fault she isn’t getting it anymore. Don’t let her make me the bad guy. Let’s give her time to figure this out.”

  “But I’ve already missed out on three years,” I say. “This was the plan before the divorce, right? I was supposed to go to the academy.”

  “And your mother’s the reason you’re not there.”

  I feel sick. Why did Mom have to let Ted move in? And it only lasted six months, to boot. Six months, and now I’m paying the price for the rest of my life.

  But there has to be another way.

  I can’t exactly get a job at a coffee shop to afford the things I need. I have little time to spare as it is, and if I’m cast, I’ll have even less. It’s not like
I’m not working, though. I’ve been performing professionally since I was four. I have earnings. I gain control of them when I’m twenty-five.

  “How much do I have in my account?” I ask. “Maybe I can cover some of the tuition for the academy, and then with the right exposure, I should be able to get a scholarship to NYU.”

  “The money in your account is not for tuition.”

  “Well, how much is there? If it’s mine, I should be able to spend it where I need to.”

  “And you will. When you’re twenty-five.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I stare down at my phone so Dad can’t see. Don’t cry, don’t cry.

  My heart refuses to beat at a normal pace. I text Hayley:

  Me: Trouble brewing on the home front.

  Hayley: What’s going on?

  Me: Mom’s taking Dad back to court for more support.

  Hayley: :/

  Me: It’s a last ditch effort for senior year at the academy. He can afford it but insists on a battle.

  Me: I mean, this is my future we’re talking about!!!

  Hayley: Love you.

  Hayley: But maybe Ella needs to get her shit together.

  Instantly, I tense up. Hayley and my mom used to get along. Like, really well. And I don’t want Hayley to be mad at me, but . . .

  Me: Why are you hating on my mom so much lately?

  Hayley: I’m not.

  Hayley: But it’s the truth.

  Hayley: If not for her own sake, she should do it for you.

  Me: Maybe if your mom did something for you, my mom wouldn’t be in this position.

  It’s a low blow, but it’s true. My mom has been more of a mother to Hayley than her own. Still, it was snarky of me to mention it.

  I start to apologize, but before I can hit the send button, my sister sends me her Bitmoji raising her middle finger.

  I delete my apology.

  Me: Must be nice to know Dad will pay 100% of your bills.

  Me: He won’t do that for me.

  Hayley: He’s done more for you than he’s ever done for me.

  Hayley: Gain some self-awareness, will you?

  I suddenly feel totally alone.

  For the rest of the meal I respond just enough to Dad’s attempts at chitchat so that he can’t accuse me of pouting. As he’s taking care of the bill, my phone pings. It’s a friend request on Lyrically. I open it.

  The name: Dylan Thomas. Obviously a pseudonym—props for literary taste.

  I click on the info tab.

  Gender: Blank.

  Pronouns: Blank.

  Age: Seventeen.

  Bio: Observer, music lover, quiet lurker.

  The profile picture is an image of a quill and a reserve of ink atop a draft of words on parchment.

  The message: I saw the pic of the origami. I left that moon at the Factory. Let’s talk?

  Chapter 4

  The rain lets up by the time Giorgio pulls up to our place on West Evergreen.

  Dad’s chattering about some show getting ready to close on Broadway. I haven’t done more than half listen to him since he offered to pay half my tuition at NYU—I’ve been pondering Dylan Thomas and the moon and whether I should accept a friend request from a stranger—until I hear the name of one of my Broadway idols. Suddenly, I’m all ears.

  “Do you know how awesome it would be to meet him?” I say.

  Dad smiles at my sudden interest. It’s the most I’ve said since I picked at my dinner.

  “Maybe we should go then,” he says. “I can get you backstage for a meet and greet.”

  “For real?”

  “It’ll be a good experience for you. You can speak with the performers about life on Broadway.”

  “Incredible. I get to meet the cast? Really?”

  “You want to go?”

  “Of course I want to go!” Any opportunity to be on Broadway, even as a spectator, is a good one, but this . . . wow. It’s more jackpot than opportunity.

  “Great. All set.”

  All set? Did he mention a date? But I can’t ask him now, or he’ll know I was tuning him out earlier. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with rehearsal,” I say. “If I’m cast.”

  “You got it in the bag.”

  I roll my eyes. Spoken like a true dad-slash-manager.

  “See you soon, kiddo,” Dad says. “Shopping, maybe, next week? Before the trip?”

  “For tap shoes?”

  “Maddy.” His sigh is exasperated “Didn’t we talk about that? I’m only asking for your mom to pull her weight.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I’m so over trying to convince him, and so tired of the back and forth between him and Mom that I have to remind myself that we’re going to Broadway. Good things are on the horizon.

  I gather my audition stuff and go to get out of the car.

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah.” I look back at him.

  “You know I’ll get the shoes for you if she won’t. But try. Put a little pressure on her. It’s what’s right. I’ll see you soon.” He puts his hand up for a high five.

  I half-heartedly slap it, exit the car, and climb the steps to our place.

  We’re on the top floor of a building we in Chicago call a three-flat. A young couple who just adopted a baby rents the basement unit, and a chick in her forties with a penchant for patchouli rents the main floor. It’s not a bad place to live, but if I ever make it big, I’m buying my mom and Nana the kind of house where they can spread out—a dance studio for Mom, a little office where Nana can draw and paint to her heart’s content. Especially because I took the room where she used to have her easel and art supplies.

  As I climb the stairs to our unit, the familiar scents of tomato gravy and sausage and peppers filter down to meet me, and classic Madonna rings in my ears. Nana is singing along.

  I close the door behind me and reset the alarm. Nana appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a long turquoise-and-fuchsia tunic in a geometric pattern over pale pink jeans she cut off at the shins. Her pink-framed glasses are perched atop her dark curls like a headband. “My Madelaine.”

  “Hi, Nana.”

  “Thought you were with your dad tonight.”

  “Yeah, well . . . you know how that goes.” I drop my dance bag on the bench by our door and shove off my shoes.

  “Oh, Lainey. I hate that he’s constantly canceling on you.”

  Even though I’ve been thinking along the same lines all night, my guard goes up instantly. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have a life of my own.”

  “I just want you to know you’re worth more than that.”

  “Mom home?”

  “She had an appointment in Minnesota late this afternoon. She’ll be home soon.”

  “Minnesota again?” She was in Minnesota last month, too. There are a couple of great theaters there. Hope floats to the surface. Maybe she trekked out there for a callback. “What for? A job?”

  “No.”

  And just that quickly, the hope crashes.

  If it’s not a callback, this appointment is probably more date than interview. I wish she’d just tell me if she’s seeing someone, although I guess I can understand why she wouldn’t.

  She’s not good at dating.

  Her relationships are borderline disastrous, as evidenced by Ted Haggerty’s abrupt exit. Before Ted, there were others. Rick comes to mind; he hummed while he ate and was addicted to painkillers. Then there was Rex, who stole one of her bracelets. My gut sort of hollows out in anticipation for the hurricane about to come.

  “How was the audition?”

  I blink away thoughts of Mom’s worst mistakes and say, “Oh!”

  Nana smiles. “Remember the audition?”

  “I have to work on my vibrato, I’m just not good at belting, and I wasn’t expecting to tap, and it was an improv piece, so I don’t think I exactly nailed it, if you know what I mean, but—”

  “Did you do your best?”

  “Yes.”

 
“You can’t expect more of yourself than your best. What will be, will be.”

  If you’re not determined to make a life in theater, maybe this is good advice. Maybe you expect to flub numbers occasionally if your life’s ambition is to sit at a desk, but you can’t flub anything and expect to succeed on stage. I know I have to do better than my best if I’m ever going to be on Broadway. And . . .

  “I need new taps.”

  Nana sighs. “I suppose your father won’t—”

  “He says it’s Mom’s turn.”

  “Do me a favor. Don’t mention it to your mom tonight. Or at all this month. You know what? I’ll give you my card. Go get yourself a pair tomorrow.”

  “Nana.” She’s on a fixed income. She shouldn’t have to do this.

  “It’s settled. I’ll pop for tap shoes this time.”

  This whole thing is absolutely ridiculous. Dad and Miss Karissa and Jennica and the boys. Mom and her string of bad boyfriends. And my parents won’t talk to each other, but they’re communicating in their own little fuck-yous through me.

  The tears I’ve been keeping at bay since dinner come like a torrential downpour.

  “Oh, honey.” Nana Adie gathers me into her arms.

  I let her, even though I’m not usually one for physical contact, and breathe in the scents of tomatoes and peppers seemingly always embedded in her clothing.

  “Do you ever feel like you just want out?” I pull back from her embrace. “Like nothing you do is good enough to make things work?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve got three ex-husbands and seven decades of mistakes behind me.”

  “So you’re saying life just sucks, and I have to get used to it.” “I’m saying life is wonderful.” She takes me by the shoulders and studies me. “No one is born with all the answers, and no one can skate through this world without screwing up. It’s all trial and error, honey. I’m still trying to figure things out at my age.”

  “Doesn’t sound too wonderful to me.”

  “It’s all about point of view. Think about possibility. The whole world is out there for us to explore. The whole world. Close your eyes and imagine it.”