Panic

by Sasha Dawn

  Dad stays on the phone the entire ride, which is just fine with me. At this point, the evening could go either way: he could hold a grudge against me because I dared to defend my mother, or he could let it all go.

  The car rolls to a stop in front of the mall. I pause the video on my phone.

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  I catch Dad’s glance in the periphery. He thinks I’m still listening to music and can’t hear him. Not that I was raised to eavesdrop, but I’ve learned that doing so is the only way I’ll learn anything about my father’s life.

  He continues: “My lawyer says that by the time he’s done filing continuances . . . Kari, wait. Listen.”

  I don’t know about Miss Karissa, but I’m listening hard.

  “It’ll be moot by then. I promise you. She’ll run out of money before that happens.”

  I put the pieces together. Dad’s going to frustrate the legal process. He’s going to spend enough money to drain Mom’s resources.

  Dad’ll be fine.

  Mom’ll be broke.

  And nothing will have changed.

  And maybe for the first time, I fully realize the power of money in the courtroom. I’ve always known my father held sway in the audition circuit. But I guess I never thought about how much his wealth could help in a legal battle.

  My breath catches. It’s for me, I want to scream. I know you won’t do it for Mom, but can’t you be decent for me?

  He says goodbye to Miss Karissa. Complete with the “Yeah, me too. I do.”

  Not spoken: love you.

  Does he think I’m eight? Does he think I haven’t realized he’s in love with someone else?

  Does he honestly think that just because I have earbuds in my ears I can’t hear him talking legal strategy?

  Dad touches my elbow. “Let’s go,” he says.

  I pull out an earbud and bite back tears. I don’t want to go anywhere with him right now. But I don’t want to stay in the car, I know that much.

  Giorgio opens the door. We get out in the rain and run to the entrance.

  “Well, that was refreshing,” Dad says with a smile. “Let’s have some fun.” So it’s option B tonight for him.

  As for me, I don’t know if I can get over this so quickly.

  ***

  At the end of the night, just as the car pulls onto West Evergreen, Dad says, “I need the names of the girls you’re bringing to New York.”

  “The Weekes twins.”

  “Have I met them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. We met during Peter Pan.”

  “First names?” He digs swipes at his phone, bringing up a notepad app.

  “McKenna.” I spell it. “And Brendon.”

  “Brendon? Is that a girl’s name?”

  “No.”

  “You want to bring a boy to New York?”

  “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

  Dad’s brow knits.

  “We’re not . . . He was just dating a guy, so . . . It’s not like what you’re thinking.”

  “I can trust you in a suite together?”

  “Obviously, Dad. He’s just a friend. Besides, his sister will be there.”

  “Just the two of them?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “I bought eight tickets. I assumed Hayley would come, but she declined. And I thought the two of you would bring more friends.”

  I cringe. Logically, I know this isn’t my fault, but I feel like I’ve let him down. “Sorry.”

  “Think about it. See if there’s anyone else. I don’t want the tickets to go to waste.”

  “Couldn’t you just sell the extra tickets?”

  “Think about it.”

  “I will, but—”

  “Well, our first stop in the Big Apple is a salon. I thought I’d treat you and your friends to makeovers. Maybe do something about that pink hair of yours. Maybe this Brendon can wait in the lobby.”

  “Why can’t a guy get a makeover?”

  He bulldozes right past that. “And I got you a great penthouse suite. Three bedrooms and two pull-out couches. Plenty of room for more friends.”

  Perhaps he hasn’t yet realized that I don’t have more friends. I check my phone. It’s seven fifteen.

  “You’re going to be late,” I say. “Your dinner meeting.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I wonder if he even had a meeting at all.

  Maybe he just had to rush home to Miss Karissa, Jennica, and the boys. Or maybe he needed an excuse to tank Mom’s plans again.

  “Giorgio’s going to help you with your bags, and I’ll see you Thursday night.” And now, he’s practically shoving me out the door.

  Dad bought me a lot of stuff. Even stuff I only sort of liked. So, even if I wanted to refuse Giorgio’s help, I wouldn’t be able to do it. I can’t carry all the bags, plus all my school stuff and rehearsal stuff, up to our apartment in one trip, and it’s raining.

  Sheepishly, I follow my dad’s driver, laden with today’s haul. God, I feel like a Sophia.

  Nana Adie meets me at the door. “Well, well. I could’ve guessed you’d arrive with a load.” And under her breath: “What that man does is shameless.”

  From here, I see Mom’s lounging in the living room. She looks so tired.

  Once Giorgio manages to place all my bags inside our tiny foyer, filling almost the whole space, I send him off with a thank-you and go to Mom.

  I press a little kiss to her cool cheek. “I’m sorry about the cookies,” I say.

  Mom smiles. “There will be other times.”

  “Will there?” Nana Adie crosses her arms over her chest.

  Her tone catches me off guard. “Nana—”

  “Nice loophole, don’t you think? As long as he gets you before five, he can keep you till all hours? It’s manipulation. Any decent man would see that before five should imply keeping you only until five, but no. Not your father. He writes between the lines, but only when it’ll suit him fine. He wants his freedom, doesn’t he? He wants things the way he wants them, doesn’t he? And if he doesn’t want you on a day he’s supposed to have you, then by God we’d better figure out how to make things work . . .”

  She doesn’t usually get so worked up, even when Dad pisses her off. What’s the matter with her lately? “I don’t know why you’re mad at me, Nana.”

  “Will you once, Madelaine, make a priority out of your mother?”

  It’s like a bomb explodes in my head. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t they be making a priority of me? I don’t know what else I have to do to prove that I love them both. That I’m loyal to Dad, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less on Mom’s side.

  “I can’t do anything right,” I say. “Do you know how hard it is to make everyone happy all the time? It’s impossible. But I guess no one cares about that. No one cares about what it’s like to be in the middle.”

  “I told her to go with Jesse,” Mom interjects.

  “There are other things you should tell her, too,” Nana says.

  I whip my head around to look at my mom. “Like what?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Lainey. We’ll discuss it after New York.” She peels herself up from the sofa and kisses the top of my head. “Night, baby.”

  “Night?” I follow her with my eyes as she walks down the hallway. “It’s just after seven!”

  “Yeah. Well, walking in the rain can tire a girl out.”

  “Mom—”

  “Love you, Lainey.”

  “I love you, too.”

  What is she not telling me?

  Chapter 21

  I’m putting my new clothes away. My small closet is already jam-packed with stuff I rarely wear because . . . well, Saint Mary’s mandates a uniform, and until recently, I haven’t had much occasion to meet up with friends outside of school, auditions, and rehearsals. So I don’t know where I’m going to put it all.

  If only Dad were as generous with tuition for the perf
ormance academy as he is with clothes.

  Wait.

  I pull every new item out of my closet and fish the receipts out of the trash. When I add it all up, I’m numb. Slowly, I lower myself to my bed.

  Three grand and change. Dad spent three grand on clothes I didn’t really need. That’s one month’s tuition.

  I feel awful, and not just because I chose Dad over Mom tonight, as Nana not-so-subtly indicated. But because all of this is very extravagant and unnecessary.

  Yes, it was fun, and Dad needed to offer up some fun after the things he said about my mother.

  But I’d rather have the education, thank you very much.

  I fold all the clothes and pack them back into the shopping bags. I haul the bags out to the living room, where Nana is watching TV.

  “What’s all this?”

  “I want you to be proud of me,” I say. “And not just for what I do onstage. I want you think I’m a good person.”

  Nana pauses her Netflix. “I do, Madelaine.”

  “The only reason I did this tonight was because I didn’t know how not to do it.”

  Nana nods. “I understand.”

  “And I’d cancel New York if I hadn’t already invited two new friends. But all of this . . .” I point to the clothes. “I don’t ask for this. I don’t expect it. My dad—”

  “It’s the only way he can show you he loves you,” Nana infers.

  “I guess so. I mean, I don’t want to think that’s true, but . . . maybe it is. I mean, I think about all the nights you and Mom and I hang out and watch shows. I think about all the times we cook together, and even do chores together. And we laugh. Even Ted . . . maybe he was a disaster, but he shared in it too, while Dad . . .” I swallow hard. “It’s like he’s never real. Like he’s always performing. Showing me only what he wants me to see.”

  “Well, that’s the profession.”

  “But Dad’s a manager. Mom is a performer,” I say. “She’s real. Why can’t he be?”

  “I like the way you said that,” Nana says. “Your mom is a performer.”

  “She is.” I sit down next to my grandmother and settle against her. “I’ve never seen her live on stage, but I know I will someday.”

  “I hope so.”

  Things are quiet between us for a minute or two. I breathe in the scent of her: tonight it’s chocolate and raspberries.

  Nana breaks the silence. “So what’s with packing up all your new things?”

  “I want Mom to return them while I’m in New York. Dad paid cash for a lot of it and gave me receipts in case something didn’t end up fitting right or whatever. She should be able to get cash back. I want her to put the money toward tuition for next year.”

  Nana smiles. “That’s sweet, Lainey. But you don’t have to do that. The courts are going to take care of it. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I say. “My dad isn’t going to give another dime to my mother, no matter the reason why.” I relay what I overheard when Dad thought I wasn’t paying attention.

  Nana’s jaw sets. “He’s going to starve her out. The same way he got her to agree to everything the first time around.”

  Which means I really am going to have to do what Mom suggests.

  I’m going to have to fire my father to make a priority out of my future.

  ***

  Back in my room, I take a deep breath. This Mini Panic Episode could easily morph to a Major Panic Episode.

  But I don’t have a choice. I have to ride through it.

  I have a message from Dylan. I don’t feel like dealing with him right now, but I also don’t feel like being alone with my thoughts.

  Dylan: Hey, everything ok?

  Me: Not remotely. Thanks for blowing me off this afternoon.

  Dylan: I was there.

  Dylan: Had some connection issues.

  Dylan: I saw you though.

  Dylan: You took off shortly after you got your coffee.

  Me: Oh.

  Dylan: Thought you changed your mind.

  Me: I thought you did.

  Dylan: Just working up the nerve to talk to you.

  This isn’t what I expected. It’s such a . . . vulnerable thing to say.

  Dylan: Didn’t want to approach you if I couldn’t message first.

  Dylan: Guess I hesitated too long.

  Dylan: Why’d you leave so soon though?

  Me: There’s this guy

  Me: I see him all over town lately.

  Me: And he was there.

  Me: Just sort of creeped me out.

  Dylan: Ick. Totally valid.

  Dylan: Sorry we didn’t get to talk.

  Me: It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me today.

  Dylan: :/ Would it help to talk about it?

  I hesitate. I’m still annoyed, but . . .

  Me: Maybe.

  Chapter 22

  Thursday, May 4

  I can’t sleep. Again. I text Hayley.

  Me: You up?

  Hayley: BFFLS!

  Me: Do you know what’s going on with Dad and my mom?

  Hayley: You told me.

  Me: I mean about what Dad plans to do about the court case?

  Hayley: No.

  Hayley: But I really think we just shouldn’t talk about it anymore.

  Hayley: Because I don’t want to fight with u.

  Hayley: I don’t agree with some of Ella’s decisions

  Hayley: and she’s your mom, so you defend her to the death.

  I tell her what I heard Dad say anyway.

  Hayley: Can I play devil’s advocate?

  Me: Of course.

  Me: Help me understand.

  Me: PLEASE.

  Hayley: You let him spend extravagantly.

  Hayley: These trips, the shopping

  Hayley: I don’t do that sort of thing.

  Hayley: If you keep taking, you’re perpetuating the cycle.

  Hayley: Have you ever thought about simply asking him NOT to spend?

  Hayley: Asking him to simply help Ella pay for your school?

  Me: Yes, actually!

  Me: He says he can’t bail her out of this.

  Me: It’s like he doesn’t see the connection.

  Me: Like he wants me to blame her

  Me: But I see how hard she’s trying.

  Me: I feel like nothing she does gets her remotely close to adequate.

  Hayley: But like it or not, Dad has the legal right to file continuances.

  Hayley: Technically, he’s not wrong.

  Me: It’s not fair, though.

  Hayley: Who said life was fair?

  I fall asleep with my phone in my hand.

  When I awaken, everything is fuzzy, like I’m on the other side of a static-y television. I blink a few times, and details start to come into focus.

  It’s nearly nine.

  I bolt upright. I’m late for school.

  And I’ve missed about thirty messages from “Raspberry Beret,” all describing the nerves of waiting for the final cast list to post.

  Music is playing in the kitchen. But it’s not Nana’s usual Madonna throwback. It’s classical. Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.”

  I peek out into the hallway.

  I see my mother’s feet under the kitchen table. She’s wearing her worn, pale pink pointe shoes, and while her feet may not be moving across the floor, she’s dancing. I see them flexing and pointing in an entrechat.

  The furniture in the living room beyond has been pushed to the edges of the room. Unless I slept through a tornado, Mom and Nana have moved the furniture to create a dance floor. I meander closer. “Mom?’

  “Good morning, Lainey.” She and Nana Adie are drinking coffee. Nana is already pouring me a cup of my own.

  “My alarm didn’t go off,” I say.

  “It did,” Mom says. “You slept through it.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask. “Sister Mary Angela’s going to ream me.
”

  “Not if you don’t go,” Mom says.

  “Don’t I have to go?”

  “And make it that much easier for your father to decide to pick you up directly from school, and take you straight to the airport?” Mom shakes her head. “We thought we’d try this instead.”

  “That’s why I’m staying home?”

  “I thought it would be nice to spend the day together,” Mom says.

  “All right, what’s going on?”

  “I already told you,” Mom says. “Two can play at his game.”

  “Ohhhhkay.”

  “Raspberry Beret” chimes again. I check the messages.

  Brendon: We’re in!

  Brendon: We’re all on the cast list!

  Brendon: NYC, here comes the cast of ANNIE!

  Me: Hold on.

  Me: Have to see this for myself!

  Brendon: . . .

  I tap my email icon and see the message from the casting director. I can’t move for a good ten seconds.

  I muster the courage and open the email. I scroll through the cordialities and finally find the cast list.

  Pepper, Pepper, Pepper. . . . Please let me be Pepper!

  Pepper: McKenna Weekes.

  As happy as I am for McKenna, my heart sinks. My cheeks are hot, and the world starts to blacken at the edges until I feel like I’m looking at the cast list through a pair of binoculars.

  It’s not like Pepper’s a big part. It wasn’t a goal too high to aim for. And I didn’t reach it.

  “Lainey?” Mom asks.

  “Wait.” I scroll to the end until I see the list of ensemble cast. Instantly, I pick out Brendon’s name, but I don’t see mine.

  I shove away jealous thoughts—Brendon and McKenna have been on the audition circuit half as long as me, and they’re in and I’m not—and I’m going to have to spend the weekend with them in New York. I’m going to have to pull myself together and be happy for them.

  But Brendon said I was in.

  I check the ensemble cast list again. There’s a Madeline Jameson, which is sort of close to Madelaine Joseph. Maybe Brendon just misread the name.

  It’s okay if I didn’t make it. There will be other auditions, other opportunities.

  But I wanted this opportunity.