We still don’t talk about the kiss. I initiate games of Love or Hate and try to trick Zoe into saying something revealing, but she never does, and I’m too scared to ask her about it outright. When we’re with our other friends, I compulsively dissect the way she interacts with them. Does she touch me more or less than she touches everyone else? When she loops her arm through mine, is it laden with meaning? Does she smile at Kenji and Livvy the same way she smiles at me? Most of the time, there’s no difference in how she treats me, and every few days, I decide our moment in the Dewald common room was a fluke, and I vow to stop thinking about it. Maybe I’ve blown it out of proportion. Maybe I didn’t even like it as much as I remember.
But every time I give up, Zoe turns to face me in the dark in those quiet moments before sleep and tells me something incredibly personal, and I start to wonder all over again if I’m special to her somehow. After she falls asleep, I stare at the ceiling and repeat her stories to myself so I won’t forget a single detail—the day she lost her virginity, the way she held her grandmother’s hand the night she died, the moment she realized she wanted to be an actor. She wouldn’t entrust such important memories to just anyone, right?
I spend my days collecting stories to tell Zoe in return. The humiliating things that happen during my crew calls don’t bother me nearly so much once I craft them into narratives that will make her laugh, even the way Douchebands keeps wiggling his eyebrows at me and talking about how he’s hungry for doughnuts. When we spend our third Señor Hidalgo rehearsal learning basic sleight of hand so we can pull objects out of each other’s ears, I’m able to laugh it off and concentrate on how I’ll present it to her. After rehearsal, Russell catches me and asks if I want to play the piano for a while, but I tell him I have plans and head back to the room. I don’t want to forget any of my good lines before Zoe has heard them.
But when I open the door, she’s pacing the room and texting furiously, eyes wide and manic. “Did you hear?” she breathes.
“Hear what? What happened? Are you okay?”
“You’re not even going to believe this. We have another master class tomorrow, and it’s with”—she pauses for effect—“Lana. Blake. Shepard.”
“What?” I say. “Are you serious?”
“I know, right?” Zoe flops onto her bed and hangs off it upside down so her hair trails onto the floor. “Holy shit, we get to meet Lana Blake Shepard tomorrow, Brooklyn. Lana Blake Shepard.”
I really wish Zoe would stop saying her name. “Where did you hear that?” I ask. Maybe it’s another one of those wild rumors that are always flying around Allerdale. The other day, someone told me Rob Lowe was going to be in Macbeth.
“It’s on the call board!”
I grab my laptop and pull up the electronic call board, and there it is in print: “Monday, July 14, apprentice company: vocal performance master class with Lana Blake Shepard, 1 PM.”
“Oh God,” I manage to choke. This is bad. This is so, so bad.
“What do you think we’ll do with her?” Zoe asks. “Do you think she’ll like us? Should we go downstairs and practice our audition songs?”
I’m not even aware of having stood up, but I find myself holding my hoodie and my phone and moving toward the door. I have to talk to my mom immediately, and I definitely can’t do it in here. “Where are you going?” Zoe calls. “I already told the other girls. Livvy’s totally flipping out.”
“I’m…I’ll be right back,” I say.
“Is everything okay?” she calls after me, but I let the door close and pretend I haven’t heard her.
My mind spins itself into a froth as I head downstairs and out onto the dark lawn. I’ve misled my mom into thinking I’m in Bye Bye Birdie. I’ve misled everyone at Allerdale into thinking I’m a regular, worse-than-average actor who got unlucky with casting, not the freakish, talentless offspring of one of the country’s best vocal coaches. By this time tomorrow, my cover will be blown with everyone, including Zoe. I’ve spent weeks trying to build up the trust between us, and when she finds out I’ve been keeping something so important from her, she might never forgive me.
I send the universe images of my mother having a fight with Marcus, of her Zipcar breaking down on the way to Allerdale, of her waking up tomorrow with a horrible case of laryngitis. But it doesn’t help like it usually does, and I’m finding it more and more difficult to breathe. Why was I stupid enough to think I could keep anything a secret in a place like this?
When I finally manage to dial the phone, my mom picks up on the first ring, almost like she was expecting me. “Hi, sweetheart!”
“Mom. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” I can picture her wide-eyed, fake-innocent expression.
“That you’re teaching here tomorrow!”
She squeals. “They finally announced it! I’ve been absolutely dying to tell you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Isn’t it wonderful?” When I don’t respond, she says, “Brookie? You’re not upset, are you?”
I’m about to say that I’m very upset, but it’s not like I can explain why. “No, of course not,” I say. “I’m really glad you’re coming. I just wish I’d known so I could prepare.”
“Oh, you don’t need to have anything prepared in advance,” she says. “You’ve done all these exercises before.”
I try to figure out the best way to ask her to pretend we don’t know each other while she’s here, but then she says, “I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I miss you like crazy,” and I can’t do it. She would assume I was ashamed to be associated with her. How can I let her think that, when I’m the shameful one in this equation?
So instead, I say, “I miss you, too.”
“I’m teaching a class for the non-equity company right after yours, but I thought we could have dinner in the evening. Does that work for you? I know it’s last-minute, but I was hoping to have some time alone with my girl.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d love to have dinner with my mom. But twisting the truth on the phone is nothing like sitting across a table and lying straight to her face. I can try to avoid the topic of Birdie entirely, but I’m pretty sure anecdotes about Señor Hidalgo won’t fill an entire meal. She’s going to find out I wasn’t cast, and I’ll have to watch all the pride and excitement drain out of her face as she realizes her only kid is a liar and a failure.
I’m about to tell her I won’t be able to make it because of an important rehearsal, but then I have a better idea. If I give my mom something else exciting and shiny to focus on, maybe I can keep the conversation away from my fictional main stage debut after all. “Can I bring my roommate?” I ask.
“The Juilliard roommate?” I can tell Mom’s practically salivating, already preparing to add my friend to her entourage of talent. “Of course you can, Brookie. That’s a wonderful idea. I can’t wait to meet her.”
I picture Zoe attending Family Night in my living room every week long after I’ve left for college, and a wave of jealousy hits me hard. But I force the image out of my head; I’ll worry about that when it happens. Right now, I need a distraction, and Zoe is a perfect one.
“Great,” I say. “I think you guys will really like each other.”
“I’ll make us a reservation at Spindrift in town. I love you, sweetheart. See you tomorrow.”
“Love you back,” I say, and then she’s gone.
I stand there on the lawn for a couple of minutes after I hang up and try to pull myself together. Out in front of one of the other dorms, some non-eqs are practicing a song from Dreamgirls, and their voices sound ethereal in the quiet night air. When they mess up, they laugh and talk quietly and then try the harmony again. This is what I always pictured Allerdale would be like—a place filled with music and joy, where you can sing outside at night without the slightest hint of embarrassment, even if everyone can hear you. I thought this would be the place where I finally found myself, not just another place I’d have to hide.
There’s
loud, happy music on in our room when I come back in, and Zoe’s shaking her butt as she digs through her dresser. “Hey, where’d you go?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. “Zoe, I have to tell you something.”
She must hear the weight in my voice, because she turns off the music. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I should’ve told you this before, and I’m really, really sorry that I didn’t, but…Lana Blake Shepard is my mom.”
Zoe sits down on the edge of her bed and blinks at me. “Wait. Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” She shakes her head like she’s struggling to take this in. “Wow. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know,” I say. “I was embarrassed.”
“How is that embarrassing? She’s, like, the coolest person ever.”
“No, I mean, she’s not embarrassing. But it’s really embarrassing that she’s my mom and I’m…me. Everyone knows I wasn’t cast in anything, and once people find out we’re related, they’re going to assume I’m here because she called in a favor.” I swallow hard. “You’re probably thinking that, too. It’s okay if you are.”
“No, of course not,” Zoe says, but I’m not sure whether to believe her. I can feel all those I deserve to be heres packing up and slinking quietly out of the room.
“I wanted people to get to know me as me, not as Lana Blake Shepard’s daughter, you know? Like, I know this girl whose dad died when she was twelve, but she never tells people about it until she knows them pretty well because she doesn’t want to be ‘the girl with the dead dad.’ ”
Zoe looks at me like I’m nuts. “This is so not the same thing.”
“No, I know. I’m not explaining it well. I’m not saying my mom is, like, a tragedy. But it’s really easy to get defined by one thing. Are you pissed I didn’t tell you? Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not pissed, Brooklyn. I just think it’s a little weird that you lied about it.”
“I didn’t really lie. Nobody asked me if we were related. You asked if she’d done a workshop at my school, and I said no, because she hasn’t.” It’s a lame excuse, and I know it.
Zoe shrugs. “Whatever. All I’m saying is, if Lana Blake Shepard were my mom, I’d tell everyone.”
Of course you would, I want to say. Nobody would judge you, because you’re the kind of daughter she deserves.
“I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out on my own,” she continues. “I feel so dumb now. I know your last name, and you kept talking about how you come from a family of theater people. What is it like living with her? Is it amazing? I can’t even imagine.”
I hate that she’s asking the same question Skye asked when she first met me, the same question everyone asks. I don’t want anything about Zoe to be unsurprising. “I don’t know; it’s normal. She’s the only mom I’ve ever had. I don’t have anything to compare it to.” It comes out a little harsher than I intend, and I sigh and sit down on my bed. I have to pull myself together. I was so worried about this revelation changing the dynamic between Zoe and me, but now I’m the one acting bitchy and making everything weird.
“Listen,” I say more quietly. “My mom and I are having dinner tomorrow after she’s done teaching all her classes. Do you want to come with us? I’d really love it if you would. She says she’s looking forward to meeting you.”
“She said that?” Zoe’s eyes light up, and it hurts to see that kind of rabid interest on her face and know it has nothing to do with me. When Lana Blake Shepard is on the table, I’m no longer the most interesting person in the room, even when I’m the only other person in the room. “I’d love to have dinner with you guys. Thank you so much!”
Zoe springs off the bed and throws her arms around me like everything’s suddenly fine between us again, but I can’t even enjoy her affection because I feel like I bought it. I probably don’t even deserve it; I’m using one person I care about as a sparkly, distracting bauble and another as a lure. I’m actually kind of a horrible human being.
I’m about to confess one last thing—that I need Zoe to pretend I’m in Birdie while we’re at dinner tomorrow—when she says, “Have you told the other girls? Livvy’s going to lose it.”
I shake my head. “I was hoping maybe I wouldn’t have to?”
“What, you want me to tell them?”
“No, I mean, maybe they don’t have to know at all. Maybe my mom will treat me like everyone else, and then you and I can say we’re going into dinner in town, and—”
“Brooklyn, they’re not stupid. They’re going to figure it out.”
I put my head in my hands. “They’re going to hate me.”
“They’re not. I don’t hate you.”
“But they don’t know me like you do.”
Zoe sits down on the end of my bed. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to have to own it,” she says. “If you don’t tell them and then they figure it out, it’ll be much worse than if you said something, right? Just act like it’s not that big a deal, and maybe that’s how they’ll act, too.”
“It’s not that big a deal,” I say.
Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I can convince myself it’s true.
I mean to tell my other friends about my mom. I really do. But I keep putting it off, and by the time we’re walking to Haydu Hall for class the next day, I still haven’t said anything. Zoe keeps looking at me like, What are you waiting for? But I think there’s still a chance I could get away with this, and I don’t want to ruin everything if I don’t have to. Every time one of my friends jokes around with me or asks my opinion about something, I soak it up and try to fix the feeling of camaraderie in my mind. If things don’t go as I want them to, this might be the last time I’m allowed to be part of the group.
My plan is to drop my friends off in the classroom, say I’m going to the bathroom, and then wait for my mom in front of the theater—she loves making a grand entrance, so she’s always late to everything. I figure we can get all the gooey “I love you, I missed you” stuff out of the way in private, and then she’ll treat me like any other student the rest of the day. I almost believe this is going to work, that everything’s going to be fine.
And then we enter room 214, and Livvy whisper-screams, “Guys, that’s her!”
My mom turns away from the piano, where she’s been chatting with Pandora. When her eyes land on me, she breaks into a nine-thousand-watt smile and holds out her arms.
For a split second, I consider turning away and pretending I don’t know her. It’s possible she’d get the message and back off. But that’s completely insane; that’s not the person I want to be. So my mom is famous. Fine. Zoe’s right; it’s time for me to own it. If my friends think I bought my way into the company, I’ll prove them wrong by rocking this workshop. My mom already told me I’ll be ahead of the game today. I’ll show everyone I do have Lana Blake Shepard’s genes in me after all.
I deserve to be here, I whisper inside my head. And then I walk straight into my mom’s arms.
“Brookie,” she croons as she wraps me up in the folds of her voluminous dress. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Despite all the stress her presence is causing me, she’s my mom, and I love her, and it really is great to see her. I breathe in the familiar smell of her lotion and the cinnamon incense sticks she keeps in her closet.
“Hey, Mom,” I say a little more loudly than necessary, in case anyone is confused.
I once saw one of those charts psychologists give autistic kids to help them parse people’s facial expressions—cartoon face after cartoon face in neat little rows, labeled “angry” and “scared” and “sad” and “excited.” When my mom finally pulls away and I look out at the rest of the company, it’s a lot like scanning one of those charts. Livvy, Jessa, Kenji, and Todd are staring at me with total shock and disbelief, like they’re not exactly sure who they’ve been hanging out with all this
time. Pandora looks like she wants to punch me, but she always looks like that. Zoe has a huge smile on her face, and for a second I think she’s proud of me for stepping up, but then I realize her eyes are firmly fixed on my mom. I don’t see any expressions I’d label as “supportive.”
“Is she for real?” Jessa mutters to Livvy, and I pretend not to hear.
My mom is totally oblivious. “Hello, everyone!” she says. “I’m Lana, and I’m thrilled that my dear friend Marcus has invited me to teach your vocal performance master class. I’ve had the privilege of teaching several Allerdale apprentice companies, but this one is particularly special to me, for obvious reasons.”
Jessa leans over and whispers something to Zoe, and my roommate gives a half shrug and mouths, I’ll tell you later.
“We’ll begin with a guided relaxation exercise,” my mom says. “Everyone lie down on your backs, close your eyes, and concentrate on my voice.”
My friends will pepper me with whispered questions if I go anywhere near them now, so I lie down right where I am, next to Pandora and Natasha. My mom kicks off her shoes and starts pacing the room, and the sound of her barefooted gait is as familiar to me as the Manhattan traffic that constantly rushes by my bedroom window. “To attain optimal vocal technique, every muscle and tissue in your body must be a relaxed, supple resonator,” she says in a lulling, steady voice. “We’re going to relax each of our muscles, one by one. Start at the very top of your head. Picture your scalp melting like an Italian ice on a hot day….”
My mom works her way through every muscle in the body—“Relax your abdominals. Let them sink right into the floor….Relax your psoas….Relax your vaginal muscles, if you have them….Relax your sphincter….”—and I try my best to get caught up in her spell and let go. But my mind is already skipping ahead to the exercises we’re going to do next. She’ll probably ask me to demonstrate something for the class. I let my leg muscles melt into the floor and prepare to embrace that opportunity, even though my stomach is tying itself into knots the way it always does when I have to sing at Family Night.
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