Maybe if I tried to walk myself, I could help her. I picked a point backstage, focused, set my shoulders, and walked forward, channeling all the reality TV goddesses I’d watched this summer.
“No, no, no!” Darius emerged from backstage, wearing a short silk robe over his padding. His face was beat for the gods, but he still had on a wig cap. Maybe this was what it would look like if Taye Diggs did drag. I bet he’d be gorgeous. “Shut this down!” Darius faced us, hands on his hip. “There will be no gay-best-friend-teaches-straight-girl-to-runway-walk-at-the-drag-bar music montage today!”
“We’re having a crisis, Darius!” I protested. “A Molly’s Crisis!”
“That doesn’t even mean anything!”
“Help, please.” With those big eyes, Katy looked like a sad kitten.
“Oh, fine.” Darius sighed heavily. “But shut this sad little walk-off down before any real customers come in. We don’t want to scare them off.”
“Was it really that bad?” Katy asked once Darius disappeared back toward the dressing room. “Like, scaring-paying-customers-off bad?”
“It wasn’t so much ‘bad’ as it was ‘good-adjacent,’ ” I said diplomatically. Katy groaned. “But you can turn this out. Come on. Show me that Katy Keene can-do spirit!”
As we walked the stand-in runway on the Molly’s Crisis stage, my phone cycling through Madonna’s greatest hits, I felt free. Free to make things more me, to move through the space the way I wanted to, without worrying about how masc I looked. And I could almost get Ethan Fox’s words out of my head.
Almost.
“SO YOU FINALLY CAME TO see me.” Ms. Freesia took a sip of her tea, the gold rim of the elegant china cup a stark contrast with her perfectly painted crimson lips. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“Don’t be silly.” I placed the box of macarons I’d picked up at Ladurée especially for her on the coffee table, a peace offering. “I would never.”
“Ooh, my favorite.” She clapped her hands girlishly. “I hope you brought plenty of the black currant–violet ones.”
“Of course. I know what you like.”
“Well, you’ve been gone for so long, ma petite chou, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if you’d forgotten everything about me.” Ms. Freesia sniffed dramatically, like some disconsolate grande dame on Broadway.
“There’s no need for theatrics.” I sniffed right back at her. Ivan, Ms. Freesia’s cat, jumped into her lap. He was an ugly thing, totally hairless, with large, bat-like ears, but she adored him. Ivan narrowed his eyes at me, blinking, like he was plotting some kind of nasty surprise. “I’ve simply been busy.”
“Busy with what? Your latest blonde floozy?”
“Not a floozy. You’d like her, actually.” I felt a smile I couldn’t resist playing about my lips. “She can definitely handle herself, that one.”
“Ooh. Who is she?” Ms. Freesia asked eagerly. “Heiress? Hedge fund manager? CEO of a Silicon Valley start-up?”
“Not everything is about money, you know.”
“It’s like I’ve taught you nothing.” She shook her head at me, but she was laughing.
“Well, it’s lovely to see you back here at the Georgia.”
“It’s a lovely building. I can assure you, Ms. Freesia, if I ever decide to join a co-op, I’d only consider buying at the Georgia.”
“It is the only address worth having in New York, and it has been since Grace Kelly maintained her Manhattan home here.”
“Back in the days when you and Princess Grace were old school chums?”
“I’m not that old.” Ms. Freesia’s eyes narrowed. I knew I shouldn’t tease, but sometimes it was awfully satisfying to get a rise out of the old girl. “So what’s the plan, Pepper? What are you going to do next?”
“I haven’t quite decided yet.” I took a macaron from the box—not one of the black currant-violet ones—and took a bite. That was the question everyone kept asking, but I simply wasn’t sure where I wanted to direct my energies and tremendous talents.
“Well, whenever you do decide, darling, let me know.” She smiled warmly. “Include me in whatever plans you have. I’m here for you always. I hope you know that.”
“I do, Ms. Freesia. I do.”
But what were my plans? The longer I stayed in New York, the more pressure I felt to launch my next big venture. The press had been nothing but kind since I arrived, but I knew they could turn on me in an instant. Being Pepper Smith meant something, and one of the things it meant was that I couldn’t rest on my (admittedly impressive) laurels. You were only as good as your next great idea, and I needed mine.
Of course, I always had Ms. Freesia and her trusty black book to turn to, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
Whatever I did next, I wanted to do it on my own.
I KNEW THE OLD JOKE about how you get to Carnegie Hall: practice, practice, practice. But it turns out you can also get to Carnegie Hall by driving into Pittsburgh while on tour with your dad. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, though.
The room they’d given me to get ready in wasn’t quite like dressing rooms I was used to seeing. It was a big open space on the second floor, full of a random assortment of Victorian-looking furniture and a few full-length mirrors scattered around, leaning against the walls. I examined my reflection in one of these mirrors, adjusting the halter neckline of my black jumpsuit. Turning my head this way and that, my silver chandelier earrings nearly brushed my bare shoulders.
“Josie, you are looking good tonight,” I addressed my reflection. Well, I guessed the natural next stop after only talking to Dad and Pauly was to start talking to myself. But unlike Pauly, I didn’t even know any interesting facts about bees. I thought again about sneaking out with Kevin to see Boone’s late show after my gig tonight. But that was a ridiculous thought. After what Dad said last time he caught me sneaking out? Boone wasn’t worth the risk.
Someone knocked on the door. I glanced up at the wall clock—way too early to start the show. Curious, I crossed to the door, and opened it to find my dad waiting for me.
“Hey, Josie.” He pushed up the brim of his fedora and scratched at his forehead. “Really exciting news.” If he was excited, I sure couldn’t tell. That man had elevated the poker face to an art form. “We’re adding a new stop to the tour. We’re taking a detour to New York.”
“New York? New York City?” I squealed, hoping he wasn’t about to say we were actually heading to Buffalo, New York. No offense to Buffalo, obviously—god bless the inventors of the buffalo wing—but it didn’t have quite the same cachet as New York City, especially when it came to performing.
“It’s a little out of the way, but I just heard from the booker at Tiny’s.”
Tiny’s. Oh my god. Tiny’s was a legendary jazz club in the Village. Everyone who was anyone had played there, and now I was about to become one of those exclusive everyones?
“Their headliner canceled, and they knew I was out on the road,” Dad continued. “So we’ll be heading there tomorrow.”
“Tiny’s. Wow, Dad.” I couldn’t quite believe it. “That’s awesome.”
“It is awesome,” he deadpanned. “You never know who could be in the audience. Agents, bookers, managers, talent scouts …” This could be my big break. A chance for me to go solo. “You need to be perfect, Josie. The name Myles McCoy means something. I can’t have you embarrassing me.”
“I wouldn’t.” I bristled. He thought I would embarrass him? Every time I thought I’d proved myself to my dad, by turning out stellar performances night after night, he’d pull something like this. It made me feel all of five years old again, listening to Dad critique my performance of “Rainbow Connection” at the kindergarten talent show as “a little pitchy.”
“Just keep on top of the tempo, okay? I’m still not happy with that bridge.”
“Got it.” I gritted my teeth. The inner metronome strikes again.
“And maybe do a couple mor
e warm-ups tonight that focus on articulation?” he suggested. “Your consonants are getting a little sloppy.”
“Great suggestion.” I hit the t in “great” harder than was necessary.
“I’m just trying to help, Josie.” He sighed with exasperation. “The world will be a lot harsher than I am.”
“That’s kind of hard to believe,” I muttered.
“If you want to make it in this business, you need to be perfect. Better than perfect. And if you can’t handle criticism, you should have stayed at home in Riverdale, singing in a diner basement.”
Veronica would not have appreciated the way he dismissed La Bonne Nuit, and I didn’t, either. But it wasn’t worth getting into with him.
“I can handle it, Dad.”
“Prove it, then. Let’s have another great show tonight.” He waved, and then turned to head down the stairs. “See you out there.”
It was so hard to keep my cool around him. Maybe he did just have my best interests at heart, but it was so much harder being critiqued by Dad than by other people. There was too much baggage there. Trying to calm down, I closed the door and crossed back into the room, taking a seat in a squashy armchair upholstered in red brocade. You know who was the only person who would appreciate this room? Kevin. With all this old, red-upholstered furniture, it looked like the Blossoms were running an estate sale. I missed having someone who got the weirdness of growing up in Riverdale—the more of America I saw, the more it confirmed my belief that my hometown was definitely not normal.
I knew I’d see him tonight, but it couldn’t wait. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, scrolled through my contacts until I hit the Ks, and FaceTimed Kevin.
“Josie?” His familiar face filled the screen, and I realized I’d missed him more than I’d thought.
“Why, if it isn’t Kevin Keller!” I cheered. “How’s my favorite stepbrother?”
“Happy to see you. Have you forgotten all about the little people from back home, now that you’re a big star?”
“Hardly. I could never forget you. Now, look at this couch.” I flipped the camera around so Kevin could see what I was pointing at. “What does this remind you of?”
“Oh my god,” he said. “I think Nana Rose has that exact same sofa at Thistlehouse.”
“Right?” I flipped the camera back to me excitedly. “That’s exactly what I thought! I think this place’s interior decorator was a Blossom.”
“Had to be. Please don’t play with fire. We know their taste in decor tends to be extremely flammable.”
“Oh my god, Kev, that is too soon.” I laughed anyway, though. “I can’t wait to see you tonight!”
“Tonight?” he repeated, confused.
“Yeah …” Why was he being so weird? “I’m in Pittsburgh. Didn’t you get the ticket I emailed you?”
“Oh no.” Kevin smacked his face with one hand. “I can’t believe this. I completely forgot. I’m not in Pittsburgh.”
“What? Where are you?” My fun night out at the Lonesome Cowboy with Kevin was slipping through my fingers like smoke. Now that it wasn’t going to happen, I realized just how badly I’d wanted to see him, wanted to have that little piece of home with me out here on the road.
“I’m in New York! I took the train down for this big open call for a show on Broadway,” he said, emphasizing the way, one jazz hand flared out and framing his handsome face.
“Kevin! Are you serious? That’s amazing!” I snapped as he took a series of little bows. “Don’t get me wrong, you were a great director for all those musicals back at Riverdale High, but I always thought a voice like yours deserved to be heard onstage, too.”
“Coming from the greatest diva in the history of Riverdale—and I mean that as nothing but a compliment—”
“I know you do,” I interrupted him.
“That really means something,” he finished. “Thanks, Josie.”
“So? When will I be seeing you on the Great White Way?” I tucked my knees into my chest, getting comfortable.
“Never.” He frowned. “Or at least, not anytime soon. I got cut after callbacks.”
“Those idiots.” I scoffed.
“They said they were looking for someone with more ‘edge.’ ” He air-quoted.
“More edge than you?” I raised an eyebrow. “Did you tell them you survived an organ-harvesting cult?”
“You know, I forgot to mention that.” Kevin pursed his lips. “Maybe I should have put that on my ‘special skills,’ in between ‘advanced tap’ and ‘conversational Spanish.’ ”
I laughed.
“But seriously, Kevin, even making it to callbacks is a huge accomplishment,” I said. “Maybe you should think about moving to New York after you graduate. Giving Broadway a real shot.”
“Why? Are you moving to New York?”
I paused. I hadn’t really thought about it seriously. It would be nice to have a place to put down roots. Make some friends. And I couldn’t imagine anywhere better than New York. I’d never spent any real time there—but I knew it was a city bursting with opportunity.
“I don’t know. But I know I’ll be there tomorrow. Wait a minute—this is perfect!” I squealed. “We can meet there!”
“I wish I could, Josie, but I have to get back to Carnegie Mellon.” Kevin’s face fell. “I’m at Penn Station right now, about to get on a train.”
“Seriously?” I couldn’t believe we were literally swapping places. “Can’t you stay for just one more day?” I wheedled.
“I can’t. I’ve already missed so many classes, and I have to give a presentation on the emergence of Noh theater in fourteenth-century Japan tomorrow that’s a quarter of my grade.”
“Okay, college boy. I understand.” I didn’t really—I wasn’t even sure what Noh theater was—but I got that he had other commitments.
“But have fun in New York!” he said encouragingly. “You’re gonna love it. And break a leg tonight!”
“Thanks, boo.”
I hung up, then stuck the phone back in my bag. No Kevin. Back to talking to myself. We were just a few minutes to places; I might as well save the stagehand the walk upstairs.
It was a good show; technically perfect, even, but I felt like there was something missing. Like some of the soul I usually sang with was gone. I guess my conversation with Dad was weighing on me. Or maybe it was my disappointment about not seeing Kevin. Usually, singing was my escape, my way out of my head, but I just couldn’t get there tonight.
Luckily, the audience didn’t seem to notice. Once again, the house wasn’t full, but at least the people who were there seemed to love it. It was always gratifying to see a crowd rise to their feet, and I basked in the warmth of the applause as I bowed, a couple steps behind Dad, as always.
“Josie, hold up.” I braced myself for Dad’s critique, wondering if he could feel the lack of something that I felt tonight. “Would you care to join me at the Lonesome Cowboy for the late show?”
He had to be kidding. I just couldn’t figure out why he was kidding.
“Is this a joke?” I asked. “Because if it is, it’s a weird one.”
“Not a joke. I’m interested in looking at this Boone Wyant person as a potential opener for Southern venues. Our tour routes seem to be constantly overlapping—he may be easy to slot into the tour. Pauly pointed out that it might be interesting to have a country artist open for us as we get closer to Nashville.” Pauly walked by just then and winked at me. Unbelievable. Was he matchmaking me and Boone Wyant?!
“So? Josie?” Dad prompted. I had zoned out for a minute, staring where the winking Pauly had been, unable to process what was happening. My brain was scrambled like I’d just taken Fizzle Rocks. “Would you like to come?”
“Sure. I mean, definitely beats seeing what’s in the vending machine at the Comfort Motel Pittsburgh.”
“We’ll see. The vending machine may end up being preferable to whatever we’re about to hear at the Lonesome Cowboy.”
&nb
sp; “Nice to see you’re approaching the evening with your trademark optimism, Dad.” I walked past him toward the stairs. “Are you sure you want to ask Boone to come on tour with us? Because it sure doesn’t sound like it.”
“No. I’m not sure at all. Which is why we’re going to hear him sing before we make any decisions.”
“Got it. Let me just grab my stuff and I’ll meet you out front.”
After flying up the stairs, I pulled on my coat, shoved my makeup into my bag, and scrambled back down again, worried that if I took too long, Dad might change his mind. Not because I was excited to see Boone again, obviously, but because I wanted a change of pace from another night alone in a motel.
Or at least that’s what I told myself, anyway.
Outside, Pauly and Dad were waiting in the van. I hopped in, and we sped through Pittsburgh, past lots of brick, industrial-looking buildings. In just a few minutes, we pulled up outside the Lonesome Cowboy. The bar’s name was spelled out in neon lights, and a huge crowd milled around on the sidewalk. Had all these people come to see Boone?
Dad and I climbed out of the van and waited on the sidewalk. There was a lot of flannel and denim in front of us. In our all-black ensembles, we looked like we’d come from a very different party.
Which, I suppose, we had.
“You coming, Pauly?” I opened the door and popped my head back into the van to ask him.
“Nah.” He turned over his shoulder to look at me. “I’m going to Primanti’s to grab a bite. Get this, Josie—they put the fries inside the sandwich.”
“What a world we live in, Pauly.”
“That we do, Josie, that we do.” He waved, and then the van pulled away from the curb.
Dad and I squeezed our way into the crowd, fighting through it until we reached the door. There was a palpable energy in the air, something almost electric.
“Sorry, folks,” the bouncer said. “Venue’s at capacity. Totally sold out for the late show.”
“I think we’re on the list,” I piped up before Dad could say anything. “Josie and Myles McCoy.”
Skeptically, the bouncer flipped through the papers on his clipboard, until, eyebrows raised, he found what he was looking for.
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