Panic Page 2

  I draw inspiration from the sounds resonating in my ears and watch the people around me. They migrate like birds—a flock crosses the street en masse, heads of umbrellas dripping raindrops, and people inside the cafe fall in line, taking turns at the apex of the V when their names and coffee orders are called out.

  Each of them embodies a note in a song, showing up here and there, fading, and popping up again moments later.

  I hear music by just looking at the black dots and circles positioned on the staff. My sister rolled her eyes when I first told her that. But it’s true.

  I pick at my croissant. Sip my peppermint mocha.

  I jot down lovely phrases when they come to me, things like he bridges the gap with smiles. Then I think it sounds like dental work, so I cross it out.

  Beneath a folded moon.

  Moon of folded parchment.

  Folded moon.

  Paper moon.

  Origami moon.

  I read the poem I found in the origami moon again. A few lines repeat twice on the page. It reads like a chorus:

  Something in the breeze

  Freed

  East coast memories

  I hide

  Beside me.

  Deep inside

  Abiding like the tide.

  Somewhere in the ocean

  Rose

  Golden tones

  Bellowed notes

  I hide

  Beside me.

  Deep inside

  Abiding like the tide.

  Wait.

  I rewind my track. Play it again. It fits.

  Oh. My. God. It fits!

  I glance around the room, aching for a look of acknowledgment, a nod, a Yeah, that’s my moon.

  The activity around me carries on as if I’m not even here, as if I could lift right out of this scene and no one would notice. No one’s looking at me, no one’s worried about me or this origami moon.

  I’m not usually one for collaboration, but . . .

  I have to find whoever wrote this poem.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  Dad: Car arriving shortly.

  Dad: Got caught up in a meeting so I’ll see you afterward for dinner.

  Dad: Knock ’em dead!

  My heart sinks. Dad was supposed to pick me up himself. Ever since Mom started working full time, getting me to auditions and rehearsals has been his responsibility. I mean, Giorgio may be a kick-ass driver, but a pep-talk guru he’s not.

  I get that Dad manages other talent, though. I’m not his only client. And he knows I rarely get stage fright anymore, so it’s not the end of the world if I have to go to an audition by myself. Even an audition of this magnitude.

  I look out at Minnesota Avenue just as Dad’s business limo pulls up to the curb.

  Ugh. I’d much rather have hopped on the L if he couldn’t make it.

  I mean, the bridal party walked in the rain, but I get my dad’s car?

  Pushing down my frustration, I gather my things, purple moon included. Beanie on head, hoodie zipped up, backpack slung over my right shoulder.

  “Must be nice,” I think I hear one of the Sophias say as I head toward the exit.

  Maybe she’s not even talking about me. Maybe it was my imagination.

  But I know it wasn’t.

  I take a deep breath. It’s okay. I’d rather be me than be a Sophia.

  Chapter 3

  I’m sitting in a room with eight other girls just like me: all five-five to five-eight, fifteen to eighteen years old, with a bag full of necessities—dance shoes, sheet music—and a pocketful of dreams.

  I pull out the brown bob wig from my bag and secure it over the rose-gold waves atop my head. I’m not sure how they’re going to feel about my pink hair, and I don’t want to give them any reason not to consider me.

  “Madelaine Joseph?”

  She said my name correctly. Good sign. “Yes.” I stand.

  My fingertips go numb for not more than a breath before my mother’s voice filters into my head to calm me: Shut out the world. Just perform out there.

  I smile and follow the casting director down a hallway.

  “Any relation to Jesse Joseph?”

  Sigh. “He’s my father.”

  She jots a note and turns over my headshot, I assume to read my bio.

  “And Ella Norini’s your mother.” A smile. “Is she still working?”

  “She is.” It’s not exactly true, not in the sense the casting director means—unless she wants to know if Mom is still an executive assistant splitting time between two large corporations in the Loop—but it’s not a lie.

  For a second, I fully register the fact that my talented mother is making copies and filing paperwork. Such a waste.

  “Well, with parents like yours, I’m excited to see what you can do.”

  “They’ve been wonderful sources of influence.” It’s what I’m supposed to say, and it pleases her.

  I enter the audition room.

  “Mezzo-soprano?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Dance experience?”

  “Twelve years instruction in ballet, jazz, tap—”

  “You tap?”

  “Very well.” If I do say so myself.

  “No one taps anymore.”

  “I think it’s making a comeback,” I say.

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  “I studied tap under Andrew Tomlinson. And I have seven years lyrical and contemporary, ma’am.”

  “Professional productions?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been performing since I was about four, and my career launched with Mary Poppins when I was six.”

  Her finger traces words on the back of my headshot. She raises a brow and looks at me over her glasses. “I see you’ve had a busy few years.”

  I smile and nod.

  “Let’s get started.”

  I sing my heart out. I tap by request. I read for the part of Pepper.

  It’s nothing I haven’t done dozens of times in the past year, nothing I won’t do hundreds of times in the years to come.

  But this audition could very well cement my future. A production of this size, under this director, just might put me in line for acceptance to NYU—my dream school. It could open doors to work outside the city, across the country, and maybe even light the path to the almighty Broadway.

  You might think it’s strange that I’m comfortable on stage or in front of a panel of judges or on camera, when having a simple face-to-face conversation terrifies me some days. But it’s a pretty common phenomenon for people like me. When I’m performing, I’m allowed a break from the mess I usually am. I fit myself snugly into whatever character the stage demands, and I thrive under those lights.

  I perform till my heart’s about to burst . . . only to have the casting team stare at me blankly throughout the whole process.

  Once it’s over, Pepper dissipates, and Madelaine slowly filters back in. I pull the wig from my head. Hello, old boring self.

  Now that I’m no longer in character, I’m agonizingly conscious of every raised eyebrow, every downturned lip, every dismissive grunt that the casting team directed at me. They were all smiles at first, but they painted the entire room a shade of doom once the door closed.

  Trying to breathe steadily, I check my phone.

  Hayley sent her usual break a leg. I adore my sister, despite the obvious animosity between her and my mom lately.

  Mom sent the expected string of hearts and this audition’s version of you-were-tap-dancing-in-utero to encourage me.

  Even my Nana Adie texted a goofy-yet-inspirational meme.

  And the latest text from my father.

  Dad: You got this. See you soon. Morton’s tonight?

  I was really hoping we’d get to hang out at his place. I haven’t been there in forever. Quality time with my dad these days has started to feel like a series of business meetings. And I never know how to respond when he changes our plans. At least he did
n’t cancel outright this time. The only thing more awkward than sitting through a rushed dinner out with him would be an evening at home listening to Mom rant about his parenting style.

  I have to find a way to make my way onto a stage. I have to find a decent escape in a character—any character—so I can cease being me for hours of rehearsal, for weeks of runs, while my parents sink back into another string of useless arguments.

  I imagine the Sophias rolling their eyes at this thought—yeah, like it’s so tough riding in limos and jet-setting off to Broadway to take in a show whenever Daddy offers—but they don’t understand. They don’t understand the exhaustion I feel in being the rope in the constant game of tug-of-war between my mother and father.

  Sure, maybe the world is at my fingertips when I’m riding around with Dad, but the majority of the time, I’m with my mom, who sighs heavily and checks the balance in her checking account if I tell her I’m out of mascara.

  I take a selfie, this time ensuring only one of my eyes is visible in the frame, and post it to Instagram: Audition = wars of Scarlet and Razzmatazz in my nerves.

  “Hey, Lainey.”

  I look up from shoving my dance shoes back into my bag. The familiar voice belongs to another girl who frequents the Chicagoland audition circuit. “McKenna. Hi.” I hope she doesn’t mistake my tone as my being less than friendly. She’s never been anything but ridiculously nice to me, but she’s also mega-talented. If she auditioned for Pepper, I’m screwed.

  “A bunch of us are heading out for smoothies. Sort of a celebratory thank-god-that-audition’s-over. Brutal in there, weren’t they?”

  “Yeah. If ever a casting team could take the most talented people in the city and make them feel clumsy and idiotic, it’s this one.” Ugh, I’m babbling. I either freeze up or blurt out way too much when I stumble into a conversation with someone I don’t know well.

  McKenna smiles. “You wanna join us? Brendon’s coming—you know my brother, Brendon, right?”

  Pause.

  If the Sophias are attached at the hip, Brendon and McKenna Weekes—twins—are attached at the umbilical cord, but they’re a hell of a lot more pleasant. Their collective bio might read something like Never fully dressed without a smile, or maybe All the world’s a stage. Their social media is packed with group pictures, declarations about the world’s best performances, and Tony-award predictions.

  “And Brendon’s all about this new guy he’s dating—”

  “A guy this time?”

  “You know Brendon. If someone’s hot, they’re hot.”

  I nod. “Agreed.” I don’t actually know Brendon that well, but he’s super open about being pan, and I respect that. I wonder what it’s like to be so confident, so sure of who you are and what you want. I have enough trouble approaching someone of one gender, let alone any gender.

  “Should be pretty entertaining,” McKenna’s saying.

  If I could conjure even a fraction of her brother’s animation, I might actually find a place I fit. I’m half-tempted to blow off my dinner plans with Dad and tag along. But that’ll piss Dad off, and I don’t think I have the energy for one of his freeze-outs. “Thanks, but I gotta meet my dad.”

  “Some other time, maybe?”

  The truth is I’d really love to hang out with more people who understand theater life, but I tense up a little at the thought of it. For one thing, we’re constantly in competition with each other, and I think that’d be hard to overcome. I mean, how do you enjoy and support someone who just stole your future? At least I never had to worry about that with the Sophias.

  Second, it’s always a hassle to start hanging out with a new crowd. Once Dad catches wind of it, he’ll be buying up tickets to the hottest Broadway show du jour to ensure things go well with my new friends.

  Sounds great, right? I suppose it is—in theory. But that’s how the Sophias happened.

  Still, I nod. “Sounds good.”

  “Great.” Her phone is out of her pocket now. “Still have the same number?”

  “Yeah.” My heart lifts a little to know that she hasn’t deleted my number from years ago, when we were both ensemble in Peter Pan.

  “I’m adding you to the group chat. God, can you believe the call-back list will be posted by morning?”

  Once again, the weight of all we’ve just done hits me like a brick wall. My immediate, and in some respects long-term, future is simmered down to a ten-minute slice of my day. “It’ll be tough to sleep tonight.”

  “We’ll be in it together, sister. Commiserating. Seriously, if you can’t sleep, reach out.”

  My phone pings with a hello text from McKenna, part of a group message, which McKenna has inexplicably named “Raspberry Beret.”

  I text back the same and, just for fun, switch the alert for the text group to the Prince song for which it’s named.

  A few seconds later, His Royal Purpleness sings through my phone when McKenna’s brother chimes in on the message.

  Brendon: Dream it, be it, do it.

  “Ha!” McKenna points to my phone. “Fast work! That’s great!”

  I like this about McKenna: it wasn’t exactly edgy of me to pair the song with the text group, but she’s enthusiastic about it anyway.

  “You ever going to come to our high school?” McKenna shoves her phone into the waistband of her dance pants.

  “Actually, I’m going to be talking to my dad about it again tonight.”

  She crosses fingers on both her hands and lets out a little squee.

  “I know, right?” And for just a second, I again consider blowing off my dinner plans to join her and Brendon.

  But like the dutiful daughter I am, I text Dad’s driver, then go out to meet the car at the corner.

  While I’m waiting, I catch a glimpse again: a figure on the corner across the street.

  Black raincoat. Hood up.

  I hold my breath.

  Is it the same guy I thought was looking at me earlier at the Factory?

  Giorgio pulls up, and I exhale.

  Probably not the same guy. Black raincoats are very common, after all.

  Giorgio drives me to Morton’s. Dad and I sit down to dinner. Dad’s on his phone, so I stay on mine, checking my favorite band’s website. No one’s heard from Vagabonds since last July. God, how I’ve missed witnessing the band’s banter online. I’ve missed watching their a cappella snippets performed with the ukulele, their reluctant interviews . . . They were an escape in my otherwise harried existence.

  Hayley’s texting again.

  Hayley: How’d it go today?

  Me: Eh.

  Hayley: Psh

  Hayley: I’m sure you were fabulous.

  Me: Ehhh

  Hayley: You’re awesome. You’ll get it.

  Me: Here’s to hoping.

  Me: Found something interesting at the coffee shop.

  I fish the origami moon from my backpack and unfold it. Snap a picture of it. Text it to my sister.

  Me: And the weird thing is that it actually fits with the piece I’m working on.

  Hayley: Who wrote it?

  Me: Don’t know.

  Dad clears his throat. “Uh-huh,” he’s saying into his phone. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  I try not to roll my eyes. I know he’s talking to his girlfriend, whom he refers to as Miss Karissa, like she’s my kindergarten teacher. They’ve been together for . . . God, it must be years now, but for some reason he hardly ever talks about her or their relationship.

  “Yeah, okay.” He shifts in his seat and practically turns his back to me. “Tomorrow night. Sure. Get Jennica and the boys ready, and we’ll all take a trip out there. Yeah. Me too. I do, I do.”

  God. He can’t even tell her he loves her in front of me.

  I wonder if this is how Hayley felt when Dad left her mom to pursue a future with mine. I wonder how long it took for her to feel as if she were part of his new adventures . . . because more often than not, I feel like a visitor with a limited day
pass. Then again, Hayley was only about four when it all happened to her, and her mother isn’t super involved in anything but sedatives—in fact I don’t even know if Hayley’s even still in touch with her mom. So her experience was probably very different than what I’m going through.

  I shoot her another text.

  Me: Talk later?

  Hayley: At study group tonight. Big test Monday. Tomorrow morning?

  Me: OK

  Hayley: <3

  Me: <3 <3 <3

  Dad finally gets off the phone.

  “So you’re taking Jennica and the boys someplace?” I ask, copying his phrasing, like the boys are a single entity. “Where are you going?”

  “Hey, let’s talk about you,” he says. “I thought the limo would be a nice surprise for you today. Did Giorgio get you there on time?”

  For a second I just frown. Why did he ignore my question?

  “Hello? Madelaine? Are you in there somewhere?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How was it? Arriving in style?”

  How the hell am I supposed to respond to this? Admit I’d rather have taken the L, and I’d be ungrateful. Respond enthusiastically, and I’ll be finding myself riding in hired cars for all of eternity. I know, I know. Poor baby. But I don’t want to be that girl.

  I shrug. “Giorgio’s great.”

  “And the audition? Like I always say: walk in there like you’ve already got the role.”

  “And I did.”

  “Great. You amaze me, kid. And I think I might have a connection,” Dad says. “A mutual friend of the director.”

  I don’t want to get a role based on Dad’s connections. I want to earn it.

  “Before you start on your idealistic speech again, how do you think everyone else gets a foot in the door?” Dad asks. “It’s who you know. I’m your manager, this is my job.”

  Up to a point it is. But I often wish that, instead of leaning on his friends to get me parts, he’d give me the tools I need to develop my talents and land jobs on my own merits.

  “So tell me more about the audition, kiddo.”

  I don’t want him to know how much I’m stressing over it. I search for a positive spin. “She said I was a strong tapper.”

  “You are.” He’d say that even if I weren’t because he doesn’t know enough about tap dancing to know if I’m good or not. He doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body, but he manages to get me the right auditions with the right companies at the right time.