“Oh really?” her mom said, perfectly shaped eyebrows disappearing into blond bangs. “For a particular boy, or . . . ?”
It was a leading question, one Brie, at thirteen, was already used to. She felt her cheeks turn warm, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Stop, no. Just to watch the game.”
“Didn’t know you were such a hockey fan.”
“I’m a fan of hanging out with Parker and drinking hot cocoa,” Brie countered. “Not everything is about boys.”
“There’s nothing wrong with liking boys, Brie,” her mom said as Brie continued blushing. “High school is around the corner, and there are homecoming dances and proms and—”
“I’m still in eighth grade!” shouted Brie. “None of that even matters yet. Stop.”
Her mom looked at her as if she’d sprouted an extra head, her wide, defined mouth curved down at the corners. Her fingers reached for the pendant that hung around her neck, sliding it back and forth along its chain. “Why are you yelling? We’re just having a conversation.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“This is why it’s so difficult to talk to you—you can’t just have a conversation.”
“Mom, just forget it!”
Neither one of them said anything after that as General Hospital played out on the TV in front of them. Brie could hardly pay attention. Kelly Monaco came on the screen, with her dark pretty hair and a mischievous smile, and Brie sank into her seat, distractedly picking at her fingernails. Her mom’s hand was still toying with the Mother of God pendant she never took off.
Brie looked away from the TV. Focused on her chipped nail polish instead. (The nail polish Mrs. Dwek had yet to notice.) Brie still had to tell her mom she lied about crowning Mary, and the part that made her stomach hurt was trying to figure out what she could possibly say when her mom inevitably asked her why she lied in the first place.
I didn’t want you to see me looking at another woman’s boobs, and I don’t want you to know why I get upset every time you ask me about boys.
“You know you can talk to me about anything,” her mom suddenly said.
Brie wondered if she really meant it.
Luckily, her dad chose that moment to walk back in through the front door, a small stack of mail in his hands. “Trevor!” he shouted up the stairs toward Brie’s older brother’s bedroom, which Trevor pretty much never left. “I can see your tire prints on the grass again! You need to turn more carefully!”
Brie’s dad came into the living room and handed Brie’s mom most of the stack, pressing a kiss on her forehead as he passed by. He held out a thin-looking pamphlet to Brie. “Looks like something came in the mail for you.”
“Me?” Brie said, taking it from him. She never got any mail.
When she saw what it was, she let out a shrill screech, jumping off the couch and causing her mom to exasperatedly shout, “Gabrielle! Talk about being dramatic.”
Brie dramatically rolled her eyes. Dramatics were exactly what she needed! She’d almost forgotten she’d sent away for the brochure, but here it was, right in her hands, in gold and purple lettering: Monmouth County Performing Arts.
This was why she couldn’t wait for graduation. It was Brie’s lifelong dream to go to MCPA. Well, ever since she’d learned about the performing arts high school when its students came to her fourth-grade class in full costume to promote their latest show. Brie had gone home and immediately begged her mom to take her to it. The two of them had gone to MCPA’s big spring show every year since.
MCPA was a high school dedicated solely to the arts—a school where she could learn how to be as good an actress as her favorite soap stars on TV—and the brochure had lists of classes that included theater and television and film acting. It talked about the special guests that had visited in the past, including Broadway actress Kelli O’Hara, Monmouth County’s own resident composer Tim Arnold, and—“Oh my gosh!”—soap opera actress Melissa Reeves. There was even a list on the back of the brochure with the names of students who had gone on to successful acting careers postgraduation.
“I have to go here!” Brie said, which was exactly what she’d told Parker in the fourth grade the second the high school students had finished their short promotional performance.
“Let me see that,” her mom said, and as she reached for the brochure, Brie didn’t let go. “Why did we get this?”
“I filled out a form online,” Brie said, flipping through the brochure for information about auditions. “I need to do the application next, but I’ll need a credit card. I think the fee’s like fifty dollars.”
Her mom exchanged a glance with her dad. “Brie, wait. Don’t you think this is something you should talk to us about first?”
Brie didn’t like the tone of her mom’s voice. “We talk about it every year. We go to their show every year.”
Another parental exchange of glances.
“What?” Brie asked.
Brie’s mom kept her eyes on her dad, but he didn’t say anything. She sighed and said, “We can’t afford this.”
“It’s only fifty dollars.”
“The school. We can’t afford this school.”
“We can’t afford OLPH, either,” Brie pointed out. “Dad can work out a deal with them, too, maybe.”
“Brie.”
“I can at least audition, can’t I? And we can go from there.”
“Brie.”
“It’s my dream, Mom!”
“Brie!”
“What?”
The room fell silent, except for the conversation on the TV in the background. An ex trying to reconcile with the man who always had her heart. A conversation steadily turning into a bitter argument between an ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend. Brie’s dad reached for the remote and turned the TV off.
“The answer is no,” her mom said. “It’s a lot of money for a program that narrows your focus too much. The odds of getting this kind of work, to shell out this kind of money for you to end up with an uncertain future—”
“It’s not uncertain,” Brie said, then looked at her dad. “You guys always say to follow our dreams. Is that all crap?”
“Brie, just hear your mother out.”
“No. She never hears me out.”
“Hey, watch your tone,” her mom said. “And how can you expect us to be okay with spending money we don’t have on this school? How can you ask your father to make more sacrifices for you to attend another expensive school, when you barely put in an effort at the one you’re already at? Your report card last quarter was atrocious.”
“I didn’t fail anything!”
“Mediocre grades for mediocre effort,” her mom said.
Brie looked to her dad for support, but he just cringed in a way that meant you know she’s right, because she was. Brie had a backpack full of unfinished homework and a grammar test she’d gotten a C-minus on since she hadn’t studied for it.
The words slipped from her mouth as desperately and as easily as they had the day before: “But I’m going to crown Mary!”