CHAPTER 4
There were several ironclad, unimpeachable rules you had to follow when lying to your parents.
Rule #1: Cover your bases. All the bases. The reason that neither Stevie or I had ever been caught was that we planned. We thought ahead. We tied up loose ends. We had learned long ago from Friends that you always had to think about the trail, and we always did. So the first thing we did was get Teri onboard, before my dad could call her parents, who would have no idea what he was talking about and would blow the whole operation.
Which led me to Rule #2: Never look like you’ve counted your chickens. So before I packed anything, I asked my dad for permission. He was on the phone, but he nodded distractedly at me. “I can stay the night at Teri’s?” I asked slowly and loudly, to make sure he’d remember. The last thing you wanted was to get in trouble because your parents weren’t paying attention to your alibi if you were going to the trouble to set one up.
But saying that also allowed me to hew close to Rule #3: Stick to things that are technically the truth. I was going to be staying the night at Teri’s. I was just going to be doing a lot of other stuff before then, but since he hadn’t asked me for specifics, that was on him.
So when I came downstairs with my duffel packed with what I’d need for a night in the city and then a sleepover—my favorite dress, a pair of ankle boots, my makeup bag and magic curling iron, sweatpants and a show shirt (Anything Goes) to wear as pajamas, and an extra sweater to wear on Saturday—it was knowing I’d done my due diligence, dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s.
I stepped into the kitchen and saw, to my surprise, that my mother was there. My mom worked in finance, at a hedge fund in Putnam, one town over. She was with a company named Blackpool, which sounded interesting, and like something out of a fantasy novel, but was actually just an office filled with people in zip-up sweaters moving money around. But she usually wasn’t home until at least seven, and it was now only a little after three—this was very early for her. I wondered if maybe the FBI had raided the offices again, and that was why she was here. She and my dad were standing around the kitchen island, having what sounded like a kind of intense discussion, while Grady sat at the kitchen table with his book, seemingly oblivious to all of it.
“We didn’t RSVP yes, right?” my dad asked. “We said we’d try.”
“I know,” my mother said with a sigh as she ran her hand through her hair. “But then I got an email from Sarah this afternoon saying she was looking forward to seeing us tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” I asked as I walked through the kitchen, heading for the fridge. “Also, Mom, why are you here?”
“That’s nice,” my mother said, shaking her head at me even though she was smiling.
“I just meant it’s early.”
“I had an off-site with a client and they cancelled last-minute, so I just came home. You dad and I need to figure out this invitation.”
“To what?” I asked as I pulled open the fridge.
“Engagement party at some hotel in the city,” my dad said. “For one of your mother’s colleagues’ daughters.”
“Are you going to go?”
“No,” my dad said, looking at my mom. “Right?”
My mother picked up her phone again and scrolled through it. “I would rather skip it,” she said. “I like Sarah, but I don’t know her well. I’ve never met her daughter… it feels like we would be encroaching.”
“That settles it,” my dad said, looking relieved. He nodded at my duffel. “You’re off to Teri’s?”
“Don’t stay up too late,” my mom said, smoothing my hair back, and I nodded, trying not to grin, aka Rule #4: Don’t look too happy when your parents believe your cover story. “And I’m sorry about the list—your dad told me.”
“At least this is the last time we’ll have to live through this,” my dad said.
“No—there’s still the musical.”
“Oh right,” my dad said. “The musical.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, mostly so I wouldn’t start yelling. Even though my parents had told me, from the time I could remember, that I could grow up to be anything I wanted, I knew they didn’t really take me seriously when I told them that what I wanted to do—all I wanted to do—was act.
And no matter how hard I’d tried, I couldn’t seem to get through to them that Lear wasn’t just any play. It wasn’t just some after-school activity. It might actually determine the course of the rest of my life. I was set on auditioning for colleges with conservatory acting programs, so I could get my BFA and start doing this for real. And what would it say to those schools—to those cream-of-the-crop, best-of-the-best acting programs—if I couldn’t even get the part I wanted in my high school play?
“You guys know this won’t be the last play I’ll ever audition for,” I said, wondering why we had to keep doing this. “You know that’s what I’m going to be doing at college.”
“We’re fine with that,” my mother said, but I noticed she was speaking carefully now, like when I’d heard her on work calls where she weighed every word for its potential repercussions. “At the liberal arts college of your choice, where you’ll get a BA—”
“It is so unfair you won’t let me go to a conservatory!” I exploded. This was a fight we’d had over and over, to the point where it was like a well-rehearsed scene. Ever since we’d started talking about my college options, I’d only been looking at the ones that would let me focus on acting—Tisch at NYU, BU, Carnegie Mellon, University of Michigan, USC. My parents told me I could study whatever I wanted—and they were okay with me being a theater major—but they’d drawn a hard line at conservatories, saying I was not under any circumstances going to a BFA program. “I want to act, you guys know how important it is to me, and—”
“And we’re not saying you can’t act,” my dad said, his voice soothing. “But act while taking all kinds of other classes, not so focused on one thing that you might not even like in two years.”
“After all, just a few years ago, you were going to be a professional dancer,” Grady said, putting a bookmark in place and turning toward us, apparently deciding he was going to join the conversation.
“You were six,” I pointed out. “What do you remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” he said darkly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like when you were dancing in the kitchen and kicked me?” My brother gave me a long look. “It’s not something you forget.”
“Look,” I said, turning back to my parents, “I don’t know how you can doubt I’m serious about this. The theater department has been my life for the last four years—”
“And maybe that hasn’t been such a good thing,” my mother interjected, causing me to stop short. This was a deviation from our previous fights—it was like she’d suddenly gone off-script on me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” she said, “that, yes, you’ve been very focused the last few years. And while we admire the commitment, it means that you didn’t give yourself the chance to expand your interests.”