It wasn’t huge, but there were little cracks, and I knew my best friend had been the one to make them.
I paced around the greenroom, running my first line in my head, even though I knew this script backward and forward. I’d even used my monologue for my two conservatory auditions. In the end, I’d decided to cast a wide net. Northwestern, yes, but also USC and College of the West and Bates, Vanderbilt and Colgate, Scripps and Tulane, Columbia and NYU. Now that I wasn’t following my dad’s exact plan, I’d decided I might as well have as many possibilities as I could.
Though I hadn’t started to narrow them down, more and more I was liking the idea of staying closer to home. I was just getting to know my siblings, after all, and even though it had only been a few months, things were undeniably better with my dad. And even though I knew this wouldn’t stop if I was at school in Los Angeles or Evanston or Nashville, I didn’t have a huge need to get out of town. I decided that I’d just see how I was feeling when the acceptances—or rejections—started to roll in.
I needed to take a minute, just to get centered, so I stepped out of the greenroom and into the hallway. I walked slowly up and down, rolling my shoulders back and taking deep breaths. I was always fine once the show had started and all this anticipatory energy burned off. It was just in this moment before that it helped to get out of my own head.
I stopped in front of a poster that had been hung up. The Scriveners, it read. An Original Works Festival. Short plays written, directed, and starring Stanwich High School students.
I smiled as I looked at it. It had all been a fight—even getting this poster hung up in the hallway had been what my dad would call a knock-down, drag-out—but Kat had done it, in the end. And I was so proud of her for pulling it off.
The festival wasn’t until next month, but getting it off the ground had been the biggest challenge of all. Mr. Campbell had not taken kindly to the idea of someone coming in and putting on a show that he wasn’t in charge of and hadn’t sanctioned—especially not when it was being spearheaded by Kat, who he’d been pointedly ignoring ever since she turned down assistant directing. It was essentially the cut direct, something I’d read about in old novels but had never seen someone employ in real life, or modern day. But through lots of fights, she’d prevailed. I was acting in three of the plays, and was directing one. I knew it was going to be a huge success.
And even though it was still very hard for me to do, I was trying not to think too far ahead. Right now, the furthest out I wanted to plan was this summer—and someone had to plan it, since everyone had very different ideas, and none of them were compatible. My mom wanted me to come with her on a gallery tour of the Catskills—she’d been acquiring a lot recently. I was pretty sure it had something to do with finally getting New York Night number three, now hung in the spot that had been reserved for it all those years, completing the series. After she’d gotten it, she’d starting acquiring for the Pearce in a different way. It was like she was less locked into what my grandmother would have chosen. She was even thinking about getting a separate space, or a different wing, for emerging artists. She was still figuring it out, but it had been a revelation to me that no matter how old you get, it’s hard to shake your parents’ expectations.
Matty was making big plans for what he was calling the Sinclair/Lampitoc Sibling Summer (Winter) Friendship Fun Tour. He was determined that we should all go to Australia and New Zealand—possibly Fiji, too—and the rest of us had a suspicion it was just because he liked how absurd it sounded.
And as for me, I’d been looking into internships and assistant positions for me and Kat, something we could do together our last summer before college. The Williamstown Theatre Festival had a great one, and Amy thought she might be able to get us PA jobs on her upcoming film. There were some summer stock theaters in Pennsylvania and Tennessee and Ohio… we didn’t have to make any decisions yet, but it was fun, for the moment, to just look at all the opportunities and know we had options for a truly epic summer.
I turned away from the poster and saw Beckett walking down the hallway toward me, dressed all in tech crew black. I gave him a smile, and he gave me one back.
“Hey,” I said, and he raised his eyebrows at me.
“Ready?” he asked.
“As I’ll ever be.” Things between us had been different since we got back from New York. A few weeks into Lear rehearsals, Beckett had started dating the junior running the sound board. We were still friends—I knew we’d always be friends—but what we were doing now felt more balanced, somehow. Healthier.
Beckett smiled at me. “You’ll be great,” he said. “Break a leg.”
“And you, don’t break one.” He laughed, and gave me a nod before hurrying off.
Greta passed him as she half ran up the hallway, clutching her clipboard, looking around. “Places! That is places, people.”
I nodded. “Places, thank you.”
Greta stuck her head into the greenroom and announced places, and I decided to beat the rush as I headed off toward the wings. I stood in the dark, and smoothed down my costume, and took a deep breath.
I was ready.
CHAPTER 32
Kat
As I stood in the lobby of the theater, I realized that it was my first time on the other side.
I had dressed up for opening night, of course, and there was a seat saved for me in the auditorium. But as I walked into the building with the rest of the parents and friends coming to see the first performance of King Lear, I realized that it was my very first time there as just an audience member. On the other side of the curtain, not running around getting ready or preparing or putting out fires. Just someone there to see a play, one face among many in the audience.
I nodded at the sophomore selling refreshments and she gave me a quick nod back before looking from side to side, like she was making sure she should have done that. I didn’t blame her—Mr. Campbell still had a lot of power in the department, and I was basically persona non grata these days.
I shucked off my coat as I walked inside, well aware that everyone else was waiting for me, and at least three people were probably rolling their eyes at each other about my tardiness. But I’d driven my own car over because I’d thought it might take me a minute, just to process it all.
Even though turning down assistant directing had been the right thing to do, that didn’t mean it hadn’t been difficult. The day rehearsals started, I waved goodbye to Stevie and saw everyone—all my friends—heading over to the theater together, off on some grand adventure I wouldn’t be part of. It had hit me harder than I realized it would, and I’d gotten in my car to go home, but hadn’t even made it half a mile before I’d pulled over to the side of the road and cried.
And Stevie did her best to try and keep me in the loop, but it wasn’t easy—I still sat at lunch with everyone, but there were now inside jokes I didn’t understand, which is just what happens when a group of people spends hours together every day. It was tough, but I understood it wasn’t personal. And over time, it had gotten easier.
I’d also been keeping busy. I’d written two essays for the Pilgrim, our school paper, and had joined mock trial as an alternate at Dara Chapman’s urging, because they always needed people who could act, and none of the people who did theater were ever free. I really liked it, even though law was something I’d never considered, despite the fact I liked acting and arguing, which seemed to be the two main requirements.