Scene 4

When Mom and I came home from Grand Theater after seeing our first musical together, I was feeling a lot of emotions. I was super happy, of course, but also sad. The performance was over. I would never feel that again: getting to see that performance for the first time. The only thing that made it better was talking to Mom. She helped me understand that even though I wouldn’t get to see it again for the first time, there were lots of other musicals out there waiting for me. I would get to experience a lot of new things and happy moments because of my interest in musicals. Hearing that helped balance out all my feelings.

Plus, talking about it with her was almost like experiencing it again, which was pretty cool.

Mom knocks on the door while I’m listening to the soundtrack to Dear Evan Hansen upside down on my bed after dinner. Sometimes the only thing that will cheer me up is a really sad song, and Dear Evan Hansen has a lot of them. It’s a good musical though, even if the one guy lies to everyone the whole time. I could never get away with all that lying.

“Maya?” she asks, cracking the door open just a little bit to peek her head into the room. I should be excited that Irene Brown gave me a book that’s important to her, but instead it’s shoved under my bed. I should be hanging out with Jules, but she doesn’t even answer the phone now. Nothing is what it’s supposed to be.

I’m tapping my fingers against my knees to the beat of the big number in Dear Evan Hansen, the one where they say you’re not alone. It feels really nice to hear it, but the chorus of voices makes me feel really overwhelmed and emotional.

Mom steps into the room. “Oh, it’s an upside-down day?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me why?” She pulls out the chair from my desk and sits down.

“Yes.”

I roll over onto my side. I pause the music so I can hear her better. I’ve been waiting to tell her all afternoon, actually, but she’s been busy. Every time I looked at her, she gave me this little wave which I know means “come back later,” but it never seemed like later was happening.

“I didn’t get the part I wanted,” I whisper, curling my hands into fists. “I keep trying to tell you that.”

“Oh Maya-papaya, I’m so sorry. You remember what we talked about?”

I clench my teeth.

“It’s okay not to get the things we want sometimes. Maybe Ms. Brown chose a better role for you?”

I shake my head, the room blurring. “No.”

“How do you know?” Mom leans forward. I catch a glimpse of her phone, hidden between her hands.

“I didn’t get any stage part at all,” I say. I keep my voice even and quiet, like I’m talking to a stranger. Even though I’m at home, I still feel like I have to be Maya in Public. It’s been so long since she’s listened to me that I don’t know how to act.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her phone starts buzzing in her hands. I can hardly pay attention to what she’s telling me: the buzzing feels so loud. It’s like a siren telling me that her attention is somewhere else, that I’m not important enough right now.

She stands up, gesturing to her phone. “I have to take this. We can talk right after this call, okay?”

I nod even though I know there won’t be an after. I guess this is what Mom meant when she told me I was old enough to manage on my own, but it doesn’t feel good.

---

I sit in the silence for a few minutes, staring at the empty chair. I want to go talk to her. Even though she had to go take a call from her study group or something. I thought I could handle this on my own. I don’t think I want to anymore. I’ve tried for days and it’s only getting worse: Aislinn, Jules, all the other campers.

I hop off my bed. As I walk downstairs, my head is full of the same thing over and over: I need to talk to Mom.

I stop when I get to the doorway into our kitchen. She’s hunched over some papers at the kitchen table, the blonde strands of her hair falling out of the bun that she had them in this morning.

“Mom?”

She looks up at me, placing her pen on the table next to her notepad. “Maya? I’m so sorry, honey, I lost track of time.”

I sniffle. The words stick in my throat. She leans back in her chair and waves at me to come sit down next to her. She pulls out the chair closest to her, its feet scraping along the tile floor.

“Come, sit, Maya-papaya.” She taps on the seat of the empty chair and I walk over, plopping myself down next to her.

I want to say something and tell her what I’m feeling, but inside is a big jumble. Aislinn’s mad at me. Jules won’t answer my calls. I’m not the lead. Everything is a mess. My eyes are filling up, so instead of letting out words, I let out tears.

“Oh Maya, honey,” Mom whispers. “I knew it was an upside-down day, but I didn’t realize you were this upset. I was so distracted by that call.”

“It’s not . . . it’s not just the part,” I say. “It’s . . . I thought Jules and Aislinn were my friends, but now Jules is upset with me and Aislinn is too and—and—they have everything they wanted! Jules has cool new friends and her swim class. Aislinn has the lead role in the showcase. But I have to be the stupid assistant director. I thought it would be cool to work with Irene Brown, but it’s so hard and confusing! And I practiced for Janet’s part, I know those lines. This whole summer is all wrong. It’s completely off-script! When you said I should start being more independent, I didn’t realize that meant everything going out of control.”

She puts her hands on my shoulders and even though it feels weird, I look at her for a minute. Then she pulls me into a super tight hug. The kind that squeezes out all of the bad feelings.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t realize sooner that you were having such a hard time. You were so excited for camp, and with all the prep I’ve had to do for this exam, I thought you’d be okay for a little bit. It was part of letting you be more independent, but I should have checked in more.”

“I still need you,” I whisper.

“Yes, I can see that, and I’m here now,” she says. She touches her forehead to mine gently, so it doesn’t jumble our brains around. It makes me feel good when she does that, like we’re having a secret conversation between our foreheads, one that doesn’t need words. “So let’s go through this one thing at a time.”

It takes nearly half the time it would take to watch a whole play before Mom untangles all the mixed-up feelings in my head. She also lets me in on the secret to why she’s studying so hard. She wants to get into law to help other families like ours, with kids like me. Kids that she says can “be amazing in our own ways with the right support.” She told me it was really hard to get all the support I needed when I was little, and it can still be really hard when school is happening. So even though it means she won’t be around to help me all the time like she used to, I want her to keep studying. And I’m really happy that she told me. We’re going to work together to find a better balance for me being more independent.

When we’re done talking, we put on one of our matching sets of musical t-shirts and do The Dance. The big one that I usually only do at home, because it makes people look at me weird. Mom’s waving her arms around like she’s one of those silly tube people made up of air. I’m dancing and hopping around next to her, making weird crab claws like I’m in The Little Mermaid. Finally, I start to feel the first bubble of okay-ness start to build up in my chest. For the first time in forever, it feels like my mom is with me again. I feel like I could float away. Like a huge rock has been moved off my shoulders and we’re back to when we’d spend time seeing musicals or figuring out how I could “try to connect” with my classmates.

Mom crashes onto the couch, out of breath. The pillows fall onto the floor.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to see that you were struggling,” she whispers. The words feel like hugs for my brain. “But you also have to remember that having a hard time doesn’t mean you can give other people a hard time.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“You’ve been really tough on Aislinn.”

My first thought is one that I definitely shouldn’t say: that Aislinn took the role I wanted. So I don’t say anything.

Mom crosses her arms. “Maya.”

I pull my lips into a tight line.

“Maya, you’re doing the exact same thing that you did to Jules. You’re asking for your friends to be perfect and follow every rule you’ve given them in your head. That’s not fair to them or to you.”

I fall back onto the couch next to her. “Then why do I have to follow all these rules and no one else does?”

“Your rules . . .” Mom sighs. “You know that your brain is different. It learns things better when we discuss and explain them. Remember when we talked about how close to stand to someone else or when to raise your voice? Everyone else is following similar rules, so we talk about them to make them something you consider when you’re with other people. But, Maya, the rules you’re giving other people, the ones about telling them what to do or not to do to be your friend, that’s not the same thing. It’s . . . I can see how it would be hard for you to see the difference here.”

Mom is silent for a few minutes. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to connect all the little raised bits into a weird white mega-constellation. If she can’t even explain it, how am I supposed to understand what I should be doing? Everyone else is always telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing, that they don’t like how I’m doing something or that I’m being weird. But I can’t do it too?

“Okay,” Mom starts, “so the rules you have, those are ones we made together. You got to be part of it. Some of them aren’t great, but they’ve helped you in some situations. Did you ask Aislinn if she wanted to follow the rule of not auditioning?”

I bite my lip. “No.”

“Did you ask Jules if she wanted to keep having your phone calls during her swim practice?”

“No.”

“That’s where it’s different. Now, some other kids like you didn’t get a choice in making the rules they have to follow either, but that’s a conversation for another day.” Mom scratches her head. “What do you think you should do now?”

“I should apologize to them.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they’re my friends and I was rude.” My eyes start to tear up. “I didn’t . . . I just get so focused on—on how I think things should be. I hope they still want to be my friends.”

Mom reaches over to hold my hand. “I’m sure they will. But if they don’t, that’s up to them. It’s a two-way street, Maya. We can’t force people to stay in our lives, just like you can’t force Aislinn to replace Jules or force Jules to stick to your schedule. And maybe we should talk about the rules you’ve been following. You’re right: it’s not fair that you have to follow all these rules and the other kids don’t. Just because your brain is different, doesn’t mean that you can’t be yourself.”

It feels a little weird hearing her say that out loud. It’s a bit like an aside, like she’s talking just to me in the audience but also somehow that she’s suggesting we re-write the stage directions for Maya in Public. It sounds scary, but also exciting. Maybe I don’t have to worry so much about who I’m trying to be anymore. I remember what Irene Brown told me, about a director not being too directive. In the same way I can’t force the other campers to do what I want, maybe Mom’s rules don’t have to direct me all the time.

“Yeah, I think . . . I think that would be good.”

“We can’t get rid of all of them at once, though,” she adds. “Some of the rules we’ve talked about when you were little, those ones are still important. But now that you’re older, we can try to figure out some other . . . suggestions, instead. And you can come talk to me anytime, you know? I’m always going to be here for you.” She pulls me in for a side hug. We’re both a bit sweaty so I squirm a little. She laughs. “Well, what do you say we call your father now and tell him your big news?”