I whip around in a panic, looking for someone to explain this to me, but I just come face-to-face with a crowd of well-wishers. Their congratulations barely register with me, and I mumble my thanks as I try to make sense of this.
That’s when I see Marla Martinez standing at the back of the crowd, her arms crossed as she casts a narrow-eyed stare at me. If looks could kill, I would be one of those homicide victims they find during the first few minutes of an episode of Law & Order.
I try to walk past her without making eye contact, but she steps in front of me. “Congratulations,” she says, not sounding entirely sincere.
“Thanks,” I say to my shoes. “I wasn’t trying for this, you know. I mean, I wasn’t trying to steal your part.”
She sighs and I can practically hear her eyes rolling. I look up to see her bored expression.
“At least own it, okay, Jolie? The ‘poor little me’ act gets old fast.”
She spins around and walks away, the scent of her hair lingering as I fight the urge to rub my face like I just got slapped.
I shake my head. There’s no time to worry about Marla right now; I just need someone to help me figure out what the hell is going on. Was there a mistake? Did Mrs. Mulaney mean to type Jordan Paterson and autocorrect filled in my name? Is Peter Turturro holding a grudge because he missed Dr. Phil’s opening credits and now he’s playing a practical joke?
I pull out my phone and text Evie. I’m coming over.
* * *
Evelyn’s biggest obsession is The Golden Girls—you know, that old sitcom about four elderly women who live together in Florida. It’s super weird for a sixteen-year-old to be so into it, but Evelyn can relate pretty much any situation back to that show. “This is just like that time Rose got fired from the pet store for being too old,” she’ll say, shaking her head, even when I fail to see how my personal problems relate in any way to a fictional elderly woman’s.
When I show up at her house she is, as usual, watching the show while drinking a mug of tea. “Come on in,” she says, answering the door. “Sophia’s just about to lay down another sick burn on Dorothy.”
“I thought you were studying for history,” I say.
“Perhaps you could say I’m studying the history of sitcom fashion,” she says as we nestle into the couch.
“Perhaps I could say you’re procrastinating. You do know there are shows about people our age on TV, right?” I ask.
She waves a hand. “Yeah, but I don’t relate to those.”
She has a point. Evelyn is kind of like one of the brash, no-nonsense characters on The Golden Girls, and not just because she currently has dyed-gray hair. Evelyn just doesn’t care what people say, and she cares even less about what people think. Will anyone else like this outfit? is a sentence that has probably never even run through her head. Right now, she’s wearing a denim vest over a floral button-down with a suede skirt and black tights. It’s an outfit that would make me look like an overgrown toddler allowed to dress herself for the first time, but on Evelyn, it somehow makes sense. Life just isn’t fair. She was born knowing she’d look awesome in anything, whereas I wouldn’t even dare stray from my palette of neutrals.
She reaches out and grabs my arm. “So what happened? Did you get your part in the chorus?!”
I can’t even be mad that she’s changing the subject from her (lack of) studying because her enthusiasm is very sweet … even if I am internally freaking out right now.
“I’m Prudie. I’m the lead.”
She pauses the TV and stares at me, mouth open. “Seriously? This is fantastic! I told you that you could do it!”
I scowl. “What happened? Did you put a curse on Mrs. Mulaney or something? How did I get the lead? And why aren’t you surprised?”
Evelyn shakes her head. “Despite that time I tried to put a curse on Mr. Kader so he would get food poisoning and be unable to administer our algebra test, I don’t actually possess mystical powers. Even if I wanted to, there’s no way I could convince Mrs. Mulaney to cast anyone. She must’ve just liked you.”
I pick at my cuticles. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ev.”
She tilts her head, encouraging me to go on.
“Like, I know excitement was riding high before my audition, but this isn’t what I thought would happen. I thought I’d be in the background if I got cast at all. But the lead? The one everyone’s looking at? The part with the most lines and, oh yeah, solos? I don’t think I can do this.”
“Are you going to start talking about all your barf-related performance stories again?” she says, and takes a sip of her tea.
“I get nervous! I just don’t like people looking at me,” I say, burrowing farther into the couch. “You know that. It makes my hands get sweaty and my face get red and my stomach feel like it’s staging a revolt against the rest of my organs.”
Evelyn raises her eyebrows. “But you can’t just spend all your time hiding from things that are scary, even if you are trying to become one with my couch right now.”
I don’t point out that she’s also kind of hiding from studying, but I don’t have to, because from behind her mug she says, “Patricia blew a gasket when she found out I failed last week’s history quiz.”
“You failed it?” I wail, then try to rein in my despair when I see how upset Evelyn looks. “But we studied together! I thought you knew everything there was to know about the Revolutionary War.”
She shrugs, but the gesture seems forced. “All of those dates. It’s like they go into my head and then shoot back out again to make room for something more practical. Anyway, now Patricia’s threatening to take away my sewing machine unless I get my grade up, and I was like, ‘Uh, do you expect me to sew denim by hand, lady?’”
I wince. “Sorry. Are you sure you don’t want to study right now for this week’s quiz? I could help you—ooh! We could make flash cards!”
She shakes her head. “I’m trying to drown my sorrows in tea and television.”
“Okay.” I prop my feet up on the coffee table, all too eager to forget about my musical-related nerves.
Evelyn presses play. “So, I’ll fill you in on what’s happening. Blanche is about to go on a date with this guy…”
As she describes a plot that I don’t really care too much about, I let myself space out and think about the musical. The biggest part of me doesn’t think I can do this—memorize these lines, somehow learn to sing entire songs, act next to Noah Reed without freaking out or passing out. But I’ll admit it: Evelyn’s confidence in me has boosted mine a bit, and there’s another, smaller part of me that’s standing up straight and getting ready to go. The part of me that says, I did it. I tried out and I got the part. The part of me that actually wants people to look at me, that actually wants to be a star.