I can’t sleep. Again. I text Hayley.
Me: You up?
Hayley: BFFLS!
Me: Do you know what’s going on with Dad and my mom?
Hayley: You told me.
Me: I mean about what Dad plans to do about the court case?
Hayley: No.
Hayley: But I really think we just shouldn’t talk about it anymore.
Hayley: Because I don’t want to fight with u.
Hayley: I don’t agree with some of Ella’s decisions
Hayley: and she’s your mom, so you defend her to the death.
I tell her what I heard Dad say anyway.
Hayley: Can I play devil’s advocate?
Me: Of course.
Me: Help me understand.
Me: PLEASE.
Hayley: You let him spend extravagantly.
Hayley: These trips, the shopping
Hayley: I don’t do that sort of thing.
Hayley: If you keep taking, you’re perpetuating the cycle.
Hayley: Have you ever thought about simply asking him NOT to spend?
Hayley: Asking him to simply help Ella pay for your school?
Me: Yes, actually!
Me: He says he can’t bail her out of this.
Me: It’s like he doesn’t see the connection.
Me: Like he wants me to blame her
Me: But I see how hard she’s trying.
Me: I feel like nothing she does gets her remotely close to adequate.
Hayley: But like it or not, Dad has the legal right to file continuances.
Hayley: Technically, he’s not wrong.
Me: It’s not fair, though.
Hayley: Who said life was fair?
I fall asleep with my phone in my hand.
When I awaken, everything is fuzzy, like I’m on the other side of a static-y television. I blink a few times, and details start to come into focus.
It’s nearly nine.
I bolt upright. I’m late for school.
And I’ve missed about thirty messages from “Raspberry Beret,” all describing the nerves of waiting for the final cast list to post.
Music is playing in the kitchen. But it’s not Nana’s usual Madonna throwback. It’s classical. Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.”
I peek out into the hallway.
I see my mother’s feet under the kitchen table. She’s wearing her worn, pale pink pointe shoes, and while her feet may not be moving across the floor, she’s dancing. I see them flexing and pointing in an entrechat.
The furniture in the living room beyond has been pushed to the edges of the room. Unless I slept through a tornado, Mom and Nana have moved the furniture to create a dance floor. I meander closer. “Mom?’
“Good morning, Lainey.” She and Nana Adie are drinking coffee. Nana is already pouring me a cup of my own.
“My alarm didn’t go off,” I say.
“It did,” Mom says. “You slept through it.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask. “Sister Mary Angela’s going to ream me.”
“Not if you don’t go,” Mom says.
“Don’t I have to go?”
“And make it that much easier for your father to decide to pick you up directly from school, and take you straight to the airport?” Mom shakes her head. “We thought we’d try this instead.”
“That’s why I’m staying home?”
“I thought it would be nice to spend the day together,” Mom says.
“All right, what’s going on?”
“I already told you,” Mom says. “Two can play at his game.”
“Ohhhhkay.”
“Raspberry Beret” chimes again. I check the messages.
Brendon: We’re in!
Brendon: We’re all on the cast list!
Brendon: NYC, here comes the cast of ANNIE!
Me: Hold on.
Me: Have to see this for myself!
Brendon: . . .
I tap my email icon and see the message from the casting director. I can’t move for a good ten seconds.
I muster the courage and open the email. I scroll through the cordialities and finally find the cast list.
Pepper, Pepper, Pepper. . . . Please let me be Pepper!
Pepper: McKenna Weekes.
As happy as I am for McKenna, my heart sinks. My cheeks are hot, and the world starts to blacken at the edges until I feel like I’m looking at the cast list through a pair of binoculars.
It’s not like Pepper’s a big part. It wasn’t a goal too high to aim for. And I didn’t reach it.
“Lainey?” Mom asks.
“Wait.” I scroll to the end until I see the list of ensemble cast. Instantly, I pick out Brendon’s name, but I don’t see mine.
I shove away jealous thoughts—Brendon and McKenna have been on the audition circuit half as long as me, and they’re in and I’m not—and I’m going to have to spend the weekend with them in New York. I’m going to have to pull myself together and be happy for them.
But Brendon said I was in.
I check the ensemble cast list again. There’s a Madeline Jameson, which is sort of close to Madelaine Joseph. Maybe Brendon just misread the name.
It’s okay if I didn’t make it. There will be other auditions, other opportunities.
But I wanted this opportunity.
With everything going on in my family life, I need a character to slip into. I need the escape. And now . . .
There’s no escape on the horizon.
I get it. I’m a little too tall to be a Pepper. Not quite old enough to play one of the leads. I’m in that strange in-between age. But to not make even ensemble?
This must be how Mom felt on those few auditions when she attempted a comeback: not quite right for any particular role. I look at the ballet shoes on her feet. Someday, I’ll be dancing only in my apartment, too.
I swallow my disappointment and go back to “Raspberry Beret.”
Me: Congrats, guys.
Me: But I wasn’t cast.
Brendon: Ummm, yes you were!
McKenna: . . .
I look again, reading more slowly this time. Then I see it.
July: Madelaine Joseph.
I let out a little yelp. I’m in. My name will be on a program. Not where I wanted it, but it’ll be there. I’ll have another production to put on my résumé. One step closer to NYU. One step closer to my dream.
I swipe back to “Raspberry Beret” to see that McKenna sent a screenshot of my name circled. I type a quick OMG YES! and look up at Mom and Nana. “I’m in! I have lines! I have a singing solo!”
Nana kills the music. “Oh, Lainey!”
“Now there are two reasons to stay home from school!” Mom says. “Let’s celebrate!”
“Wait. You already knew!”
Mom’s eyes are sparkling. “You went shopping with your dad. I had a drink with the casting director. She said she’d call if she had any news.” Mom grins and gets to her feet. “She called half an hour ago.”
I catapult into her arms.
“Let’s go to that little pastry shop you used to like.” She leads me in a spin with all the grace and control I’ve seen on the old footage of her performances.
I watch her step across the floor.
I hear the notes of my song, pairing with every footfall.