“She actually said that?” Nyla gasps. “Sins of the past?”
“I know, right?” It’s the next morning, and we’re standing on the empty stage in the Bonneville auditorium before the bell rings for first period. Nyla got me up this freakishly early by telling me she wanted to practice for the state drama competition. But it turns out that she actually wants to get a jump on the college audition tapes.
“Your granny is something else.” Nyla finishes screwing her video camera to the top of a tripod and steps back, looks at it critically, then adjusts it slightly to one side. “And why, exactly, did you decide to discuss sex with your grandmother?”
I cross my arms. “It’s your fault, now that I think about it. You told Mom about Bastian. And Mom told Grandma. And hence Grandma took it on herself to give me advice in the romance department. See? Your fault.”
Nyla nods. “Okay, yeah, sorry. My bad. But when I visit your mom—and come on, she’s practically my mom, too, Cass—she asks me questions about you. And she keeps asking until I give her something juicy. She’s like a cuddly, sweet version of the Spanish Inquisition.”
I give a fake gasp. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Her chief weapon is surprise. Surprise and fear.”
“Two,” Nyla amends, holding up two fingers. “Two chief elements. Surprise, fear, and a ruthless efficiency.”
“Three. Three chief elements.”
And we’re off on a Monty Python riff. My dad would be so proud that he’s indoctrinated us so thoroughly into a British comedy show from fifty years ago.
“All right, fine,” I say when I finish geeking out. “But try to resist my mother’s questioning when it comes to my love life, okay? Friends before mens. And, er, moms.”
“Okay,” Nyla agrees reluctantly. “He did keep staring at you yesterday when you weren’t looking,” she informs me, going back to messing with the video camera. “It’s creepy.”
“Who?”
She gives me a don’t-be-stupid look. “I gotta say, I’m with Grandma on this one. We don’t have time for boys.” She steps back and brushes off her hands. “Let’s audition for some colleges.”
“Do we have to? Can’t we just practice for state drama?”
“No more avoidance, my friend,” she says. “We’re making audition tapes. Early-admission deadlines are coming up fast. We’ve got to strike.” She pushes me to the center of the stage and retreats behind the camera. “And action,” she calls.
I give her a tired look. “Why do I have to go first?”
“And . . . action!” she says again, louder. The video camera makes a beeping noise.
I sigh and take a few seconds to compose myself, staring at the floor. Then I lift my head and try to channel Beatrice from Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. “O! that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.”
The camera beeps as Nyla stops recording. “That’s, uh, great, Cass.” She gives me what’s meant to be an encouraging smile, but I know her too well to be truly encouraged. She thought I sucked. Because I did, in fact, suck. I was kind of phoning it in.
“So that was decent, but let’s try it again,” she suggests. “This time give it everything you’ve got. Believe the ever-living shiz out of it.”
“Maybe I should do the Juliet monologue instead.” I heave my wistful Juliet sigh. “And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night.”
For some reason this makes me think of Bastian. I can immediately see us onstage together. My Juliet to his Romeo.
“No,” Nyla says flatly.
“But—”
“You should play one of Shakespeare’s strong women. This is your chance to show them you have the acting chops to be Kate. Rosaline. Lady Macbeth.” Nyla lifts her face to an invisible spotlight. “Oh, that I were a man!” she cries. “I would eat his heart out in the marketplace!”
Sigh. She’s good. She’s better than me.
“So do it one more time,” she says again. “Blow the socks completely off those folks at Juilliard.”
Ah, Juilliard. As Shakespeare would say: there’s the rub.
But I suck it up and try the monologue one more time. It doesn’t go any better.
Nyla shuts the camera off. “What is wrong with you? Did something else happen last night?”
We can joke about my mom, but the Spanish Inquisition’s got nothing on Nyla, not when she knows something’s up, so I sit at the edge of the stage and tell her about my new and improved college plans, i.e., not going to Juilliard.
Nyla slings an arm around me when I’m done talking. “I’m so sorry, Cass. That’s . . .”
“Not awesome,” I finish for her.
“Yeah.”
We’re quiet for a minute, letting it sink in. Because here’s the thing: I’ve been dreaming of Juilliard since middle school. I know I’m probably like every other drama nerd in the country—we all think we’re going to be stars. But I really did. For years I’ve haunted the Juilliard website, scouring everything I could dig up about their proud history, the plays they perform every year, the famous directors and actors who graduated from there to go on to total greatness. I’ve watched the video tour of the school an embarrassing amount of times, and I can so easily picture myself in those airy white rooms, taking acting lessons, voice, movement, singing, stage combat, all that Juilliard has to offer. From there it isn’t hard to picture myself walking the streets of New York City, strolling down Broadway, and looking up to see my own name on the marquee of a Broadway theater.
CASS MCMURTREY. Juilliard graduate. Winner of the Tony Award. (applause applause)
But that’s only a dream. I’m becoming more aware lately that I don’t live in a dream. I’m a resident of cold, hard reality.
“I mean, I guess I always knew it wasn’t going to happen,” I say. “Like I might as well apply to go to college on the moon.”
“Maybe you could—” Nyla says after a while, but I stop her. No time for wallowing. I jump to my feet.
“Let’s do yours,” I say.
Nyla frowns—but the theater is only going to be empty to film auditions for a few more minutes. So she pops up and blasts out this amazing monologue from Antigone. And then a bit from Chicago, and Emily from Our Town. She makes it look easy. Deep down I know that she would totally have a shot at Juilliard, if she wanted to go to Juilliard. But Nyla wants to go to USC. She pictures herself in Hollywood, strolling along Sunset Boulevard, her face on a movie poster at the bus stop. I can picture it, too. And Nyla never has to worry about money. Her family is loaded. Her dad is literally a brain surgeon. You could fit most of my house inside the great room of her house.
“Okay, now you again,” she says when she’s finished with her audition pieces.
“I think I’m done for today.”
She puts a hand to her hip. “Do you need me to give you a kick in the pants?”
“No, thank you.”
She turns the camera off again. “Cass. You want to go to Juilliard. You have to at least try.”
“Actually, I don’t. I’m not going to. Because I’ll either a) not get in or b) get in and not be able to afford it,” I say. “Neither of those options sounds like fun. But here’s the thing: I think that’s okay.”
I tell her about this wildly new concept of becoming a drama teacher and going somewhere more local. The backup dream.
“Oh my gosh.” She grabs my arm. “Are you actually considering going to Boise State?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s so—” She can’t even finish the sentence. I know she’s remembering all those nights we stayed up talking about how we were going to leave Idaho someday. See the world. Be part of something big and different and new.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Your dad is going to be so—”
“I know.”
She bites her lip. Nyla’s always had this idea that we should always try for the big things, the awesome things, the extraordinary. Probably because she started out in life in an orphanage in Liberia, and now she’s here. Her entire life is a freaking miracle. She’s probably so disappointed in me right now. I can tell she wants to give me a pep talk about believing in the improbable. Try, try again. Reach for the stars.
But I don’t want to hear it. “Anyway, I told my mom I might possibly consider maybe taking a look at Boise State. Like, go visit it sometime. See if it grows on me.”
“I’ll go with you for moral support,” Nyla says immediately. “Just say the word. I’m there.”
“Thanks. But it’s possible that I won’t even go to college next year. Maybe I’ll postpone.”
It feels like a betrayal to say this, because that’s me looking into the future and thinking I’ll have to postpone, because maybe my mom will—
“Okay, so let’s make a tape for Boise State,” Nyla says.
The bell rings.
I shrug. “We should go.”
The door of the theater bursts open and a bunch of freshmen start to trickle down the aisle. Nyla and I make for the exit. We stop at our respective lockers, then walk together to the staircase, where I have chemistry downstairs and Nyla goes upstairs for French. Nyla’s quiet the whole way to class, but I can practically hear her mind going a mile a minute. Trying to figure out how she can help me.
“Wait,” she says, right before we go our separate ways. “I think that Boise State could be . . . good.”
I find myself nodding. “I could come home and see my parents on the weekends. Do my laundry. Get Dad to make me some down-home vegetarian meals.”
“And you’d be a big fish,” Nyla says.
“Excuse me?”
“If you went to somewhere huge and expensive, you’d be a little fish in a big pond. But at Boise State, you’d be a big fish in a smaller pond.”
“I think Boise State has like twenty thousand students, Ny. It’s not like it’s a community college. Not that there’s anything wrong with community college.”
She makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “What I mean is, you’d be the obvious talent. You’d get better, bigger roles, way sooner than you would at Juilliard.”
I hadn’t thought of that before. “I guess so.”
“It could be good,” she says again.
“Yeah.”
We stand there for a second, students milling around us.
“I gotta—” I point downstairs.
She nods. “Me too. And I have to make up a test during breakfast break. So I’ll see you at lunch. Lucy’s?”
“Sure.” It’s been so great this year that seniors are allowed to go off campus for lunch. And so great that I have Nyla, who has never blinked an eye at paying for my lunch, and she’s never tried to make me feel like I owe her.
She really is the best bestie a girl could ask for.
I will never be able to pay her back, I realize in this moment, watching her walk away. I’m probably always going to have less than she has. Which doesn’t make me feel mad or jealous or anything. It’s simply the way things are. The truth. Whatever.
That’s apparently what the universe has in store for me.