balls of their feet. Bree heard Selena ask in a discreet tone, “Were you going to show me the green room?”
And just as they glided in, they glided out.
Bree’s gaze was still on the open door when Birdie, wide-eyed, rushed in with the rest of the cast. Words of panic danced in conversations around them as Birdie spoke. “Did you see her? That woman Selena?”
Bree set her hairbrush down, calm despite the anchor falling in her stomach. “Yes.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“Only that she was an actress from New York and came to visit.”
“Visit,” Birdie repeated. She took a deep breath. Her eyes darted around. “That’s all it is. Maybe just a visit.”
“Oh please,” Cara said from the other dressing table, pulling off her beige slipper. “She’s a classically trained actress and a Rockette. She just came back from an Off-Broadway tour, and Kayleigh’s trying to convince her to stay and audition for Singin’ in the Rain.”
Birdie took another deep breath, then pressed her fists to her hips and swiveled back to Bree. “Oh. Well, that’s fine,” Birdie said in clipped, upbeat notes. “That’s fine because we can still land a role—even with one less slot.”
Bree stood there while Birdie started on her best we’re-gonna-get-through-this-we-just-have-to-practice pep talk. Bree nodded mutely while she scrubbed the makeup off her face and changed into jeans.
But all she could feel while she transitioned from theatre clothes to street clothes was the world closing in. All she could hear was the door slamming.
It was time to call it.
“—because if anyone knows this theatre it’s us, not her, and just saying she was in Off-Broadway means nothing. She could’ve been a mute servant girl who gets killed in the first act and has to lie onstage the rest of the play until the audience figures out who did it—”
“Yeah, well, I gotta run, my parents are waiting for me,” Bree said, breaking into the middle of Birdie’s speech. She tried to give Birdie’s hands a heartfelt squeeze, but even she could feel the limpness of her own. She looked Birdie—dear, sweet, nearly mad-eyed Birdie—in the eye. “I know you can do it, Birdie,” Bree said, her voice low. “You’re going to do great.”
Bree let go of Birdie’s hands, snatched up her bag, and hurried for the door.
“We’re going to do great!” Birdie called out after her. “We both are gonna do great!”
Bree’s legs felt like a thousand pounds as she dragged herself down the hall, the voices from the dressing room chasing her.
“Comin’ through,” a man said, and she turned sideways, hugging the wall to make room for a rolling tree prop.
Her fingertips held on to the beige cinderblock a moment longer than necessary before she let go and resumed walking.
She wouldn’t have admitted it to herself before, but she was going to miss this place.
The frantic dress rehearsals.
The collective energy just before the show began.
The feeling like wherever you were in that moment onstage was the most important place to be, and you were doing the most important thing to do.
Sure, she would’ve wanted to do more than lounge against trees one day. Maybe land a real speaking role. Maybe even—in her newest, wildest dreams—get to sing a song or two.
If she was honest with herself, she had actually started to hope. Over the last few days of all-day, late-into-the-night practices at her house and with Birdie at the warehouse, she had begun to believe a future at the Barter just might be possible.
But now . . .
Bree cleared her throat as she pushed open the door and walked onstage. She stopped dead center, holding her backpack on one shoulder as she looked out over the auditorium. The lights were low. The room empty. A single spotlight still fell directly where she stood. Where she was bound to stand for the last time.
On this stage.
Soon enough, in Nana’s house.
She imagined spending the rest of her life bouncing from job to job, home to home. Driving by Nana’s house sometimes just to see if the red-and-green-striped bathroom wallpaper she’d helped Nana hang that day had been painted over, or if the creaky wood porch swing had been replaced with something shiny and metal. Exactly how long would it take to tear down a thousand memories that were the foundation of her childhood, the foundation of her very being?
If only she had walked in earlier that morning to check on Nana. Maybe if she hadn’t slept in . . .