“That is not the question,” Britt insisted.
“We exchanged phone numbers,” Lucy said, and Sarah squealed and jumped up and down.
“I’d hate you,” Sarah said, “if I didn’t know how nice you are.”
As she followed her friends up the stairs to their suite on the fourth floor, Lucy smiled to herself. She did feel lucky, or at least relieved. Now that she’d met Shane, maybe she could waste less time obsessing over Jesse, wondering what he was up to or why he hadn’t written.
After she’d showered the party from her skin, Lucy switched the light off and climbed into bed with her phone. When Jesse’s name popped up in her e-mail in-box, she let out a gasp.
“What is it?” Britt asked sleepily from under her covers.
“This really has been some night,” Lucy said, clicking through to the message.
To: Lucy Sommersworth
From: Jesse Palladino
Hey there. It made me happy to get your last e-mail. I’m glad you’re having a good time at Forsythe. Sorry to be so slow in writing back. Things are changing fast here at the Bertolini. Nello gave notice yesterday. For weeks now, his mom has been calling every night, begging him to move home. Sometimes she even cries into the phone, laying the guilt trip on really thick. So he decided to cave and go back to Torre Annunziata, his hometown. He’s such a softy.
Anyway, since Rome, I’ve been thinking it’s time for me to move on, too. The Bertolini won’t be anywhere near as much fun without Nello. This morning, he invited me to come stay with his family in Torre Annunziata—just until I figure out where I want to go next.
So, next stop: Nello’s family home. He’s got six sisters… can you imagine? Lucky for Nello, he has his own room. Unlucky for Nello, he’s going to have to share it with me.
Ciao,
Jesse
“Oh, crap,” Lucy said. “Jesse’s leaving the Bertolini.”
“What does it matter?” Britt asked.
“I guess it doesn’t. Except it makes me sad to think of the Bert with him not there.” Lucy forced a laugh. “I know, foolish, right?”
Britt didn’t answer.
“Should I write back tonight?” Lucy asked.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because he takes forever to answer my e-mails.”
“Then make him wait,” Britt said.
“You’re right. I will.” And with great resolve, Lucy turned off her phone and tucked it under her pillow. But she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes shut. At least an hour later, long after Britt’s breathing had turned into gentle snoring, Lucy reached back under her pillow. She turned the phone on under her duvet to keep the light from waking Britt.
To: Jesse Palladino
From: Lucy Sommersworth
Please send my love to Nello—he was one of the nicest people I met all summer. I just got home from my first real college party. It was kind of noisy and beery and crowded, but I did meet at least one cool person there, which I guess means it was a success.
I have to admit, I’m a little bit bummed to hear that you’ll be leaving the Bertolini. The place won’t be the same without you and Nello. But it’s very cool that you’re moving on to new adventures. Send me a postcard or something from Torre Annunziata, okay? I confess, I don’t even know where that is, but I hope it’s great.
So Nello has six sisters? Wow. That’s really something. I’m imagining a houseful of gorgeous Italian girls. Che bellezza! How will you stand it?
When she reached the end of the message, Lucy hesitated, wondering how to sign off. Love, Lucy, she typed, then erased the words. Jesse hadn’t signed his message with love. Maybe she shouldn’t, either.
She considered ending with hugs and kisses; she even thought about using something more neutral like best or regards. After all, love wasn’t a word they’d used in person. But if what she felt for Jesse wasn’t love, Lucy couldn’t imagine what love was.
She typed the words again: Love, Lucy. And before she could change her mind, she took a deep breath and hit send.
XIII
The campus of Forsythe University might not be Florence or Rome, but it was beautiful in its own way, especially in mid-September, with the lawns bright green and the leaves just starting to turn. In knee-high boots and a red plaid skirt, Lucy hurried to class, feeling more like an actress playing the part of a college student than an actual college student. She’d chosen the skirt to reflect her mood: optimistic, triumphant. After a couple of days of not hearing from Shane and deciding he probably wasn’t going to contact her after all, she’d gotten a text from him, inviting her out for dinner on Saturday night. At a fancy restaurant in Center City, no less.
“An actual date?” Sarah had exclaimed when Lucy showed her the message. “Do people still do that?”
Now a mix of music floated from the open windows of the dorms she passed on her way to class—rap, country, eighties pop—a sound track to her morning. Silvery chords from an acoustic guitar spilled onto the quad, making Lucy think of Jesse. He hadn’t written her back yet. By now, he was probably in Torre Annunziata, living with Nello’s six sisters, but she wasn’t going to let that spoil her mood today. Even passing the smug brick façade of Marston Hall—Charlene’s dorm—didn’t bring her down.
She hadn’t spoken with Charlene since the long, silent purgatory of their flight home to Philadelphia, though once or twice they had passed each other in the dining hall, each of them working hard to pretend she hadn’t seen the other. The last thing Lucy would want now was to bump into Charlene. She picked up her pace, holding her breath until she was safely beyond Marston, then taking the stairs to the Social Sciences building two at a time.
There, at the top of the hill, loomed the ultramodern Theater Arts building. Usually, whenever she passed it, Lucy looked straight ahead, not wanting to catch sight of the drama majors who gathered on the front steps, laughing in a pack. They belonged there and she didn’t. But this morning, the plaza in front of the building was quieter than usual. Feeling just a little reckless, Lucy allowed herself one wistful glance at the entrance, which was how she caught sight of a square of neon yellow she hadn’t noticed before—a sign taped to the glass door. Curious, Lucy slowed to a halt, then climbed the steps for a closer look.
AUDITIONS FOR RENT
WEDNESDAY, 7 PM
EVERYONE WELCOME
Lucy froze, aware of her own heartbeat. Rent was her all-time favorite musical. After seeing the movie version, she had listened to the sound track night and day until she knew every single note of the score. Ever since, playing the role of downtown diva Maureen had been one of her favorite daydreams.
Lucy took a step back from the door, then another. She paused at the top of the steps, trying to recapture the optimism she’d been feeling, but it had been replaced by sadness for the things she’d traded away. Lucy felt a sudden urge to head straight back to bed. But her class started in five minutes, so she forced herself onward.
“It’s like the universe is tormenting me,” she told her suitemates that night. The four of them were lounging around in pajamas, supposedly watching TV, but really talking.
“I don’t understand,” Sarah said over her mug of peppermint tea. “I thought you never wanted to go on another audition again.”
“I did say that,” Lucy said. “I meant it, too.”
“So what do you care about Rent?” The Tweety Bird face on the front of Sarah’s nightdress, with its enormous blue eyes, fly-away yellow hair, and tiny mouth, looked comically like Sarah, but Lucy hadn’t been able to work out whether or not Sarah herself saw the resemblance.
“Haven’t you ever had mixed feelings about something?” Britt aimed the remote control at the TV. Lucy shot her a grateful look.
“Well, you can’t have the spotlight and the applause without the auditions and the stage fright,” Sarah said.
“Tell her something she doesn’t know,” Britt said.
Sarah scrunched up her nose. “If she wan
ts to be onstage, she should just face her fears. Bite the bullet.” She grabbed the clicker from Britt’s hand, settled on a channel, and set the remote down out of Britt’s reach. “All those clichés.”
Glory, who had been silently doing yoga poses, her glossy black curls tied back in a pouf, made a tsk-tsk noise.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Britt asked.
Glory came out of her downward dog. “She made a promise.”
“So?” Sarah asked.
Lucy sat cross-legged, popcorn bowl in her lap, looking from one friend to another as though she were watching a three-player tennis match. If they remembered she was in the room, they didn’t let on.
Glory swung onto her belly and went into the cobra pose. “She accepted a trip to Europe in exchange for giving up acting. Her parents held up their part of the deal. She can’t back out now.”
“Seriously?” Sarah said.
“That’s how a deal works.”
“This is about Lucy’s life,” Britt chimed in. “About the thing she loves to do. Does anybody have the right to make her give that up?”
“A promise is a promise,” Glory said.
“Technically, she promised not to be a drama major,” Britt said. “She didn’t promise never to act again. So she wouldn’t be in breach of contract.” She said that last bit tauntingly. Lucy knew that it was only because her suitemates generally got along that they could give one another a hard time like this. Even so, being the subject of their debate was starting to make her feel antsy. She tried to focus on the TV—a rerun of Friends was playing—but tuning out her friends was impossible.
“So you think she should break her promise? On a technicality?” Glory would make a great lawyer someday, Lucy often thought. She never shied away from an argument.
“I think it’s her life,” Britt declared. “Promise or no promise. Lucy should do what she wants.”
“But what does she want?” Glory asked. “Because at this point I’m not even sure.”
All three of them turned their attention to Lucy, who cleared her throat. “I’m not going to audition.” She made her voice decisive. “Now can we please just watch Friends?”
Maybe Lucy shouldn’t have listened to the sound track from Rent as she fell asleep that night, so that the songs wove themselves through her dreams. Maybe she shouldn’t have looked again at Jesse’s picture, imagining what he would say about auditioning. Maybe she should have taken the long way back from her afternoon classes instead of passing the Theater Arts building and stopping to reread that sign.
Back in her dorm room, Lucy sat alone with the lights off, remembering her last, disastrous audition. When Brittany came in, she snapped the lights on and found Lucy blinking, owl-like, in surprise.
“What’s this?” Britt asked, closing the door behind her.
“Even if I did try out, they wouldn’t pick me for a good role, anyway. Drama majors must get all the best parts, right?”
“What time is the audition?”
Lucy looked at her clock. “In an hour and fifteen minutes.”
“There’s still time.” Britt perched beside her on the edge of the bed. “If you decide you want to give it a try.”
“I haven’t prepared a monologue,” Lucy said. “Or a song.”
“But you must know some by heart. Since you’ve auditioned so many times before?”
Lucy covered her face with her hands. “The last time was such a disaster,” she said. “I think I must have over-rehearsed or something.”
“So that won’t be a problem this time,” Britt said matter-of-factly.
“But what if I freeze up again? I’d make a fool out of myself in front of everyone.”
“Yeah, in front of a bunch of strangers you’ll probably never see again, who will all be so freaked out about their own auditions that they couldn’t care less about yours. I can’t think of anything worse.” Britt tapped her chin and gazed up at the ceiling. “Oh, wait. I can. Sitting alone in the dark, worrying about it.”
“But I haven’t picked out audition clothes. What if I don’t have anything to wear?”
Britt leaped up and flung open the door to Lucy’s closet, which was stuffed so full of clothing there wasn’t room for one more hanger. “Poor Lucy. She has nothing to wear. Not. One. Thing.”
Lucy giggled. “You’re really going to make me do this?” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“Ew, girl. Mind your manners!” Britt grabbed a box of tissues from the bureau and tossed it to Lucy. “I’ll march you to the Theater Arts building and sit in the front row while you audition, if that’s what it takes.”
“Don’t do that,” Lucy said. “If I screw up I don’t want anyone I know there. Least of all someone I live with. I would have to ask Campus Life to find me a new roommate.”
“Or you could go into the witness protection program.”
Britt helped Lucy pick out audition clothes—a red silk T-shirt, a short black skirt, tights, knee-high boots, and her most dramatic earrings. She watched as Lucy dug through the box of her theater memorabilia for sheet music from past auditions. And she saw Lucy off with a big hug and a murmured: “Break both legs.”
On her way to the Theater Arts building, Lucy rehearsed the monologue she’d used in her last, doomed audition. Strangely, the lines came back to her as though she’d learned them just days ago. This is crazy, Lucy told herself as she hurried through the twilight.
The brightly lit lobby of the Theater Arts building buzzed with conversation. Lucy squeezed through the crowd to get to the sign-up sheet, grabbed a handout, then slipped back into the darkest corner she could find to survey the competition. To judge from the excited chatter, everyone there already knew one another, but she didn’t know a single soul.
The wait was long and Lucy wished she’d brought Britt along for moral support after all. If I were a drama major, I’d know everyone here, she thought. To ward off stage fright, she took deep, cleansing breaths, as the community theater director had taught her. It helped, but only a little.
One by one, people were called into the theater, their friends giving them waves and encouraging smiles just before they vanished. The lobby fell silent, and in the hush Lucy could hear snippets of each audition—piano music or a soprano’s voice seeping through the walls. Ten or so minutes later, the would-be cast member would emerge through a second door, looking drained or exhilarated or a little of both.
I’ve done this before, Lucy reminded herself. I can do it again. Just being in the Theater Arts building made the memories flood back—rehearsing, performing, coming out for a curtain call, and soaking up the applause. Who was I kidding, thinking I never wanted to act again? Now that she was in this building, surrounded by the competition, Lucy let herself know the truth: Not only did she want a part in Rent, she wanted the biggest, juiciest part she could get. But what if that last, horrible audition had jinxed her forever?
When her number was finally called, Lucy inhaled deeply, threw her shoulders back, and stepped into the theater. As she strode toward the stage where the director waited, she was filled with a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a while: equal parts elation and determination, the same mix of emotions she’d felt in sixth grade when she’d emerged from behind the curtain in a blue pinafore and headband to become Alice in Wonderland.
“Hello.” The director, a slender woman in a gray wool pantsuit, squinted at the sheet of paper in her hand, then looked Lucy up and down. Her mouth twitched to one side. “I’ve never seen you before.” Was this a good thing or a bad thing? Lucy couldn’t tell.
“My name is Lucy Sommersworth.” Feeling herself falter, she struggled to recall the tricks she’d learned for nailing an audition: Stand up straight. Fake confidence. Make eye contact. As soon as she’d done those things, she felt stronger. Lucy rattled off the little speech she’d been rehearsing about the plays she’d been in and the roles she’d had, and which monologue and song she’d be delivering for the auditi
on. It was almost as though she’d never given up acting.
“Well, okay, then,” the director said. Was it Lucy’s imagination, or did she look skeptical? Anyway, there was no backing out now. Lucy settled into the ideal spot on the stage. Then she launched into her monologue.
This time the lines came back to Lucy right away. She relaxed, letting the words and emotion propel her forward.
And though she’d been worried the director would interrupt her mid-monologue, it didn’t happen. Lucy knew from experience that this wasn’t necessarily a bad sign, but she always preferred getting to the end of her lines, spinning out the emotion she’d called up in herself for as long as possible. When she was through, she paused, breathing heavily. Was that expression crossing the director’s face a look of approval?
But the woman wasn’t giving anything away. “Now your song,” she prompted, running a hand through her white-streaked hair. The pianist launched into the familiar opening bars.
Lucy braced herself as though she were at the peak of a roller coaster, then launched into the song she’d chosen because it fit her range perfectly. Luckily, she remembered all the words. As she sang, she fixed her eyes just above the director’s head, willing herself to become the music, to feel its emotions and make them her own. At the end of the song, Lucy exhaled, becoming herself again.
“Thank you.” The woman’s expression was polite and friendly—but unreadable. Lucy retreated to the lobby to wait for the callback, when the director would have them read in groups. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, making her feel alive in a way she hadn’t since that night onstage in Florence. To think I almost gave this up forever, she thought, stealing glances at the faces of the drama majors milling around the lobby, waiting for their turns. She had no way of gauging whether she’d been good enough to get a part, but just then it didn’t even matter. I remembered my lines, she told herself. For the moment, that was enough.