I ask, “Was it an experiment?”
He stops in front of kiosks where we’ll buy our tickets. “He was curious.”
Terrence gives us the quick rundown on how to do this and soon we’ve all got a thin slip to pass through the reflectors, gates unlocking one at a time to allow us entry. The mix of people waiting for a ride is about as diverse as you can imagine. We went colorblind a long time ago, so all we notice are the fashions that identify how people choose to present themselves. You look at our clothes and you can tell we’re dancers. And if you’re not clued into our culture, you’d recognize us as artists of some form, at the very least.
With the approaching train comes a gust of wind. I close my eyes to force an uninvited image of Samantha from my mind. This would’ve blown her hair back, and the excited smile she’d have had is something I would pay to see.
She’s staying in the girls’ loft. We haven’t spoken. Last night, my chest didn’t stop pounding with suspense until the plane’s wheels left the ground and clouds were underneath my feet. It was a relief to not be on her plane, and I counted myself lucky.
But now I’m about to face her for the first time since I blew everything. Did I, though? She had to know about Asher. My sister was right about that. Samantha needed the warning. Just in case. But then I leapt over the line.
How can I take back what I said?
How do you retract, I love you?
Turns out the ride isn’t long. Terrence makes a joke about us being lazy, and how we should have walked. We don’t pay lip service to the obvious fact that it’s freezing outside and nobody wants to walk in this wind. Besides, we’re about to have our nuts handed to us after grueling weeks of rehearsals our legs will hate us for later.
Up in the overcast light of day, the six of us weave around countless pedestrians on 8th Avenue, as honking vehicles on our left head north since it’s a one-way road. I rake my anxious gaze along the front of a skyscraper much bigger than our rehearsal home back in the other Midtown. She’s up there. An image of her literally running into me when I discovered ketchup on my shirt flies into my mind.
We were just us then.
Happy.
“This is the place?” Elliot asks.
Johan waves a big YES while eyeballing a store across the way. “Is that food?”
Terrence explains, “Yeah, that’s a bodega. Your basic convenience store with a mini-buffet. Note it and memorize it! We will be living there!”
There are three options to get into this building from the front—a spinning door, double doors, and a handicapped entrance with automatic doors.
“It doesn’t lack for options,” I joke, but I’m secretly impressed by the size. Everything I’ve seen is impressive, if it weren’t for this impending sense of doom I’m swallowing.
We file in, hand our ID cards to a somber security desk that employs not one but four guards scanning information while dryly asking, “What floor?”
The guys and I exchange looks, feeling pretty special.
Only Terrence asks, “Did something happen here that they now need so much protection?” as we head for our pick of seven steel-grey elevators.
Johan turns right, but Elliot grabs his shoulders and steers him opposite. “Those are for floors 35-55.”
“Holy shit, that’s high. I’m glad we’re just on 33.” A spacious, clean car is waiting for us to file into.
As we ride up, the guys are fucking with each other, talking so easily they don’t notice I’m not.
The doors open to a gutted-out floor that might have, at one time, housed office cubicles. Now it is one gigantic room, four times the old rehearsal space, with couches lining the walls, bathrooms in the distant right, a refrigerator in the distant left stocked with infused water bottles.
I see none of it.
I’m scanning every blonde head for the one I can’t stop thinking about.
My heart stops as Galloway says my name, and for a second I think her female voice might be Sam’s. I hide my disappointment. “Hi, Ms. Galloway.”
“Have you seen Asher?”
“No.”
Another elevator opens and the star of our show walks out, unwrapping his scarf and shaking his black hair into place. Behind him are the actors who play Samantha’s parents—their kids are grown, so they came with the production. Jumped at the chance, actually.
The doors close.
Galloway waves her hand. “There you are! Come to me.” As he approaches, we lock eyes while our choreographer and director claps for everyone’s attention. “Those of you who are just now joining us, this is Asher Gladstone, who stars as Donovan.” The announcement receives respectful and curious applause. “And Logan Clark plays his brother.” Slightly less enthusiastic applause for me. Galloway introduces the parents I know and the ones I don’t. People stop applauding now, because the roles are smaller. “And this is Heather Lightbody, who will be taking over Izzy.”
My stomach sinks.
Asher’s not surprised.
Izzy’s parents are.
I am.
She’s not coming?
Is this her understudy?
Am I missing something here?
Or just someone.
“I will work you hard and long. We have two weeks before curtains and the press is chomping at the bit for something spectacular to write about. Reporters came to Atlanta to get a head start but everyone is saying what we all know—the bar is raised on Broadway. People come from all over the world to see a show that not only entertains them but changes their lives. We will give them the best damn performance we are capable of, understood? I want each and every one of you to close this play feeling like you’ll never do a better job than what you did with us. I want your commitment, your blood, your souls. Are we ready?”
Though they’re whistling and cheering, all I can hear is the slowing of my heart.
