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Ma and Dad say I should cut my losses. Pack up and move back to Mulberry Creek.
There is a job with my name on it back home. Drama teacher for my former high school.
Ma says my childhood sweetheart, Rhys Hartnett, works there now as a football coach and can pull all kinds of strings. She claims it’s a done deal. A great, comfy position to fall into while I figure things out. But the idea of leaving the apartment Paul and I shared makes my skin crawl.
Plus, taking favors from Rhys Hartnett after our messy goodbye just seems . . . wrong.
“Yes, I know you decided to grace them with your presence—very charitable of you, by the way.” Chrissy chuckles on the other end of the line.
I shoulder past a flock of tourists taking selfies in front of billboards, giggling and squeaking, without a care in the world.
“How’d you know I showed up?” I toss my last few dollars into the open jaw of a violin case of a street performer without breaking stride. “You spying on me now, ma’am?”
“No, though sometimes I’m tempted, just to check that you’re okay. You know I’m a fierce worrier.”
Darn Chrissy and her heart of gold. I do know that. And, truth be told, she is one of the only people in New York who cares about me. She and Arya, the woman who runs the charity I volunteer for. Most of my social network is back in Mulberry Creek. Chrissy took me under her wing when I first signed up with her. I think she saw in me someone she once was. Young and impressionable, fresh off the bus. Easy prey to New York’s bloodthirsty sharks. She came from Oklahoma. I, from Tennessee. But it’s the same story all over again. Small-town girl trying to conquer the Big Apple.
“Well, missy, for your information, I’m fine and a half,” I announce. “Been eatin’ all my veggies and practicing self-care.”
“If you think I’m buying what you’re selling, you’re in for some disappointment. But we’ll revisit the subject later. Back to your audition,” Chrissy says decisively.
It was the first audition I attended since the plane crash and the only role I cared about since Paul passed away.
I want this role. I need this role.
“What about my audition?” I ask.
“I have some news.”
Oh, no. That was fast. Was I really that bad they couldn’t wait to pounce on their phone and call my agent? The woman doesn’t belong onstage.
“Listen, Chris. I tried. Sure did. I went in there and gave it my all. Maybe I—”
“You got the role, baby!” Chrissy announces.
I freeze midwalk. A couple of people crash into me from behind, muttering profanity. Making an unannounced stop on a sidewalk in Manhattan is a serious traffic offense.
Wait . . . I got the role?
I try to muster pleasure from the news. Some kind of contentment or something that imitates it. But my body is numb from the outside, empty from the inside. I feel paper thin. So light, so weightless, I could be carried with the next gust of wind.
Shed a tear, Winnie.
I’d always been such a good crier. Any occasion, good or bad, prompted the waterworks to start.
I’m going to work! Leave the house! Attend rehearsal! Memorize lines!
I’m going to have to be a fully functioning human being. But somehow, the only emotion I can muster is fear.
“You’re going to be Nina,” Chrissy wails, undeterred by my silence. “Can you believe it? Every actress’s wet dream.”
She isn’t wrong. Since my Juilliard days as an aspiring actress, playing the role of Nina has been a fantasy for most of my fellow students. The beautiful, tragic, fame-hungry girl from Chekhov’s play The Seagull. The woman who represents the loss of innocence, emotional damage, whose dreams were crushed into fairy dust.
So fitting. Of course I got the role. I am the role.
“Nina,” I breathe out, closing my eyes as herds of office folk rush past me, by me, through me. I’m caught in a wave of bodies. “I’m going to be Nina.”
To feel the stage under my feet, the bright lights pounding on my eyes, and their warmth. To smell the sweat of other people again. Steal bites of energy bars between rehearsals. All that I dreamed about when I packed a small suitcase and left Mulberry Creek.
“I know things have been difficult, honey.” Chrissy drops her voice. “But I think this is the beginning of the end. The caterpillar will soon become a butterfly. You earned it, baby girl. Spread those wings. Fly high.”
I nod as if she can see me. I need a hug. I wish someone were here to wrap their arms around me. I also need buttermilk biscuits. Lots and lots of Ma’s buttermilk biscuits.
“Tell me you’re at least a little bit happy.” The plea in Chrissy’s voice is unmistakable. “You sound like you’re attending your own funeral.”
