Beneath The Skin(170)

I don’t know who Mia is, whether a secretary or a friend or yet another of my father’s countless budding lighting design interns. “He’s arrived,” I state coolly.

“At least you’ll have a familiar face down there with you,” he says, meaning well.

No, I didn’t tell the story to my dad about Kellen Wright’s ill-timed advance on me. Being the selfless (read: spineless) individual I was four years ago, I thought that telling my dad that his twenty-nine-year-old golden boy was making a move on his eighteen-year-old daughter would have put an abrupt and horrible end to the man’s career before it even started. For all my dad knows, Kellen is still the angel he pretends to be. And to be fair, even with eleven years on me, Kellen has a youthful face that make him look far more innocent than he is.

“Dad,” I say, daring to step on his toes, “did you send Kellen down here … for me?”

My dad seems to find that amusing, breaths of his chuckling dancing through the phone in tiny bursts of static. “Leave the matchmaking to your sister. I’d never deign to commit such an act.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble.

“I sent him there as a favor to Marv,” my dad carries on. “You know, to drum up a little media for the school. Ticket sales have been low, interest in the program has decreased, you know how it can be.”

“He … was part of the deal?” I ask, my pulse rising.

“What deal?”

“Marv lets me into his program, and you send him one of your lighting designer minions in exchange? Am I … Am I hearing this right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re twisting it around.”

“Do you realize that, in doing this, you just took an opportunity from … from someone else who could have designed lights and actually learned something?”

“It’s only one show, sweetie, and it’s really for the betterment of the whole department. Imagine, when all the shows sell out and Klangburg gets noticed, receiving more funds from benefactors, which can—”

“So it’s all about money? Is that it?”

My heart racing, I’m not even listening to him anymore; I just want to pick a fight. I’m furious that I’m—even indirectly—responsible for Clayton having lost his opportunity.

“The ‘big picture’ is a lot bigger than you realize, Dessie, and you’re standing too close. It’s better for everyone this way. The school. Its future. Your peers. And you’re enjoying your role in Our Town, aren’t you? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”

I feel like some princess high up in a stony tower and my father’s handed me a porcelain doll. Was this handed to me? All of it? I didn’t earn my way into this school, fighting hard like Clayton did. For all I know, I didn’t even earn the role I’m playing.

Oh, god. Did he even arrange that? Does he know Nina too, or did Dr. Thwaite convince her to hand me the lead role, just like I was handed everything else?

I feel sick.

“Sweetheart?”

He’s been talking in my ear, but all I feel is rage. I was naïve not to have considered any of this before. It’s strange, how a call to my dad can make me aware of the pair of rose-tinted glasses I never noticed were balanced on the tip of my nose.

The lovers on the bench, the ones I’m staring at through the windows, they pull apart and I see the tears in their eyes. In the space of seconds, they’re shouting at each other.

How quickly things can change.

“We sent you to Italy,” my dad goes on, “but that slipper didn’t fit. Claudio & Rigby’s was a great opportunity for you, but that ended with an unfortunate exit scene and … regrettable consequences. Did you ever consider the backlash, Dessie? We sent you on countless auditions and you even got to audit those acting workshops at NYU. We—”

“And so you sent me here,” I say, watching the sweet couple tear each other apart through the glass, “but couldn’t bear for me to have a normal experience like I wanted, so you made sure to package it all up nice and pretty, dust it with promises of success and a handshake, and let your daughter believe in the lie.”

“Dessie …”

“I have to get back to rehearsal, Dad.” My voice is heavy and broken. “You know, to rehearse that role I don’t really deserve.”

“You deserve the world, sweetheart.”

I hang up, clenching the phone as tightly as I am my jaw. The lovers outside walk away, and so do I.

The rest of the rehearsal is considerably less pleasant, and when Eric asks me what’s wrong, that’s when I engage in my first true bit of acting, putting on a light smile and convincing him that I’m totally fine and can’t wait to sing my heart out. And for the first time in any rehearsal in my life, a person is actually convinced by my performance; Eric grins, squeezes my shoulder, and advises me to “up the sexy-sexy” in my song tonight. “Get Clay-boy all hot and bothered.”