Cue the lights.
Fade out.
When the curtains close, I feel weightless.
I breathe the deepest sigh of relief.
Eric’s hand fumbles for mine as I grip it tight for the curtain call, taking my bow with the rest of the cast. Applause rushes over me in waves, filling my ears as the tears fill my eyes.
Not to sound all conceited or anything, but I’m really proud of myself. I’m, like, really damn proud of myself.
The curtains drop again, and Eric reels around and gives me the biggest, bone-crunching squeeze, then he squeals and says, “Oh, what a killer opening night! Dessie, that was just the best!”
“You were great,” I tell him.
“You know, the key to acting drunk …” he starts as we head back to the dressing rooms.
“Yes! Is to not act drunk! And you know what? I took that advice, so my secret was, I tried to suck really bad,” I explain to him, “in hopes that I would fail at sucking and, thus, do a decent job of Emily.”
He stops outside the women’s dressing room. “I think you did a more-than-decent job. Great leg-breaking, Dessie.” He gives me a little peck on the cheek, then giggles. “I can’t wait to see Dmitri after! Oh,” he says suddenly, his smile breaking. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, no, no,” I assure him. “Please. They’re roommates. It doesn’t—”
“I know, but still, y’know.” He bites his lip, shuffling his feet.
“Are you two a thing?” I prompt him with a nudge to his side. “You and Dmitri?”
Eric shrugs. “Not really. I think we make better friends. He’s sort of an oddball. I guess I kinda am too, but I don’t know. If he met a girl or another guy, I think I’d be more happy for him than jealous, if you get what I mean.”
I rub his shoulder encouragingly. “I do. You’re a good person, Eric. Oh, by the way, Vicki and I are totally talking again.”
“I heard! Don’t let her catch you calling her that or else it’s all over again,” he teases me.
“Sure thing, Other Eric.” I wink at him, then rush back into the dressing room to avoid him smacking me.
After washing all the makeup off my face, I slip out of Emily’s skin and jump into my post-show outfit: a sleek, black sleeveless dress cut just above the knee. I pair it with some cute flats (because after doing a whole play, fuck heels), then run a brush through my hair to tame it at least a little bit before I confront my family—and whatever insanity is likely to accompany it.
The walk down the halls from the dressing room to the lobby is longer than usual, as if the halls were made of elastic and stretched themselves to twice their usual length. I find a tangle of nerves in my stomach, as if I were still anticipating tonight’s performance.
Maybe the real show hasn’t begun yet.
When the doors to the lobby open, a torrent of noise crashes into me long before any faces do. I gently ease my way through the crowd, hoping to be making my way toward my parents, wherever the hell they are in this madness—if they’re even out here. For all I know, they were escorted out a side door or advised to stay in the auditorium until the worst of the crowd dispersed.
Then a sea of heads part and I see my parents.
My mother looks fabulous as usual, her hair perfectly curled and bound up tight to her skull, which shows off her glinting earrings and inhumanly long, slender neck. She wears a deep-plunging blue dress adorned in sparkly gems that gain density near the floor. At her side is my father, who was sensible enough to wear a humble sweater vest with a button shirt gently poking out of the neck. His sandy-blond hair is parted neatly, which is a welcome departure from the usual mess he keeps it in. He notices me first and lets a big grin take his face before he opens his arms.
“Dessie,” he sings through the noise of the crowd.
I hug him, squeezing so tight it hurts. “Thanks for coming, Dad.”
“Wouldn’t have dared miss it, sweetie,” his voice empties into my ear, strained from how tightly we’re hugging.
My mother’s locked into a conversation with Doctor Thwaite, her voice as loud and sparkly as her dress. She has a hand lightly affixed to her chest as the other waves in the air in time to her endless speech.
On the other side of the Doc, I belatedly notice my sister. She’s blindingly beautiful in her glittery skintight dress, which looks like it was cut directly from a block of diamond.
“Cece?”
Her smile is tight as a vise when she bends into me for the world’s stiffest hug.
“Well done,” she moans into my ear in that perfect English dialect. The way she says it, it’s like she’s commending a toddler for scribbling a circle with orange curlicues around it and calling it a lion.