Chapter Twenty-Nine
Recently, I’ve become the kind of person wholies frequently. I am a liar.
Recognizing this new trait doesn’t make me want to change. A part of me has gotten comfortable lying. And the reward lying brings appeases the part of me that feels guilty and ashamed.
Today, the reward is quality time with Davi.
He holds my hands as the train nears Grand Central Station. “Are you excited?” he asks.
“Very.”
A lie made this trip into the city on a Saturday morning possible. And so did some strategic planning, courtesy of Esosa. Two weeks ago, after the homecoming dance, I told her Davi wanted to take me to see a Broadway show. She instantly came up with a brilliant plan—invite Bethany and Sybil to our house to meet our mom.
Initially, I was on defense. Our mother isn’t like Sybil’s, who dotes over me whenever I go over, offering snacks, asking me questions about school and my plans for university, and basically begging me to stay for dinner. My mom is more the why-are-your-friends-in-my-house-and-when-are-they-leaving type.
In Nigeria, she allowed Tolu, Abby, and Osas to come over for study sessions, but she wasn’t the most hospitable host. She walked past my open bedroom door frequently to ensure we were reading and doing nothing else. She never offered them snacks or made conversation. And she hardly smiled. My dad, however, would come out of his office to say hello. He would tell jokes, then give us money to buy small chops from the vendor across the street. He was our respite during every study session—the only reason my friends had some fun whenever they came to my house. He balanced my mom. His softness rounded out her sharp edges. Without him to be a buffer, I was hesitant about Bethany and Sybil coming over, but Esosa reminded me it was necessary. If I planned on going to New York City with Davi, my cover story, a.k.a. spending the day studying at Sybil’s house, had to be so solid my mom wouldn’t question it. That could only happen if she met my friends and saw they were upstanding members of society and unquestionably good influences on me.
The visit was a crucial part of the plan, and with Bethany not mentioning her extracurricular activity as a social media influencer and Sybil speaking nonstop about her plans to attend Yale for prelaw, it was a pleasant visit. My mom was impressed, so impressed she retreated to the kitchen and returned with a platter of crackers, finely sliced cheese, and fruits. It was definitely something she picked up from the store. But regardless, the gesture shocked me and Esosa. We looked at each other with wide eyes and then at our mother.
“It was nice meeting you girls,” she said, smiling. “But you’ll have to excuse me. I have some studying to do.” She went to her room and left us alone in the living room. Sybil and Bethany then raved about how pretty and sweet she was.
The visit certainly went well and was as effective as Esosa predicted. Last night, when I told Mom I would spend Saturday studying at Sybil’s, she didn’t object.
“After we’re done studying, we’re going to the movies,” I added while holding my breath.
“Okay,” she replied. “But be careful.”
It took me a few seconds to fully absorb her reply. My mom had permitted me to go to the movies without an interrogation or a lecture. Esosa had been right. Meeting my friends made her less inquisitive about my whereabouts, and I couldn’t have been more grateful for my sister’s genius.
Davi didn’t have to go through the same hurdles to spend today with me, and I hope one day, I won’t have to lie to my mom about the major aspects of my life like a new interest I’m nurturing or a boy I really like. But that idea seems far-fetched. My mom has always been a parent, not a friend—not someone I can confide in. It’s hard to imagine a future where she could be everything my dad once was to me.
Davi and I get off the train and walk through Grand Central Station. Only seconds in New York City, and I’m hyperaware of the sense of urgency in the air. Bellwood has a relaxed vibe, so instantly, I feel alert here. Even on a Saturday, people move with purpose. But I linger and observe the building’s stunning architecture—the arched windows, the grand staircase, and the high turquoise ceiling with constellations painted on it.
When we step out of the station, I tilt my head backward and take in the expanse of skyscrapers. Then something tightens in my chest, and I squeeze Davi’s hand, imagining, just for a moment, that it’s my father’s hand and he’s right here with me.
For a brief while, this was his dream—New York City, the concrete jungle, as Alicia Keys and others have called it. He held on to this dream for as long as he could, but then his grip grew weak, and he let go.
“Hey,” Davi says. “You okay?”
I release a deep breath, and my father’s loose leather watch sways against my wrist; suddenly, I’m reminded of its existence—of the part of him I always carry with me.
“Yeah,” I tell Davi. “I’m okay.” I blink sharply, refocus on him, and force a small smile. “Just a little hungry.”
“How about we grab a quick bite before the show?” He glances at his Apple Watch. “We have some time. What do you feel like?”
“Well, everyone is always going on about New York pizza, so how about that?”
“I know just the place.”
We have lunch at Uncle Paul’s Pizza. The Margherita pizza is the best I’ve ever had. The crust is thin and crispy, and the tomato sauce is savory and slightly tangy. Once we’re stuffed with pizza and chicken wings, we walk the short distance to Times Square.
Stunned, I look from one billboard to another. My attention is being pulled in so many directions, I have to spin around to capture my surroundings. Without a doubt, I’m the perfect image of a dazed tourist.
I pull my phone from my purse, prepared to take pictures, then quickly realize I can’t have any evidence of this day. The risk of my mom stumbling on it is too high. I sigh and tuck my phone into my bag. When I look at Davi, he has his phone aimed at me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, hiding my face behind my hands.
“Did you see the way your face lit up? I had to capture it on camera.” He draws the phone closer to my face. “Come on. Smile. No need to be shy.”
I drop my hands instantly. “I’m not shy.”
“Then strike a pose. And make it a good one.”
There’s a lot going on around me. The commotion of Times Square is distracting. The crowd is daunting. Maybe I am shy, somewhat cautious about my little presence in this massive, iconic place. But the challenge in Davi’s eyes is the perfect motivation. I brace my hands on my hips and strike a pose. It’s nothing worthy of a magazine cover, but it’s goofy enough to make Davi laugh. After he’s taken several pictures of me, he presses his cheek against mine and snaps a few selfies.
We eventually make it to the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, a two-story building with the show’s banner hanging from it.
“Midnight’s Muse,” I say, looking at Davi.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard it’s really good.”
Inside, the theater is grand, far more extravagant than Bellwood High’s. There are three levels of seats that are already packed, but an usher directs us to seats on the fifth row of the ground level. We’re so close to the stage.
“These are good seats,” I whisper to Davi. “Really, really good seats. How much did they cost?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got connections.”
I arch an eyebrow, waiting for the whole truth.
“Fine.” He huffs. “My dad’s client and friend gave them to me. He’s some big-shot entrepreneur who always has Broadway tickets. So don’t worry about it. They didn’t cost me an arm and a leg.”
I sigh, relieved. “Okay. Good.”
“But if they had cost me an arm and a leg, it would have been worth it.” He leans into me. “You’re worth it.” His lips brush mine, and just as I kiss him, the lights in the theater dim, and the stage curtains part.
Throughout the performance, I’m speechless. Iforget Davi is sitting beside me. I forget he’s holding my hand until he squeezes it. I forget the lies I told to be here, in this seat, looking at the stage. The story unfolds beautifully with dazzling lights, a captivating cast, dance-worthy musical numbers, and a lead that leaves me absolutely floored.
I have never seen a musical live, so I didn’t know it could be so spectacular. Is the possibility of creating a show this incredible the reason Mr. Roland disregards our amateur status and pushes us so much?
It all makes sense now, and I want to smack myself for not understanding it before, for not seeing the bigger picture.
During the intermission, while I’m drinking a soda, Davi brings my attention to the program.
“Here,” he says, pointing at the names of the cast. “Look.”
After reading the lead’s name, I grab the paper from him and bring it closer to my face. “Amarachi Okoye.” I look at Davi in disbelief. “She’s Nigerian. The lead. The lady playing the lead is Nigerian.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I look at the name again, the non-Western name.
She’s the lead in a Broadway show.
This fact doesn’t completely hit me until I’m seated again, watching her perform the closing number. She sings the last note, and the lights onstage go out. The crowd applauds, and tears that gathered in my eyes during that final song fall.
Weeks ago, as I auditioned, something happened. While singing, a new passion grew inside of me. Within seconds, it became big and ferocious. It sank its claws in me, resolute to never let go. But I, too afraid of what it might demand of me, pulled at each claw and weakened its grip. First, by questioning my ability to be the lead. Then by quitting on the first day of rehearsal. Then by downplaying my enthusiasm for the musical, never getting too excited about it, reducing it to only being a high school play. For weeks, I’ve been dulling that drip, but now I feel it. That passion for singing and being onstage takes hold of me again. And I don’t fight it. I don’t want to fight it because, for the first time, I see the possibility of what it could be.
A career. A life. For someone like me.
On the train ride home, I study Davi, really trying to figure him out.
“Hey,” he says when he catches me watching. “You okay?”
I tilt my head from side to side, inspecting his face from new angles. “Why did you take me to see a show?”
He shrugs. “So you could see it can be more than just a high school musical. If you want it to be. I needed you to see it. It was easier to show you than explain it to you.”
Well, it’s safe to say his plan worked.
“And why the play we saw? Why did you choose it?”
“Because of the lead. I saw her in an interview. Learned she was Nigerian. Thought it might be cool for you.”
I nod. “You know I’ve watched a lot of movies. Teen movies, I mean.”
“Yeah.” He laughs softly. “I know.”
“A Black girl being the lead is rare. And a Nigerian girl… well, that hasn’t been done yet. But when I saw her name on that program, then saw her on that stage—at the center of the story, commanding the attention of the crowd, receiving a standing ovation—it was like looking at myself, seeing myself.” A deep breath rushes out of me. “It was like seeing everything I can be—everything that’s possible for me as a Black girl, a Nigerian, an immigrant.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I rest my head on his chest.
“Broadway,” I say, just as the train comes to our stop. “I think that’s what I want to do with my life.”