That's (for) Show Biz (Kinney Run #1)

1. June

JUNE

As I wait for my sister outside the Sadlersburg bus terminal, summer heat from the pavement drifts up to the soles of my sandals. Sweaty feet … yay. But it’s on par with my morning so far. Like how the only available seat on the bus was next to a guy holding a chicken in a service-animal vest.

It’s giving, Record scratch . Freeze frame . Yep, that’s me .

You’re probably wondering how I got here .

Although, I’m not wondering how I got here because desperate times call for desperate bitches, and all that.

My duffel bag slips down my shoulder, jerking my arm. Let’s pretend the strap slid off because I’m sweaty, not because I stuffed that baby so full the zipper’s probably going to break. But I can’t be expected to pack everything I need for six weeks in just the two suitcases at my feet.

I blow a limp, greasy strand of blonde hair out of my face as I scan the street for any sign of Willow’s shitty red sedan.

Sadlersburg’s a college town, so it’s pretty deserted in the summer.

There’s a bar—closed. Another bar—closed.

A pizza joint that’ll open in a couple hours. And my stomach’s rumbling.

“Over here, loser,” Wils calls, sauntering up the sidewalk. “I had to park around the corner.”

Her auburn hair is tucked up into a high ponytail, though her badass black-on-black ensemble must be warm in this heat. A trickle of sweat trails from my neck down my back. My navy romper dotted with little white daisies isn’t much cooler, apparently.

I lean in for an awkward one-armed hug. “Hi, Wils.”

My little sister pats my back, not really a hugger. “Hey, Junie.”

I purse my lips but refuse to react to my old nickname.

If I do, she’ll be all over it. Willow’s kind of a ruthless bitch, which I love, though not as much when it’s directed at me.

I grab my bags, but the unwieldy duffel, coupled with my suitcases—one of which definitely has a broken wheel—is too much. “A little help?”

Willow’s syrupy sweet tone is a far cry from her usual raspy voice. “Oh, yeah, sure. Next time, don’t pack so much stuff. Does that help?”

“Mmm, thanks so much, jerk.” Trading thinly veiled barbs back and forth is our entire relationship. Woohoo. The strap digs into my shoulder as my stupid rolling luggage bangs into my calf. I trip on my sandal and go down. I would’ve eaten the curb, but my giant duffel bag breaks my fall.

Thus proving my point: it’s dangerous to pack light.

Willow laughs, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye as she opens the trunk, her poor car groaning and squealing. “Oh, man. That was amazing. Thank you. I don’t even need a birthday gift this year. Gimme those, you go sit in the car, Miss Daisy.”

“Miss Daisy.” I huff. While I don’t love the comparison to the titular septuagenarian in Driving Miss Daisy , at least the play won a Pulitzer. Some call it delusion, I call it finding the silver lining.

Sliding into the passenger seat, I pull down the visor.

The three-hour bus ride from Manhattan hasn’t done my hair and makeup any favors.

I’d optimistically curled it in soft waves this morning—now pointless, since I grab a claw clip from my bag and scrape my hair back.

I pull the skin around my forehead taut, and those two faint wrinkles disappear in my pale face.

With a sigh, I flick the visor up too vigorously as Willow hops into the driver’s seat.

“I’m not helping carry those up to your dorm room.” She shoots me a pointed look.

“It’s not a dorm room. I have my own bathroom.

” Why am I defending my living situation to my sister?

Even though I’m seven years older, Willow has this way of making my life choices feel ridiculous.

I stare out the passenger window to hide my sulking pout as Sadlersburg rolls by, the weak AC pumping warm air through the car.

We cross the bridge over the Clarion River away from the city, passing the road to the Sadlersburg Fairgrounds before heading into the tidy suburbs where we grew up.

“How lucky, I’d feel bad for whoever has to share a bathroom with you. Judging by the weight of your bags, they must be stuffed with skin care products.”

“You can pry my eleven-step skin care routine from my smooth, moisturized hands.”

“That won’t be very hard, now will it?” She arches a brow. God damn it, if I could arch a single brow, I’d put it on my resume.

“Touché.” I laugh as Wils turns onto George Street, the brass top of Kinney Run Academy’s bell tower shining like a beacon in the summer sun.

I drink in the campus—the flowers so colorful this time of year—but a pang reverberates in my chest. The old parking lot is a lacrosse field now. They redid the walkways with burnt-red bricks. I shouldn’t expect it to look the same after thirteen years—I sure don’t.

At least the bell tower hasn’t changed. We used to sit on the steps and eat lunch during the summer, when the high school hosts the Performing Arts Conservatory. Shaw and I hung out there every day during our last year of camp, talking about college like we knew everything back then.

Willow turns onto Hortensia Drive, which we always called Horse Street. If she keeps driving, we’ll hit the walking trail to Kinney Run Creek, so named by Arthur Kinney who founded Kinney Run Academy.

As if he hadn’t had enough of a penchant for naming things after himself, the streets around campus are named after his children. Poor Hortensia.

A few families dot the walkways, helping their kids settle into their rooms or strolling around campus. Willow pulls over in front of Acheson—Atch—the girls’ dormitory. “Just can’t stand to live at home this summer, huh?”

“I haven’t driven a car in years, Wils. And I couldn’t share one with Mom and Dad.

Once rehearsals get underway, I’ll be working til ten at night or later.

” And I can’t wake up in my childhood bedroom on my thirtieth birthday—salt in the wound of being broke and out of work.

I shoot Willow a smile, a real one. “Thanks. For picking me up.”

My sister sighs. “Fine. I’ll help you carry your stupid bags.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I squeal and reach across the console for a hug.

She startles, then squeezes me back. “Whatever. You might want to shower before family dinner.”

“Wow.”

She sniffs twice, her nose in the air. “Love you, bitch.”

Several sweaty minutes later, and true to her word, Wils drops my bags off on my mattress and waves. “See you later.”

“That’s it?” I pout.

“I carried your bags up. You want me to unpack them, too?”

“No.” I twist the gold rings around my fingers.

Now that I’m here, a sudden fear grips me.

What if I don’t know anyone? What if all the changes have made this place unrecognizable?

My stomach’s in just as many knots as the first day I was a camper during freshman year of high school.

“How about a tour? The dining hall has a soft serve ice cream machine.”

“River Valley can’t afford textbooks, and this place has ice cream?” Her lip curls up.

“And waffle cones.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Damn the man, let’s go.”

I inhale that quintessential Atch smell—old building, floor cleaner, and years and years of aerosol hair products absorbed into the walls.

It’s nostalgia injected directly into my veins.

The echo of the stairwell chases our footsteps until we push through a side door that opens on a small path between buildings, leading to the main courtyard.

The warm afternoon sun, the nostalgia, it all lodges in my heart. A sliver of hope. Willow stares at me before turning her eyes to the path. “You really love it here.”

“I do.”

“More than your apartment in the city?”

My arms feel too heavy, and like a baby theatre major at auditions, I don’t know what to do with my hands. “Yes and no. My apartment in the city wasn’t supposed to be long-term, but I haven’t heard from my agent in five months. And twenty-three days.”

“Quick math.” She laughs.

“I just mean, neither place feels like home.” I spent my twenties performing in national tours, living out of a suitcase, and choking down continental breakfasts.

Sometimes I worry I left little pieces of myself in all those places, and that’s why I’m still searching for that feeling.

Home . “I’m lucky my old voice teacher, Mal, got me this job, otherwise I would’ve applied to clowns.com to do children’s birthday parties. ”

“That’s how you end up on an episode of Law and Order SVU .”

“Yeah, and I’d rather have a cameo on the show than be a ripped-from-the-headlines subject. Plus, filming TikToks covering my favorite songs isn’t exactly paying the bills.”

“What about bartending?” Willow got a job bartending at a place in town when she dropped out of community college. She asked me to be her reference, and I used my BFA to perfection, pretending to be a professional.

We round a corner, the main courtyard coming into view, and I head for the bell tower on instinct.

We sit on the steps and I let the summer sun soak into my skin—as much of it that can get past my SPF 100 daily moisturizer, that is.

“I’ve been working catering jobs. But, applying for a long-term position just …

” I sigh, too worried to hide the truth. “It feels like giving up.”

According to my agent, Helen, my brand is sweet and soprano-y ingenues. Which was great in my twenties when I was booking national tours back-to-back. But with thirty looming this summer, auditions for ingenue roles are drying up.

I straighten my spine and roll my shoulders back. Mope-fest over. “But the musical theatre director this summer is like, huge in the city. She’s doing a straight play this fall—I read about it in her interview with Playbill. If I network right, she might invite me to audition.”

And I’d fucking love to call Helen and tell her I booked this one myself, especially after she said I shouldn’t bother with straight plays. Sure I’d rather tour, but at this point, I just want to work .

“You said so many words that I neither understand nor care about. Tell me what I really want to know.” She leans her elbows back against the step above her. “Are you banging anybody?”

I blanch. “Jesus, Wils.”

“Well?”

“Nada. I’m currently in the delete and uninstall phase of the dating app hellscape. You?”

“Same, same.” She waves her hand airily. “Fine then, let’s go on this super fun and important tour you were yapping about.”

I stand, brushing my hands off on the shorts of my romper, but before I shoot off a witty reply, the dining hall doors open, revealing a familiar figure eating an ice cream cone. I cup my hands around my mouth, yelling, “Mal!”

He shades his eyes with his cone, ridiculous and endearing as always. “Juniper Daniels, is that really you?”

My heart absolutely balloons in my chest as I jog to meet him. Mal was more than a voice teacher to me in high school, he coached me through auditions, college apps, and general teenage angst. It’s his job I’m taking this summer—he’s supposed to be retired. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, kiddo. I’m teaching a few voice lessons here and there, but I needed a break from the classes.

And morning announcements.” His chestnut skin glows against his white linen shirt as he wraps me in a hug.

He offers his free hand to my sister to shake.

“Willow, right? June talked about you all the time.”

“She did?” Her voice wavers, so I turn to face her. But whatever emotion arose is gone with a shake of her head. “There wouldn’t happen to be more of that ice cream in there, would there?” She nods at the dining hall.

“One waffle cone left,” Mal says, then chomps on the last bite of his own cone.

With a wave, Willow heads for the dining hall, walking fast.

“I’m so glad I got to see you, you look great, June. You gonna do Shaker’s tonight?”

“That’s still a thing?” The night before Conservatory starts, all the twenty-one-and-over counselors and faculty members head to a dive bar off campus.

I used to be so jealous of them when I was a camper, especially my last summer after senior year.

I was practically an adult, but still treated like a kid.

“It’s our favorite tradition.” He laughs. “There’s some folks you might remember, too. You were a student at Conservatory with Shaw Richards, right?”

“The name sounds familiar,” I say, pretending to adjust the straps on my romper so Mal doesn’t see my face.

Shaw and I had a fling my last summer of camp.

He was sort of, maybe, a little bit, a trust fund douche, but also a trumpet-playing douche, so I have fond memories of his mouth.

I blow out a breath. An old teenage situationship shouldn’t get me this worked up, but my dating life is drier than my sister’s sense of humor.

Maybe he’ll be up for a repeat of that summer.

Mal continues talking, oblivious as a flush of heat floods my system, unfortunately not from remembering Shaw’s mouth.

My last summer here, I’d made a ten-year plan:

Be on Broadway by thirty, fall in love with a charming and equally talented actor, live in a cute two-story in Chelsea, and own a loveable yet quirky cat.

Twelve years later, I’m in the same town with no Broadway credits to my name, working at the same Conservatory, and considering hooking up with the same guy.

Did I mention I live in a walk-up in Queens and my cat’s an asshole?

Everything’s coming up roses …

Identifying with the psycho momager character in Gypsy isn’t a slay, but networking with Natalia will change everything for me.

It has to .