8. June
JUNE
Make Believe - Show Boat
I head out of Atch, passing all the dormers getting ready for the concert in each other’s rooms. My heart swells, warmth suffusing my chest. A moment of girlhood I want to capture and save forever. There’s nothing like sharing mascara—and eye bacteria, I guess—to bond.
But when I get outside, it’s not my sister’s car idling in front of the building. Shaw’s behind the wheel of a black SUV, and Hannah gets out, slamming the door shut. Like, slamming .
She swipes at her cheeks, yelling, “Whatever! Just go then!”
The SUV’s engine roars to life and Shaw pulls onto the street, leaving Hannah behind. She crosses her arms over her stomach, like she has to hold herself together.
Living in the city, I’ve come to appreciate what I call pretend ignorance.
I learned it after watching a woman sit on the floor of a CVS aisle and cry into her phone.
I asked if she was okay and the woman snapped at me to leave her alone.
Not everyone wants a stranger to witness their vulnerable moments.
Conservatory is worse than the city in terms of privacy. I’ve learned several of the female campers’ periods have already synced up. Against my will, might I add.
So I disregard the instinct to check on Hannah, choosing to slip back inside Atch and stare out the window as she walks away. It doesn’t feel good. But of all the people to catch them fighting, she wouldn’t want it to be me.
My forehead’s cool against the glass as I lean on it and wait for my sister. After a few minutes, her trusty—and rusty—sedan draws up to the curb.
I slide into the passenger seat and eye her outfit. She’s wearing her usual black jeans, but that’s for sure a going-out top, and she’s rocking a bold lippie. “Excuse you, why are you so damn hot for dinner with our parents?”
“Thanks,” she replies, dryly. “And I thought after dinner we could go out?”
“First off, a little warning would’ve been nice.” I gesture at my black T-shirt dress. I was going for casual when I meet up with … oh, shit. “I—someone invited me for drinks at Shaker’s with Conservatory people after the concert tonight.”
“Oh.”
I catch her profile; her mouth sits in a hard line.
“Do you want to come?” I don’t know what makes me say it, but it feels right.
“I’m not crashing with the cool Conservatory kids?” Her eyes cut to mine; they’re hard, but there’s a brittle tone in her voice.
“Cool? Have you met me?”
“Fair.” She laughs, more bravado in her voice. “Want to tell me who the someone is?”
Damn, she’s good.
I chew my lip, unsure what Wils will say if I admit to fake dating a guy to network with his director friend. I squeeze my hands between my legs so she won’t catch me wringing them. “Just Nick.”
“Why do people assume cryptic answers make me want to know more? If anything, now I don’t want to know at all.” Willow’s the shortest of the three of us sisters, but what she lacks in height, she makes up for in spite.
“I’m not being purposefully cryptic. It’s … complicated.”
She snorts. “Thanks for clearing that up.”
“Fine. Nick Harper. We went to high school together, but we weren’t really friends and didn’t keep in touch.
He’s a faculty member at Conservatory and got stupid hot.
” Like, I’m barking for him. “And for some reason is attracted to me.” Possibly?
“I don’t know how long it will last.” Because it never technically started . “There. Happy?”
Maybe spite runs in the family.
“Yes, thank you.” She’s quiet for a moment, the only sound is the clicking of her blinker as she signals a left turn, then says, “I guess I can come.”
“Awesome.” I keep my tone pleasantly neutral, burying my excitement. Despite Willow acting like a baddie, there’s something fragile beneath that hard exterior, and I don’t want to spook her with my enthusiasm.
We’re quiet, but I wish she’d say something—anything, even make fun of me—because my thoughts immediately stray to Nick.
I don’t know how to read him. He was so unhappy earlier this week, but this morning?
He switched back to that guy from Shaker’s on Sunday, the one who couldn’t stop touching me, who smiled and laughed.
This morning he brought me coffee, acting like he cared. And he told me he didn’t want me alone with Shaw.
Why are red flags so hot ?
When I asked if he wanted to keep pretending to date me, though, I almost felt … disappointed? It’s fine if this is fake, but what would it be like to be his real girlfriend?
I’ll never know.
And that’s fine , fine , fine , because my focus needs to stay on my career.
On Natalia and scoring an opportunity to work with her.
Nick might be attracted to me, he might think he wants to date me, but that’s because he doesn’t know what it’s like being with a working actress.
He’d find out eventually that I’m not worth his time.
I ignore the way my stomach cramps at that line of thought as Willow pulls into the driveway of our childhood home. Inside the house, warm, stuffy air smacks me in the face. The smell of butter and potatoes permeates everything.
I wait for that feeling of belonging, of home, to steal over me like a thick blanket. But … nothing. Maybe because of my apartment in the city. Or maybe I lived out of a suitcase on tour for too long. I made a home everywhere I went, giving up little pieces along the way, and now there’s none left.
My eyes sting with the thought, so I squeeze them shut when my mom, Mickie, wraps me in a hug. She hugs Willow next, then pulls back, blue eyes watery.
“It’s so great having the two of you home.” She smiles, shuffling back to the kitchen. Her signature I’m-always-cold cardigan sways with her movements.
Our middle sister, Laurel, visits less than I do, which is saying something since she’s only an hour away. She comes home for the holidays, and only for her son, Tate. And it’s always strained. Laurel and Dad haven’t spoken in years.
In the kitchen, I run a hand across the oak cabinets and the off-white countertops. I normally love my parents’ outdated kitchen; it brings back so many memories. But I need those memories to stay tucked in the dark corners of my mind because, lately, all thoughts of my past lead to Nick.
The smooth vibrato of Anita O’Day sings from the record player speakers in the living room, and Dad hums along as he hovers over the stove. The heat turns his ruddy skin even redder, though it complements his white hair.
He dishes out pyzy—fist-sized dumplings stuffed with meat and cheese and topped with bacon—for everyone as we sit at the table in our tidy dining room. I smile wide.
I frequent a Ukrainian diner near Washington Square Park when I get homesick, but nothing compares to my dad’s homemade Polish food.
Tomas Danielowicz is a first-generation American whose parents instilled in him a love of their homeland via potatoes.
I bite into my pyzy and hum in satisfaction.
Dad winks at me before digging into his own food.
“... and you remember LuAnn Badura, right, June?” Mom’s question draws me out of my carb-induced coma several minutes later.
I stare back blankly. She doesn’t expect me to remember one of her random friends, but she always starts her stories this way.
She rolls her eyes and waves her fork around. “You played T-ball with her youngest, Randy.”
“How do you remember that? My T-ball career began and ended a quarter of a century ago.” My stomach churns at the phrase, quarter of a century . At least I wore a dress tonight. If I’d squeezed into pants, they’d already be unbuttoned.
“Anyway, she told me Randy bought a house.” She draws those last words out, eyes boring into mine.
“Wow, Randy’s moved up in the world since his days of hitting a ball on a stick.”
“It’s a buyer’s market, that’s what I heard. Wouldn’t it be nice to stay in one place?”
Ah , there it is .
I should’ve seen it coming. Lately, Mom brings up my dwindling acting prospects every chance she gets. “Auditions are ramping up for the tours starting in the new year. I’m sure Helen will call with an update soon.”
“But don’t you want some place to come home to?”
Her question knocks the air out of my lungs.
“June’s being smart about it, saving her money until she knows what she wants.” Willow dips her chin slightly in my direction. We don’t agree often, but we always put up a unified front with the parentals.
Thank you , I mouth, then stuff the last dumpling in. But even the heavenly taste of potatoes doesn’t ease the tightness in my throat. I cast about for any plausible excuse to leave dinner early, before Mom asks if I’ve found a nice boy to settle down with.
“I ran into Darlene Kaczmarek today, and you know what she told me?” My mom turns her line of questioning onto Dad, who waits patiently for his wife to continue. She’s never asked a question she didn’t want to answer herself. “You volunteered Junie to work the bar at the fair next weekend.”
“Um, this is the first I’m hearing of it?” I planned to spend my weekend at the fair anyway, but by cramming fried food in my mouth, not slinging drinks.
He bobs his head, speaking around a mouthful of food. “Sorry, Junie. Just happened yesterday. Buddy told me the guy who usually runs it had a stroke, Mick.”
“Junie shouldn’t stoop to bartending, Tom.”
“ Stoop ? I’m literally right here.” Willow pushes her chair back.
Mom places a consoling hand on her forearm. “I didn’t mean you, sweetheart.”
“Are we pretending I’m not here or something?” I drop my fork on the plate, and my family quiets at the clattering noise. “It’s fine, I don’t mind. I love the fair. But maybe some warning next time, yeah, Dad?”
Nope, Mom keeps talking like I didn’t say anything. “Did you forget about her wasp allergy? The beer tent will be buzzing with them.”
He stands and stacks plates, white polo shirt straining across his barrel chest. “She’s an adult, she can take care of herself.”