11. Nick
NICK
Parents Lie - Freaky Friday
After morning announcements, June and I walk hand in hand to Acting While Singing. Maybe it started fake, but this thing between us feels more real the more time we spend together. We chat about nothing special as we make it to the classroom door.
“So, will you do it?” Ryan Huang asks Santi. They’re still in the hall, but theatre kids are a special kind of loud.
Santi stretches his neck as he enters, irritated. “You’re the third person to ask me to play for them at cabaret.”
“Yeah, but me and Drew want to do a genderbent ‘Take Me or Leave Me’ like Gavin Creel and Aaron Tveit,” Ryan whines.
He stops in his tracks. “Damn, that would be cool.”
“So you’ll accompany us?”
“Only because you mentioned Gavin Creel.”
“May he rest in power.”
Weirdly, or maybe not so weirdly, we all pause, quiet. Though Gavin’s memory—not only as a performer but as an activist in the LGBTQ community—deserves so much more than a moment of silence. Broadway lost a good one.
“Fine.” Santi eventually sighs. “You get me for one rehearsal. So have your shit together.”
Naomi enters, catching the end of their conversation. “Did you do cabaret as a camper, Juniper?”
During the halfway point of Conservatory, the students—and some counselors and faculty—put on a small cabaret in DPAC. The sign-up sheet is first-come, first-served. No auditions.
“I loved cabaret.” June smiles, eyes distant. “Everyone got so creative. My favorite was when a bunch of us did ‘Cell Block Tango’.”
“Nice! Were you Velma?” Naomi’s eyes light up.
June wiggles her eyebrows. “Squish.”
Fuck, I’ve never wished I’d been a camper more than right now. June dressed in black and singing about murdering her husband shouldn’t be this sexy, but it is. She could murder me all day long.
“A few of us are doing ‘Ex-Wives’ from Six , if we sign up fast enough,” Naomi adds.
“Nice.” June nods her approval. “I wish Six was out when I was a camper.”
“Oh. My. God. You should sing!” Ryan pops up out of nowhere, again, directing his suggestion at June. That kid’s quick.
“No way. Cabaret’s for campers and counselors.” Her blush is the perfect shade of pink.
“But we’d love to hear you sing,” Naomi begs.
“Juniper and Mr. Harper should do a song together,” Santi calls from his seat across the room.
All holy hell breaks loose. Campers screech, increasing in volume as they shout suggestions.
“‘More Than I Am’!” someone yells.
I turn to the students. I know that one from Little Women , though not well.
“‘You Matter to Me’!” another shouts.
I love Waitress . Maybe the kids are onto something—to be onstage with her, a part of that bright light that emanates from her when she performs. My fingers itch to grab that image and hold onto it.
“‘I’d Give It All for You’!” Kaelyn clasps her hands under her chin.
June’s gaze flits to mine, then to her feet, voice wavering. “I sang that one my senior year for cabaret.”
Let me guess, she sang with Shaw. He’s not even here, but I can’t escape him.
“Wait, wait, wait. If we’re talking Jason Robert Brown, it should be ‘The Next Ten Minutes’,” Chantal replies to boos from Naomi.
“What’s wrong with that one?” Chantal laughs.
“Justice for Cathy!” Naomi yells.
“Yeah,” Kaelyn says. “Jamie’s a douche. Mr. Harper would never .”
“Thanks?” I laugh, catching June’s eye.
She smiles at Kaelyn and Naomi, her gaze wide and bright. “The kids are gonna be all right.”
Ryan Huang stands in the center of the room, a finger pointed in our direction. “You’re singing ‘Take It Like a Man’ from Legally Blonde .”
Santi cups his hands around his mouth, yelling, “Yoooooooo!”
“Well, Mr. Harper?” June tilts her head in my direction. I dream about her saying my name, just like that, lying underneath me.
My stare breaks first, otherwise, I’ll need to make a swift exit to calm certain body parts. I look at Santi instead. He’s a River Valley student and a straight shooter. He gives me a small smile and a quick nod. If he thinks I won’t make an ass of myself, I’m game.
June shifts closer, her face open, smile genuine. But nervousness rests in the tight corners of her eyes. Is it because I’m taking too long to answer? Or maybe she doesn’t want to sing with me?
I drop my voice, even though the students will hear me anyway. “Do you want to do it?”
“Only with you,” she answers.
June’s answer is met with a chorus of oohs and aahs from the campers. I roll my eyes. These kids suggested it in the first place, and now they’re making fun of us.
“Excellent. I’m in. I’ll print off the music at lunch.”
“And I’ll add our names to the sign-up sheet.”
“We need to figure out a time to practice,” I murmur, stepping closer to her. I’m naturally pulled into her orbit, especially imagining time alone with June in a practice room.
I head for the piano, but when I turn back, June’s there. She throws her arms around my neck. My hand finds the dip in her waist, curling my fingers into her shirt. We’re in front of a bunch of high schoolers, but I can’t break this embrace, she feels too good.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?” I can’t stop thinking about burying my face in the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, but I shouldn’t.
“For singing with me. I’m glad it’s you.” With one more squeeze, she releases me and returns her attention to the students.
Me too .
Nick
The rest of the week passes in a blur of rehearsals until Friday afternoon, when I leave Les Mis early to pick up Dad for physio. He had to sell the house I grew up in after his accident; he can’t handle stairs anymore. I didn’t mind. It hadn’t felt like home since my mom died.
I knock on the front door of his small ranch-style house and wait. His appointments are the same time every week, and he usually comes right out. I knock again, more insistent, but still nothing.
“He’s fine,” I mutter under my breath, shouldering open the front door.
His bedroom’s down the hall on the right, soft music emanating from behind the door. Before charging in there, I yell, “Dad!” one more time.
“Nicky?” His voice is muffled through the door.
I sigh and sag against the wall.
More muffled words that I can’t make out come from his room. Is he talking to himself? There are a few concerning thumps, but at least if something happens, I’m here to help.
“What’s up, son?” He appears, a hand smoothing his ruffled hair. It had been the same color as mine until Mom died. His hair went gray shortly after. But it’s still full and thick, thank you, genetics.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” I eye him closely. Dad’s not a napper, and he’s not groggy, but his polo shirt’s askew and he’s only got one sock on. I’m still getting used to this weird role reversal that happens with grown children and their parents. As I’ve gotten older, my dad has, too.
Being his caretaker is hard in some ways, but easier in others. I was never the kid he wanted when I was little—not into sports, not outdoorsy. I was happier sitting on the couch, watching old musical movies with my mom, or playing piano.
But now my dad needs me.
“No, no. I was … up.” He grimaces, bracing a hand against the wall as he walks stiffly toward the front door.
“You’ve got physio.”
“I canceled my appointment this week.”
“You what?” I snap my mouth shut, grinding my teeth together. I hadn’t meant to yell. “Sorry, why would you do that?”
“The Sadlersburg Fair’s this weekend,” he says, like that’s all the answer I need.
“You cancelled so you won’t be sore for the fair tomorrow? Are you ready for all that walking?”
“It’s my decision. I’ll be fine.” He waves away my concern, but that only frustrates me further.
My dad says he’s fine, but after the fair, who’ll run errands for him, drop off groceries when he’s in too much pain to walk? Me.
Guilt steals over me, strangling my frustration. This is my dad .
I cross my arms, leaning against the door frame. “We’ll see.”
“You’re chaperoning those camp kids, right?” His temper borders on petulant. Is this what it’s like having a grumpy teenager? I don’t see the appeal.
“Yes,” I answer, until it hits me. How did he know I’d be chaperoning? I must’ve mentioned it to him earlier this week.
“Listen, there’s someone I want you to meet at the fair.” Dad shifts, eyes darting down the hallway.
At the same time, my phone chimes with a text.
“I’m just now getting the notification that your appointment’s been cancelled.” I shake my head. “Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I thought the app thingy would tell you?” He looks lost, so unsure.
He looks old.
His accident aged both of us. My flare of anger burns out, leaving only ashes behind. “Even if it did, would it kill you to call me and confirm?”
“I didn’t want to bother you. You get back from that camp so late. And you’re missing practice right now, aren’t you?”
“You’re more important than that.”
He hitches his pants up, using the wall for support as he goes to the kitchen and grabs his cell phone off the dining table. “How do I get the patient app on my phone?”
“I’ll download it.” I hold my hand out for his phone, navigating to the app store.
Once it downloads, I log him in and hand it back.
I want to ask why—why he wants to download it, why now, but I hold back.
It’s his health, his doctors. I stare straight ahead, past the living room into the kitchen, and the small window over the sink to the tiny backyard.
Am I doing this wrong? Maybe he’s unhappy with the way I’m handling his care. “Is this about the prior authorization taking so long?”
“What? No.” His brows furrow together, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening further. “You’re great, Nicky.”
“Then w-why the change?”
“I know you’re babying me.”
“Babying you? You fell off a roof.”
“I’m better now.”
I eye his hand, pushing so hard on the wall that the muscles in his arm strain. He catches my gaze and stands straight. Dad’s good at hiding his pain, but I see. I see his mouth firming into a hard line, his jaw clenching. “Totally fine,” he says.
I could wait him out. In a few minutes, maybe less, sweat will drip from his temples, and he’ll hobble to the couch. But it’s clear he doesn’t want me here, doesn’t need me.
Or doesn’t want to need me, which feels worse.
“If you say so. I’ll see you at the fair, then. Bye, Dad.” I shut the front door behind me, my steps slow as I walk to my car.
He assumes he’s a burden to me. And maybe I’ve treated him that way, though I don’t see how. I’ve always been so careful not to talk about my fears and worries. I always show up for him.
Trust is handing someone a knife hilt first, fingers wrapped around the blade. I’m the only one who bleeds.
I scramble for my phone at a red light and text that line to myself.
It’s not quite perfect, but there’s a melody under it.
Humming to myself, I try to parse it, get it right.
Rather than head back to campus, I drive to my house to shower and change for the concert tonight.
I can’t get that line out of my head, so I play with it at the piano until a song takes shape.
It needs work, but I feel it, the rightness of it. I know it’ll be good.