16
Dad’s assistant, Bruno, approaches me from behind while I’m pretending to study sheet music, and I jump a mile.
“Whoa,” Bruno says, showing off his perfect Jersey dialect. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Only a few feet away, Dominic gives me a look like he’s asking what’s up with me. I feel the back of my neck, and sure enough there are goose bumps. On the way to the agency today, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following me.
“Sorry,” I say in a rush. “I stayed up late last night watching a horror film. Did you need something?”
“No worries,” Bruno says. “Mr. Whitman is ready to introduce you and Lachlan.”
Right. Me. As in the British Broadway performer. No problem. I’m totally up for this.
The giant room full of nervous child performers and even more nervous stage moms, some dads too, returns to focus, and I work hard to regain the grip I’d had on my character. But right before leaving the hotel today, I got a text from Connie that has my mind elsewhere. And I keep reading it over and over. Even now, I glance at my phone once more, pretending to check the time.
CONNIE: no records of our guy at school. Ever.
ME: what do you mean ever???
CONNIE: I found student names but not his. Don’t panic. Their security is top of the line. Maybe all the names are fake?
Maybe all the names are fake. I mean, ideally, she’s right. Not only are the kids at Marshall Academy headed for top-secret careers, but they come from families already in that world. They have to be able to assure every kind of protection. But then why hadn’t Miles told me this before? Or maybe when he gave me all those lectures about his school and honors program being confidential in a life-or-death way, the student security should have been common knowledge.
“You okay?” Dominic asks, appearing at my side.
I’m not too freaked out to appreciate his Australian accent. He’s been practicing. A lot. But if I know my father, he’s about to put Dominic—Lachlan—to the test, and I’m not sure he’s prepared for whatever Dad throws at him.
“I’m fine,” I lie, unable to be the bearer of bad news or worry him over what Connie revealed. “How about you? Hope you’re ready for this…”
We were instructed to mingle among the crowd of auditioning families—apparently they’ve all been here before and this is a callback day. Dad exits the office with a smiling little boy in tights and sequins, along with his mother. The room quiets a bit when Dad stands beside us, preparing to speak.
“Hello, everyone, thank you for coming to the Johnson Whitman Agency callbacks today,” he says. “Each of you showed us something special in your first audition, and no matter what happens, you should be proud to have impressed such incredible judges of talent.” He turns to Dominic and me. “I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine. They’ve been covertly observing all of you today, getting to know you.”
The eyes of at least a dozen children widen, fear in their eyes.
Dad offers the crowd a reassuring smile, then he points to the two of us. “Miss Emma Carrington and Lachlan Hudson. These remarkable young people have earned leading roles in Broadway productions through their hard work and dedication. Both have been in productions of School of Rock—Lachlan in Australia and Emma in London. They aren’t here to criticize you but instead to inspire. Johnson Whitman Agency is proud to represent talent from all over the world, and we consider our clients practically family.”
At that last part, my dad shoots me a warm smile. One filled with irony. He’s so good at this even I’m eating up every word.
“They’re also here to entertain you…” Dad’s warm smile turns to a more malicious one, and cheers erupt from around the room. “They’ve even dressed the part.”
Oh man, I guess I should have expected this. Dominic’s face is completely blank. I think he’s working on his poker face and this is the result. My uncle Milky heads to the piano, and my heart picks up speed. It’s been a while since I’ve had to pull off a song-and-dance routine.
Dad turns his back to the crowd and gives us a look that clearly says, You want in, pull this off. “Let’s hear that duet you two prepared.”
“Duet?” Dominic whispers. “What duet? There’s no duet on the cast album.”
“Good, you’ve listened to the album.” That’s more than I can say for myself. I shove him toward the piano and raise my voice to speak to the room in my best British accent. “Actually, Lachlan fancies the spotlight more than me. He’s got a solo ready for us.”
I catch my father’s eye, and his face is full of pride. I smile down at my shoes, knowing I’ve just earned his approval and trust. It’s a win for the investigation but also for me, personally. Something I wish didn’t still enjoy.
Dominic looks between Dad and me, and I know he knows this is it for him. He’s not an idiot. He moves toward the piano, and I wait for him to make an excuse—he’s coming down with a cold or required vocal rest, even licensing or copyright issues. But instead, I stand there and watch him transform. Like he picks up an invisible costume on the way to the piano, slips it on and becomes Lachlan Hudson, Broadway star. His back is straighter, his chin tilted up, his arms no longer dangling awkwardly at his sides but now swinging with purpose. And for a second I’m jealous, because I know how great it can feel to give yourself permission to become someone else. I just have to hope that I haven’t created a monster.
He whispers instructions to Milky, and Dad whispers to me, “Think your boy’s got the skills?”
“We’re about to find out,” I tell him, my eyes glued to my classmate. “But I definitely wouldn’t peg him as the musical theater type.”
“Yeah, I got that vibe, too,” Dad says.
“And yet you turned him into an international Broadway star.”
He says nothing. Doesn’t need to. There is no room for the weak or incapable in any of my family’s cons.
Dominic hops up onto the piano bench. “Feel free to sing along.”
“The accent’s not bad,” Dad admits.
“But not as good as Bruno’s Jersey accent,” I say, hoping to get something out of him about this mysterious guy.
Dad just gives me a funny look and then turns his attention to the piano where Milky, instead of playing, is watching Dominic.
“It starts off on a dark stage. And then a beam of light,” Dominic says, all dramatic, but not singing. “And you can see me and my guitar.”
Everyone goes nuts, cheering. I don’t know this musical very well, but I guess this is part of it. Eventually the performance does turn into song, but it’s clear Dominic chose a song that isn’t supposed to be sung well. I watch in awe as my very cool, very unmotivated classmate comes to life. A minute into the performance, he leaps off the piano bench and works the crowd, gaining some screaming fans.
I scan the crowd, keeping track of Dominic, but I’m quickly distracted by something. The mom who had been in the office with Dad minutes ago places a folder on the floor behind her so she can clap and cheer along with everyone else. She hadn’t gone into the office with that folder. It was given to her.
“I’m gonna work the crowd,” I tell Dad.
Weaving my way toward that folder, I clap and dance along with several of the kids, even offering catcalls to Dominic when he strips off his blazer and tosses it up into the crowd. I press my foot on top of the folder and slide it carefully toward me. I bend down, pretending to adjust my shoelace and open the cover of the folder, scanning the first page briefly.
And just like that, the entire con, my dad’s big New York City operation, unravels into a plan that finally makes sense.