Zara presses her phone against her ear so hard that it generates heat. As if that will bring Eli closer.
“What. Was. That,” Eli says.
Zara is speeding through the lobby of Kestrel’s apartment building, past the fake Christmas trees. “I don’t know,” Zara says. “I don’t know.”
They’ve been going over the same things in a loop since they left the theater.
“Did she see us?” Eli asks.
“She saw me,” Zara says.
“But . . . us? Plural?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.”
The elevator dings and Zara gets in. Alone, thankfully. The doors slide closed.
“Why was Meg singing?” Eli asks.
It’s a good question. But Zara feels like they’re missing a more important one buried just beneath it. How was she that good?
“Wait a second,” Zara says, shifting the phone away from her ear. She does a quick search for West Side Story, adding New York City — which dredges up too many results — and then Aurelia. Here are rave reviews of a production that happened when Zara was only a little girl. She thumbs down to a list of the cast and crew. Leopold directed it, of course. Right at the top of the cast is a name that Zara would never have noticed until tonight.
She puts the phone back to her ear. “Meg played Maria at the Aurelia fifteen years ago.”
“Meg?” Eli asks. “White-toast-with-nothing-on-it Meg?”
“She was Margaret Jones back then.”
“Ugh,” Eli says. “Of course Leopold would cast her in that role. Why not? There are so many leads for Latinas on Broadway.”
Zara flares with anger. When she first came to New York, she expected a cast that mirrored the city — prettier, maybe, but just as diverse. Now she knows better, that most casts are mostly white, but Leopold’s Echo and Ariston is entirely white, as if anything else wouldn’t match his idea of perfection.
The elevator rises up too far and Zara’s insides float. They lurch back into place as the elevator settles at Kestrel’s floor.
Eli’s apartment is the only place Zara can imagine wanting to be right now, but there’s a possibility Kestrel will start caring where she’s been spending her time. Zara made up a lie about her parents being in the city last night, which only makes her feel a thousand miles farther away from them than she already did.
“I don’t think Meg saw you,” Zara says again.
“Good.” Zara pictures Eli sitting on her flowered couch, then jumping back up to pace. Eli flipping through the blades on her Leatherman, one by one. “I think we can trust Toby not to say anything. He’s gay. There’s an honor code.”
Zara walks the long, quiet hall toward Kestrel’s door. “There’s also Adrian.”
Eli’s voice bursts at the seams with disbelief. “You told Mr. Front Page that you’re having girl sex and you expect him to keep it to himself?”
Zara comes alive with a full-body blush. “Well, we’re not exactly . . .” She tries again. “I mean we haven’t had . . .”
“It’s a figure of speech,” Eli says, but underneath the bluntness, there’s a smile in her voice.
Zara’s not blushing anymore. She’s officially on fire.
She lingers outside Kestrel’s door, whispering in case her roommate is right inside. “I didn’t tell Adrian about you,” she says with a little muscle. “Just a general someone who isn’t him.”
“I can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse,” Eli says. “How can I want to tell everyone and also want to keep it a secret? It’s like being in the closet. Times a thousand. It’s like being in a thousand closets.”
Zara feels it differently, like she’s standing onstage in the dark. She can play all the same scenes as she would with the lights on — flirting, kissing, falling in love — but no one else can see them.
“Good night,” Eli says.
“Good night,” Zara says.
“Good night,” Eli says again.
“We could do this forever.”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Eli says. “Call me if Kestrel does anything remotely strange. Including singing show tunes.”
They say a few more rounds of good night, and then Zara hangs up.
When she enters the apartment, it has an untouched quality, the quiet of a new snowfall. There’s a potted evergreen on the coffee table with tiny twinkle lights and a paper star on top that looks homemade. She wonders if it’s the one ornament that survived Kestrel’s childhood.
Zara drops her purse in the corner of the little entryway and crosses the living room. Opens her door.
The room has been warped past recognition. No more pristine white and modern glass — it looks like a murder scene without a body. Shredded sheets, broken windows, furniture marred by deep scratches. Worst are the pieces that don’t fit the scene, like artifacts ripped from a nightmare. A hacked-apart mannequin. A row of dolls staring up at her with those round, blinkable eyes. Words drawn and scratched on every surface, bleeding at her in shades of red paint. The same words, everywhere.
STOP ASKING QUESTIONS.