"Good." She stubs out her cigarette. "Because you're going to be famous, Vespera Levine. The question is whether you're going to be famous for the stunt or for the work."
"The work," I say. "Always the work."
"Then prove it." She turns to go back inside. "Opening night is in two weeks. Show New York what you showed Northwood. But this time, let the performance speak for itself."
She leaves me standing in the cold Brooklyn afternoon, processing what she just said.
Broadway. Maybe. Eventually. If I'm good enough.
I pull out my phone and text the pack group chat.
Me:Vivian thinks I could make it to Broadway. Eventually.
Dorian:Of course you could.
Corvus:Statistically speaking, you're already in the top 1% of Off-Broadway performers. Broadway is the logical next step.
Oakley:We'll be front row for every show.
I smile at the phone, then pocket it and head back inside.
Marcus is waiting, arms crossed, looking impatient.
"Done processing your feelings?" he asks.
"Done," I confirm.
"Good. Act Three, Scene Two. Let's see if you can make me believe Emma's choosing destruction over compromise."
"I can," I say.
And I do. Again and again until Marcus finally nods, satisfied.
"That's it," he says. "That's the show. Now we just need to do it perfectly for six weeks straight."
"Easy," I say.
He laughs. "Nothing about this is easy, kid. But you? You're going to be fine."
I walk home through Brooklyn as the sun sets, the city glowing with lights and possibility. The apartment is full when I arrive—Dorian cooking pasta, Oakley running lines from his script, Corvus on a work call in the corner.
Home. Chaotic and cramped and perfect.
"How was rehearsal?" Dorian asks, stirring sauce.
"Good," I say. "Vivian thinks I might make Broadway someday."
"Of course you will," Oakley says, not even looking up from his flashcards. Like it's a given. Like there's no doubt.
"Probability is high," Corvus adds, ending his call. "Assuming consistent performance quality and favorable critical reception."
"Such romantics," I mutter, but I'm smiling.
Dorian serves pasta onto mismatched plates we bought at a thrift store. We crowd onto the couch that's too small for fourpeople and eat dinner while watching a show on Corvus's laptop because we can't afford a TV.
It's nothing like Northwood. Nothing like the life Eleanor Ashworth planned for her son. Nothing like the comfortable future any of us were supposed to have.
It's everything.
