We make it through most of the record this way, both of us singing along—but Renee isperforming, and it’s a fight to keep my eyes on the road. Every song sounds that much better with her harmonies.
And then, when I least expect it, a betrayal. She switches to a song fromRent.
I snatch the phone out of her hand. “This truck is a no-musical-theater zone.”
“Oh, come on. Just this one song,” Renee pleads. “It’s a duet.”
“No way, Broadway.” I keep one eye on the road while queuing up something listenable.
“Pleeeease. I want you to hear it,” she begs. “Listen to the words. I’ve been thinking maybe you could sing the lower part and—”
I make a big show of flipping on my turn signal and shifting one lane closer to the shoulder. “I’m pulling over. You’re walking home.”
Renee only grins, her brow arching in a silent challenge. She’s calling my bluff. I flip the turn signal off, trying not to feel the way her smug smile leaves me dizzy.
“What is it with you and musicals?” she asks. “What tragic theatrical backstory are you hiding?”
It’s a perfect opening. “I’ll tell you if you tell me what the so-called work stuff on your phone was earlier.”
My eyes are fixed ahead, but I can feel Renee’s energy slip inthe silence, the musical theater thankfully paused. “Fine,” she says, voice clipped. “It was a rejection email. From the Philharmonic.” She sighs, and something withers inside me. “I really, really thought I was gonna get that job.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say.
“It’s okay,” Renee says, but neither of us are convinced. “It’s…well, it’s not super okay. But I’m being optimistic. I’m waiting to hear back from that theater in the suburbs, and one of my former coworkers is on the hiring committee, so…” She sighs again, fully resetting as she stares down at her hands. “Okay. Sorry. Let’s move on. Your turn.”
I swallow hard. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“So? You have to. That’s the deal. What’s your problem with musicals?”
I clear my throat. “I, uh. I dated a girl for four years whose alarm clock was ‘The Wizard and I.’ ”
“That’s seriously it?”
“Yes.”
“You hate musical theater because of Gin’s alarm clock.” Renee’s tone demands a better explanation. But there isn’t one.
“You would hate it, too, if you woke up to that song every day.”
“It’s a very good song,” Renee says.
“Not for an alarm!” I throw a hand up, exasperated. “Not for four years! I’m traumatized! And it’s not all songs from musicals. It’s this one specific type of song that I really hate. It’s hard to describe. It’s those songs where the character is like…” I look longingly into the distance, eyes wide and mouth agape in the phoniest, most theatrical face I can muster. Renee reaches over and softly swats my cheek, forcing my eyes back on the road.
“I think I know what you mean,” she says. “When we get that inner look at the desires of the main character. They’re called ‘I want’ songs.”
“Well, I do not want the ‘I want’ songs,” I say plainly. “They suck.”
“You heard it here first, folks. Alice Pierce hates songs about following your dreams.”
“I am pro-dream and pro-song,” I insist. “I am anti–corny bullshit. Like, why am I listening to this and feeling embarrassed?”
Renee doesn’t answer right away, and I let my eyes wander to the passenger seat in search of evidence that I’ve offended her. Cautiously, she steps into a thought.
“I think chasing your dreamsiskind of embarrassing,” she says. “You have to be vulnerable enough to put yourself out there, and you’re probably going to fail a lot before you get what you want. And it’s embarrassing to even be the type of person who thinks they can do something or be somebody. It’s embarrassing to go on auditions and get rejected, to put in all this work for nothing over and over again with the delusion that eventually it’ll be something.”
“Huh.” I lick my lips, considering. “I disagree.”
“Oh?”
