Page 16 of Playworld

“Something like that.”

“Hey,” Brent said, “whatever the talent needs.”

I rejoined my math class already in progress and made a great show of listening. Within five minutes, Miss Abbasi reappeared and, excusing herself to Mr. Graff once more, handed me the note, which I in turn gave to my teacher.

I hopped the bus on Columbus Avenue downtown. It was almost two. I could catch my dad before he left his studio for his appointment. Traffic was light, and the vehicle, bashing over each pothole, made a great crash along its length, as if its scalloped steel siding might at any moment shake loose. This in-between time, before schools let out and the rush hour began, was stirring somehow. There were few pedestrians visible, and with the rest at work it was as if the city belonged to me. Because the bus was nearly empty, I had a clear view out all the windows, side to front, so I stood in the aisle’s center and stretched out my arms to grab the straps, pretending that I was flying. The driver skipped two stops, gathering speed. We could see the streetlights change from red to green as far south as Seventy-Ninth, even below the planetarium, and we shared a private, communal giddiness—this rare break from the bus’s halting progress and maybe from our own—our thoughts so perfectlyaligned that he caught my eye in his giant rearview mirror and smiled. And when it was finally time to get off, I let the force transferred from the brakes carry me forward, palming the poles to slow my fall all the way to the front.

My father rented a small studio next to the Carnegie Deli. It was where he gave voice lessons, one of his side jobs, and took photographs (he’d taken the majority of his students’ headshots), a skill he’d learned in the navy. On the space’s far wall, he’d tacked a collection of their portraits to some pegboard so that the collage resembled an audience. Sometimes, on my bike rides home from elementary school, I made it a point to surprise my father and stop by, an interruption he rarely appreciated. Before knocking, a courtesy I also regularly neglected, I liked to listen to him teach from the hallway. The vocal exercises were sung to rising or falling scales, their tempo matched to a consonant’s hardness or a syllable’s length—words that taken together sounded like looping nonsense poems (ma may me my mo moo ma) designed to develop enunciation (fee fi foh foo fum), the phrases moving up each key until arriving at a register too high for the singer’s bass or too low for their soprano, upon which they cracked into disharmony. There might be laughter after this—Dad’s, the student’s, or both—followed by some muted, technical instruction, perhaps even a demonstration by my father. These moments always made me proud, for his ability so obviously exceeded his pupils’, and just before the resumption of the exercise I would enter unannounced—as I did now, since he was alone.

He greeted my appearance with bewilderment and looked at me questioningly, perhaps because he registered my anger. I had rehearsed our conversation on my ride here, steeling myself, and now pressed my advantage.

“How much longer do I have to do this?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The Nuclear Family.Acting.Everything.”

We’d had this fight before. It didn’t take long for him to get his balance back. “Until your obligation is fulfilled.”

“Are you talking about my contract? The season ends next week.”

“We’ll see if they want to renew.”

“What ifIdon’t want to renew?”

“It’s not time to worry about that yet.”

“I can’t do both anymore.” I said this more pleadingly than I’d have liked. “I’ve tried.”

At this, Dad stood, although the upright piano was still between us. “You listen to me,” he said. “I don’t need to remind you how expensive your school is. Not to mention the fact that your grades these past two years have been unacceptable. Your mother and I expect them to improve. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“I’ll pull you.”

I had anticipated this move. He’d used it many times.

“Where were you this morning?” I asked. “I called you here and then at home.”

Dad screwed up his expression.

“I called you around eleven,” I said, bluffing.

“I was in a recording session,” Dad said. “At BBD&O.”

“No, you weren’t. I saw you. On Columbus Circle. With a woman.” I scanned his wall of faces and then pointed to the headshot. “Her,” I said.

My father’s eye twitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was a terrible liar.

“Wrestling season ends in February,” I said. “No more auditions until then.”

My father stuck out his lower lip and shrugged. It was an ambiguous gesture.

“Do we have a deal?” I asked.

“Deal,” he said, and, like a conductor disappearing back into the pit, took his seat.

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