You in Five Acts - Hardcover

LaMarche, Una

3.75

990 ratings by Goodreads

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1101998938 ISBN 13: 9781101998939

Publisher: Razorbill, 2016

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The latest contemporary novel from Una LaMarche, acclaimed author of Five Summers, Like No Other, and Don’t Fail Me Now. In the high-pressure months leading up to the performance that will determine their futures, a group of friends at a performing arts school look back on when an unexpected event upended everything.

"A poignant and timely socially conscious narrative."
—Kirkus

It's always been you—you know that, right?

At a prestigious New York City performing arts school, five friends connect over one dream of stardom. But for Joy, Diego, Liv, Ethan and Dave, that dream falters under the pressure of second-semester, Senior year. Ambitions shift and change, new emotions rush to the surface, and a sense of urgency pulses between them: Their time together is running out.

Diego hopes to get out of the friend zone. Liv wants to escape, losing herself in fantasies of the new guy. Ethan conspires to turn his muse into his girlfriend. Dave pines for the drama queen. And if Joy doesn’t open her eyes, she could lose the love that’s been in front of her all along.

An epic ensemble piece in the vein of Fame and Let’s Get Lost, You in Five Acts is a eulogy for a friendship—the heartbreaks, the betrayals, the inside jokes, the remember-whens. And the tragedy that changed everything.

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About the Author:

Una LaMarche is a writer and journalist whose work has appeared regularly in the New York Observer and on the Huffington Post. She is the author of Five Summers, Like No Other, Don't Fail Me Now, and Unabrow, a collection of humorous essays based on some of her more questionable life choices. Una lives in Brooklyn with her husband and son. Find out more at unalamarche.com or follow her on Twitter @sassycurmudgeon

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright � 2016 Una LaMarche

Overture

Diego

It’s always been you—you know that, right? You didn’t have to be onstage for me to see you in a spotlight; when you were around, everything else faded to the background, like some cheap cardboard set. Looking back, it doesn’t even seem real, what happened with us. I see you in flashes, a fouett� turn that won’t end, my eyes focusing for a split second, grounding me in between spins: your smile, your laugh, the way you looked so mad when you got nervous. The curve of your waist in your leotard. Your silhouette on the train that night, looking out the window with the whole city stretched out behind you like some crazy constellation. The weight of you in my arms as we prac- ticed our lift, and how our eyes locked, so full of trust.

I swore I’d never let you down. I didn’t know then it was a lie.

Founded 1978

Where Talent Meets Opportunity

Spring Semester Calendar:

January 4 First Day of Classes January 8 Senior Showcase Auditions

January 16 Martin Luther King Day (Campus closed) February 20 Presidents’ Day (Campus closed)

March 11–12 Admissions Auditions, Class of 2021 April 17–28 Spring Break (Campus closed)

May 1–5 Senior Tech Week (Opera, Theater) May 8–11 Senior Tech Week (Music, Dance)

May 12 Senior Showcase Performances (Opera, Music) May 13 Senior Showcase Performances (Theater, Dance)

May 14 Senior Showcase Gallery Show Opening (Visual Arts) May 15–19 Final Exams

May 22 Senior Awards Luncheon

May 26 Commencement Ceremony

Act One

Joy

Chapter One

January 6

127 days left

Pas de couru, tomb�, man�ge of piqu� pirouettes. I ran the steps in my head, over and over, one after another like sub- way cars hurtling through an endless tunnel. Every move, every turn, every line of each leg, each elbow, each vertebra every second had to be on point. En pointe. I had to be on my toes, literally, and light on feet that felt like bricks by the end of each rehearsal. The puns were endless, but, as we liked to joke back then, the struggle was real.

“She’s not even paying attention.” Liv flicked the back of my neck through my scarf with a thin, icy finger, and I heard you laugh.

“What?” I snapped back to life, or as close to life as I could get in the unforgiving January chill. My breath danced in front of me in a quick burst of cloudy vapor.

We were huddled at our usual spot at the Revson Fountain even though the marble was so frigid that sitting down meant sacrificing all feeling below the waist. Liv and Ethan always bitched about my love of the fountain because it wasn’t the squares, or the steps, or the clock, or any of the other “normal” hangouts. You were the only one who understood why I wanted to go—had to go—where we could pull our sore legs up against our jackets and look out at Avery Fisher Hall, those big cement columns encasing the delicate glass interior like a ribcage, and behind that, deep inside, its beating heart: ballet.

“He’s here,” Liv sighed, turning my head manually with her hands. “Three days late, but who’s counting, right?”

Of course Liv had seen him first. She’d always had a knack for knowing when a fellow Beautiful Person was in her orbit, almost like her brain came equipped with a thermal sensor for figurative hotness.

“Calm down, he’s not even that famous!” Ethan scoffed, peering through his glasses across the square. “He was basically only in one movie, six years ago. I don’t know why everybody’s flipping their collective shit.”

Despite its proximity to greatness in the heart of Lincoln Center, the Janus Conservatory had never had a celebrity before. I mean, there were plenty of famous alumni, and even a few teachers who used to be big deals. But all of the students, regardless of talent, were decidedly wannabes. Until Dave Roth. Ethan was upset because Dave’s sudden second-semester senior year transfer was all anyone could talk about, which meant that everyone had stopped talking about the original play Ethan was producing for Senior Showcase. It was no secret that he liked to think of himself as the star of the drama majors, even though he’d switched from acting to directing sophomore year.

“Yeah, he’s just a normal dude,” you said matter-of-factly. You’d been perched next to me on the icy marble, bouncing restlessly on the toes of your well-worn Converse high-tops, but then you leapt down in front of me, holding out a French fry like a long-stemmed rose. “C’mon, you have to eat,” you grinned, your eyes twinkling out from your messy mop of dark curls.

“I am eating,” I said, inspecting my locker-smushed turkey- and-spinach wrap with trepidation. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get much down with the wave of nausea I’d been riding all day. You, on the other hand, could pound junk 24/7 and still dance circles around everyone else—including me. It was completely infuriating. You shrugged and popped the fry into your mouth. “A ‘normal dude’ who played Angelina Jolie’s son,” Liv said. “I mean, didn’t he win a Golden Globe?”

Pas de couru, tomb�, man�ge of piqu� pirouettes. My Showcase audition—the single performance that would likely determine my entire future—would begin in three hours.

“No!” Ethan practically screamed. “He was nominated for a Golden Globe. Which means nothing, by the way. It’s a drunken circus.”

“You guys need a hobby,” you laughed, crumpling up your greasy paper lunch bag. “And you,” you said, putting your hands on my knees, “Need to chill. You got this.”

I forced a tight smile. Senior Showcase would be attended by industry VIPs and recruiters from elite companies all over the country. If I didn’t do well at the audition, I wouldn’t get a featured role. And if I wasn’t featured, I would barely be seen, which would mean that I could probably kiss a professional dance career goodbye, effectively rendering the previous ten years of my life a complete waste.

“Shit, remember that hospital monologue?” Liv asked, ignoring you. She reached out and caressed Ethan’s face, sending a blush racing up his already winter-pink cheeks. “I’ll always . . . be . . . with . . . you,” she whispered, her face contorting into a mask of tragedy. Then she burst out laughing.

“You’ll always be crazy,” Ethan said, but his eyes on her were soft and reverent.

I took a tasteless bite of my wrap and looked across the plaza to where Dave and Ms. Hagen, the drama head, were standing near the entrance to the Metropolitan Opera House. He was cringing against the cold, wearing only a knit skullcap and a pretty flimsy-looking green hoodie. L.A. Boy’s going to have to get himself a proper coat, I thought, feeling a little flutter in my chest that, for once, wasn’t born of pure dread.

I don’t know if it’s fair to say I had a crush on Dave Roth; it was more like a curiosity . . . made slightly more interesting by the fact that he looked like some kind of lush-lipped boy bander crossed with a Greek statue. And in a graduating class of 125 that was 70 percent female, any new Y chromosome was bound to make waves. Besides, Janus never took transfer students. It had been founded in the 70s by a crazy-rich art lover named Roberta Zeagler who had, according to the quote carved into a block of marble in the lobby, wanted to “democratize the path to cultural greatness.” That meant it was a free ride—tuition, supplies, even pointe shoes, which were $80 a pair and lasted one or two days—and, presumably, that talent was the only factor considered in the application. But each class only had room for twenty-five students per major, and there was a single audition period every spring, no exceptions. No one knew what Dave had done to get special treatment.

“P.S.,” Liv said, turning to me like she could read my mind. “I saw his medical records in the nurse’s office this morning, and he’s six-foot-one, one hundred and sixty pounds, and does not have any STDs.” She plucked a baby carrot out of her ever-present Ziploc baggie and snapped it in half with her incisors. I knew Liv well enough to know that A) “saw his medical records” meant “opened the nurse’s file cabinet when she left the room”; and B) she was gearing up to play matchmaker again. She did that every so often—made a big show of trying to set me up with someone, and then lording over me how I never followed through. You never liked that; you always told me I should stop letting her act like I was some kind of pet project. What you didn’t understand was how far we went back, and how I helped her, too. Liv was just a lot louder about it. But then, she was the actress. Drama came with the territory.

“He seems more like your type,” I said, trying to deflect attention.

“He’s probably gay,” Ethan said, unconvincingly. “Anyway, you basically live in the nurse’s office, so that’s not exactly Sherlock-level sleuthing.” He smiled down at something on his phone. “And for the record, Wikipedia says he’s only five-nine.” “I have adrenal fatigue, asshole,” Liv snapped. (Another Liv translation: her “adrenal fatigue” was what the rest of the world called “a hangover.”)

“Can we talk about something else?” you asked. You climbed up onto the bench and leapt into a perfect tour en l’air, landing with a squeak on the soles of your ratty sneakers. I rolled my eyes. I loved cheesy Hollywood dance movies— that was an established fact—but doing ballet jumps in street clothes was a little too Fame-y even for me.

“Attention whore,” Liv grinned, tucking her crudit�s lunch back into her enormous purse.

“Enjoy this, Ortega,” Ethan said. “It’s your official last day of being the Cute Guy.”

“Aw, you think I’m cute, E?” you asked, plopping down next to Ethan and draping an arm across his shoulders.

“No one thinks that,” I said with a smirk. That was a bald-faced lie, of course. Everyone loved you, and I wasn’t blind. You were the world’s biggest flirt and a straight-boy ballet dancer. Back on our very first day at Janus, I remember being instantly drawn to you, but not in the way other girls seemed to be. Standing there in Ballet 1 with the tags on my brand-new leotard still scratching that unreachable spot between my shoulders, I just got this d�j� vu feeling of already knowing you. It had felt, somehow, that you had always been there, and I just hadn’t noticed until that moment.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re cute if you’re not famous,” Liv said, pretending to check her texts while she took a zoomed-in photo of Dave with her phone.

“We’re not unfamous, we’re pre-famous,” Ethan shot back. “Which is better than peaking at age eleven, if you ask me.”

“Make sure to lead with that when you meet him.” I laughed, trying to ignore my stomach’s enthusiastic somersaults.

“I probably should go introduce myself,” Ethan said, fondling the script sticking out of his messenger bag. “I could use a big name in my play.”

“Oh, so now he’s a big name,” Liv teased. She wiggled her eyebrows at me. “You know what they say about guys with big names.”

Even in the icy air, my cheeks lit up like burning coals. “Please,” I groaned. “I have to focus.” But I was secretly sort of grateful to her for taking my mind off of my audition.

“Aaaaand, that’s my cue,” Ethan said irritably, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stalked off toward Dave and Ms. Hagen.

“You guys are worse than us,” you laughed, shaking your head.

“Don’t be jealous,” Liv chided. “You’ll still have your dance groupies. But he’s new, and hot.” She reached over me to ruffle your hair. “It’s just like Shakespeare wrote: ‘Everyone has their entrance, everyone has their exit.’”

“Speaking of entrances,” you said, nodding toward Ethan. We all watched him make contact. It was like some nature documentary, where two species at opposite ends of the food chain face off on the Great Plains. Ethan immediately started gesticulating wildly.

“Ten bucks says he’s already name-dropped Arthur Miller,” Liv said. She was the only one of us who’d been allowed to read Ethan’s top-secret Showcase script, because Ethan had not so secretly written the leading role for her.

“Maybe he’s showing off your Godspell photos,” you said. Liv and Ethan had first become friends in ninth grade when they had played Jesus and Judas, respectively. In many ways, their relationship still mirrored that doomed Biblical pair.

“Maybe he’s inviting him to your party,” I said, my heart starting to race at the heady thought of Dave Roth, in a warm room, close enough to touch. Liv’s parents had left that morning to visit her aunt in San Juan, so she was throwing what she called a “soir�e” for “a select group of dope people.” Knowing Liv, though, that could have easily meant the entire senior class.

“God, I hope not.” Liv cringed. “I actually want him to come.”

“You’re not both seriously into this dude already, right?” you asked incredulously, looking back and forth between us. I met your eyes and made a face like, You don’t know my life, and you looked legitimately taken aback. “I expected more from you,” you sighed. Your lips stretched out over your teeth like a smile but your eyes were flat.

“Excuse me, what kind of patriarchal bullshit is that?” Liv asked, turning on you. “Joy can do whatever, or whomever, she pleases. And you don’t get an opinion.” We high-fived over your head, and you held up your palms in surrender.

“OK, OK, I’m sorry,” you said. “I was just—”

“You can make it up to me,” Liv interrupted. “Jasper’s not invited, for obvious reasons, so I need your help making sure our good friend Mary Jane makes an appearance.” Just before Christmas break, Liv had broken up with her boyfriend of almost two years, who also happened to be Janus’s primary pot connection.

You raised your eyebrows. “C’mon, you know I don’t smoke. Stop stereotyping my people.”

“Excuse me, I’m Puerto Rican,” Liv said.

“Puert-Jew-rican,” you corrected with a smirk. “Olivia Gerstein.”

“Now who’s being racist?” Liv snapped. “Plus, I know your cousin Dante deals. Jasper was always pissed about how he was moving in on the uptown schools.”

Your smile disappeared. “I don’t know anything about that,” you said. “That’s his business. Not mine.”

“Fine, sorry. Forget I asked,” Liv sighed. “Just bring a six- pack of something, then.”

“What do you want?” you asked, turning to me, the tension of the previous seconds gone as if it had never happened.

I rolled my ankles, drawing circles on the stone with my toes. I’d been dancing all morning in class, and had made a point to stretch the hell out of my feet beforehand. “You’re flat in the wrong places,” Ms. Adair would often chide, looking me over like she wished she could telepathically force the curve of my hips down into my ar...

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