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to always tell myself could never happen. That one night Maggie will go to sleep and I’ll be the one who’s gone.

CHAPTER THREE
maggie
    M y eyes open to a gray and rainy West Village morning. There’s a sinking hole in my stomach, which is always there on the morning of a callback. Perform and be judged. It’s worse than just an audition because they’ve liked me enough to want to see me again, which gives me hope, but their assessment will be more focused this time around, meaning all my flaws and limitations will be unmissable.
    I can handle being turned down, obviously, because it happens more often than not and I’m still walking around. But coming home and dealing with Nicole’s inane comforting when I lose the role requires me to audition for her, to make my disappointment okay for her. In Nicole’s eyes failure and victory are indistinguishable; all that matters is not feeling bad so that you haven’t been parented poorly. Even with very nice parents, there’s an aspect of everything that’s all about them. I won’t do that when I’m a parent. I’ll make different mistakes, of course.
    I watch my reflection in the subway windows as the train heads uptown and realize Sloane is better suited to play Jolene, the character I’m trying to land. Sloane has actual boobs. And all that silky, buttery blond hair. And green eyes. Actually green. No matter how well I nail the lines, I still just look like me.
    I climb the subway stairs at Columbus Circle into a full-on downpour, not quite getting my umbrella open soon enough, which is not great for my hair. Nicole would say that means good luck, but I’m not feeling very lucky today. I shouldn’t think about Nicole this morning but should concentrate on Jolene and what she would feel, think, and say about the rain, about hair, and about being stuck blabbing with your shrink two hours before you need to become a completely different person. Which, come to think of it, is a specialty of the house.
    I go upstairs to Emma’s office. The teensy waiting room has an inappropriately super-feminine décor and I wonder if Emma actually took the time to pick out those cheesy fake flowers or if they just came with the office space. It almost turned me off her when I first came to talk about my parents. But somehow, once in her office, the walls felt like steel, strong enough to hold my biggest secret, so I let it spill out of me in the first five minutes. Maybe I was avoiding talking about my parents, or maybe I wanted to be relieved of it, but either way that threshold decision has tied me to her. She’s the only one in my life who knows that every night I dream I’m someone else.
    I flick on the appointment light and wait, knowing that even though she doesn’t have a patient before me, it will take her just under three minutes to collect me. In two minutes and forty-twoseconds by the watch my father gave me, Emma opens the door with that phony heartiness and energy that always makes me wonder why I have to be completely straight with her while she’s always playing a role for me.
    She always begins with small talk, like it’s putting me at ease.
    “It’s raining out,” she sagely notes.
    “Sure is.” I go with it because it eats up minutes where I won’t have to talk about Sloane. Luckily, I get to discuss my big panic over Jade’s conking out in class, the brain tumor fears, the bonding afternoon in the park to the point of reenacting Jade’s booty dance in the middle of her office. I just keep running with it until Emma asks me why I’m so reluctant to discuss Sloane this morning.
    “Because it’s like every other morning,” I answer, sitting back down on the couch.
    And here we go. Am I mad at Sloane this morning? How can I be mad at a fantasy? Easy—there are no consequences, and all you’re really doing is being mad at yourself in a disguised and therefore safer way.
    Emma pleads her well-worn case that Sloane is my fantasy because I want a family