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I was screeching as well. "At least, not without my money."

    "She's out of control," the director said, shaking his head. "Someone go and get Clarissa. She'll have to go on tonight."

    "Oh no she won't," my mother said. "No one takes Mimi's place. This is a very important performance."

    The panic attack revived itself, full force. My head started to spin. The floor felt soft. Too many faces stared at me. I had to get out of there. I had to get some air. I turned and ran down the hall. My mother continued to argue with the director.

    Panic shot down my limbs. I can't go out on that stage. I can't go out on that stage. No way was I going back. But where, exactly, did I think I was going? I didn't have a plane ticket. I didn't even have enough money for a bus ticket. I need air. I need air. I tripped over an extension cord. Troy grabbed my arm.

    "Mimi?" He had followed me down the hall.

    "Leave me alone."

    "I just wanted to give this back and apologize for breaking it." He held out the chain. I couldn't catch my breath. I grabbed the Shakespearean charm so hurriedly that the delicate glass shattered in my hand.

    "Mimi!" my mother yelled from the far end of the hall. "Come back here!"

    "I can't!" I screamed. "I can't do this anymore." I stumbled toward the exit. My heart pounded in my throat.

    "Are you really going to L.A . ?" Troy asked as I grabbed the doorknob.

    "Maybe. I don't know." I tried to hold it together, but I knew that as soon as I opened that door and was all by myself, I'd lose it. The tears would come and I'd cry forever. "I just want to be somewhere else."

    "Well," he said, "you're dressed for Verona. Maybe you should go there. I hear it's a nice place." He was trying to ease the tension with humor. But I couldn't laugh. Laughter and tears are too closely related and I was still trying to hold it together.

    "Verona is as good a place as any," I said.

    I opened the backstage door and a blast of winter wind hit me straight on. Startled, I tried to shield my face. The wind blew the ashes from my palm. They swirled and danced like sparkling flakes in a snow globe. What had been just a small pinch of ash began to form a silver cloud, growing larger and larger, swirling faster and faster. The ashes went into my nose and mouth. They must have gone into Troy's mouth, too, because we both started coughing. The ashes burned my throat and stung my eyes. I needed fresh air. I stepped into the alley.

    Someone rushed by, knocking me off balance. I fell to the ground, landing in something wet.

Five

    ***

    "Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene..."

    T he ash cloud cleared and I stared in horror at the puddle of gunk into which I had fallen -- thick and putrid, it smelled like the cow farms that we'd pass when we drove through Vermont. It coated my hands like chocolate frosting. Eggshells and potato peelings floated on the surface. I leaped to my feet, shuddering to imagine what other ingredients I might find. Mud splotches covered the front of my costume. The hem had soaked up the stinky sludge as well. Talk about bad karma -- but I guess that's what happens when you tell your mother that you hate her.

    Despite my tumble into garbage, my panic attack subsided. I took a long, deep breath, relieved to see that neither my mother nor Troy had followed me into the alley. I wiped my hands on the front of my dress. No way was I going back inside to wash them. I'd stop at the nearest Starbucks, a half block in any direction, and use their bathroom. One of the nice things about New York City is that everyone has seen everything, so I knew I wouldn't have to deal with people staring or pointing fingers. Mud-stained Renaissance clothing is mild compared with what some of the street performers wear. As soon as I got home, I'd change clothes, pack my bags, call Aunt Mary, and beg her to book me a new flight.

    Shaking some mud from my hem, I started up the alley, but I didn't make it