Striding out of the dugout, Owen lifts his hat in the air and waves. At first I think he’s waving to me, though the angle is slightly off. I lift my hand but drop it again when Catherine calls his name. She cuts across the grass, striding toward him from the opposite direction, holding up his water bottle.
They meet behind the dugout, and he squirts water in his mouth, nodding as she talks. The high pitch of her laughter stabs a wound in my heart that should have healed by now. Years later, it still hurts when I remember how quickly she forgot about me and moved on to a new crowd. And I still pine over Owen. Why can’t I move on as easily as they did?
With help from Hunter and the Art Club, we throw together a pink-and-white ticket booth decorated with hearts and flowers and place it in the back of the cafeteria. Desmond and I sign up for the first ticket-selling shift.
“Prom is happening, people! Buy your tickets here.” He attempts to wave over a couple of trombone players he knows from band class, but they pass him by with barely a glance.
“When will you ask Carrie to be your date?” I whisper.
“I’m not sure.” He fans out a stack of tickets and holds them in front of his face.
I lift my hand and bat the ticket-fan away, catching the fear in his expression. “Desmond, I’m not busting my ass to make this prom happen so you can sit home alone on your couch. If you don’t ask her soon, someone else will.”
“I know.” He blows out a shaky breath. “I’ll start thinking about how to ask her, I promise.”
The morning bell rings, and a group of girls enters the cafeteria. Just Desmond’s luck, Carrie’s with them, carrying her viola case. I nudge him with my elbow. “You can do it. C’mon, be the first promposal of the year.”
“I thought you said promposals were ridiculous.”
“I changed my mind. They’re awesome, especially when you can watch them happen up close and personal.”
A bead of sweat forms at his brow, and he wipes it away. “I’m not ready. I need to plan. Work up to it. Think of some words.”
I grab a pen and notebook from my backpack. “Here are your words: Carrie, will you go to prom with me?” I tear off the sheet and present it to him.
He takes the paper from me and balls it up in his hand. “Not now. Maybe later today. Or tomorrow.”
“Please, Desmond. I’ve listened to you talk about Carrie for years. You need to do this, if only to thank me for taking over the prom committee. You’re one of the main reasons I agreed to be in charge.”
When Carrie passes by, I smile at her. She barely hides her shock over my unusual friendliness, darting her big brown eyes to Desmond and flipping her long black hair over her shoulder. Her lips curve into a flirtatious smile. Oooh, she’s definitely interested.
“If you don’t ask her, I will,” I say to him through gritted teeth. I place my hand on the small of his back and push him forward so his head sticks out of the opening of the booth.
“Carrie, will you go to the prom with me?” He waits until she’s almost past us before blurting the question. She spins around, and the edge of her viola case bumps the side of the booth and falls out of her hand, skidding across the cafeteria floor.
Her mouth drops open. “My viola!”
Desmond tries to hop through the window of the booth to rescue the runaway instrument, but he doesn’t quite fit through the opening. Gasping, I back up as Desmond continues on a forward trajectory, taking the booth with him. He lands in a heap on the cafeteria floor, with Hunter’s painted sign crunched under him. Carrie dashes past him and picks up her viola case, which has popped open to reveal a cracked instrument with strings dangling. Rolling over, Desmond lays on his back, staring up at her, his mouth stuck open. They stare at each other for a long minute before Carrie holds up her viola to examine the damage. She sighs deeply and starts to laugh.
“Don’t worry, Des. It’s a student model, not a Stradivarius. And it’s insured.” He starts to apologize, but she holds up a hand to stop him. “Also, yes, I’ll go with you to prom.”
Desmond scrambles to his feet, takes the broken viola from Carrie, and sets it back in the case, carefully securing the locks. “I had this all planned out in my head. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” He drops down on one knee and says, “Carrie, you’re the most beautiful girl in the senior class. You’re also the most talented musician I’ve ever met. I love listening to you play. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the prom?”
Wow. I can’t believe he got all that out. By now, a crowd has formed around the remains of the ticket booth. People start clapping and cheering. Carrie’s face turns three shades of pink, but she nods and smiles. I pull out my phone and snap a picture to commemorate the occasion. After she packs up her instrument pieces and the two of them walk off toward homeroom together, I stand on a chair and hold up a handful of the tickets I’d printed last night. “Get your senior prom tickets. Don’t miss the social event of the year. Memories of a lifetime guaranteed!”
Chapter Eleven
Catherine
Five weeks until prom
The week passes quickly. Between trying to figure out what to do about our destroyed prom site and practicing for today’s audition, I’ve barely had five minutes of time to think. Now, as I stand on the front porch, waiting for Jordon, my stomach churns through my breakfast, which is threatening to make a grand reappearance. I still can’t believe I agreed to do this. Why do I think I can compete with kids who’ve been auditioning and performing regularly for years?
The morning is warm, and I’m dressed in a short, flowy skirt, tights, boots, and a three-quarter-length-sleeve shirt. I grabbed a sweater, but I doubt I’ll need it, although it gives my hands something to do so I don’t fidget with my hair. The dogwood trees are in full bloom in front of Mrs. Abbacus’s house, both obscuring her view of the street from her porch and filling the air with a heavenly scent.
When Sarah finally comes rumbling down the street, I get into my part by forcing myself to skip down the steps. The greatest role I’ve ever played is that of the confident, popular girl. Everyone is convinced, so maybe I have more talent than I give myself credit for.
Jordon gets out of his car and meets me on the sidewalk. “Are you ready to do this?”
I glance over my shoulder at the porch to make sure my parents aren’t watching. They think we’re going to some prom-planning thing. “Not really, but let’s go.” So much for my confident facade.
He holds the door for me, and I only tighten the belt a little snugly, getting used to driving around in a car older than my parents. And it does seem solid, especially when the door closes. Once we’re heading south on I-75 from Hamilton Township to Cincinnati, I start to relax. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? If I don’t get the part, my life will actually be less complicated, although a lot less fun.
“So,” Jordon says with a grin, “Owen prompose yet?”
“Is that an actual word?”
“I just used it in a sentence, so I think that means it is.”
“We’ve been talking about going together all year, so I don’t think there’s much more to say. Plus, we don’t do the whole big-romantic-gesture thing. That’s never been us.” The words flow from my mouth with ease, but that knot in my stomach tightens a bit more with the deception. Jordon’s been relatively upfront with me, and while Owen and I agreed to keep up pretenses in public, pretending to be together is different than outright lying about it.
He nods as if he just now realizes he’s gone to school with us the past four years.
“What about you? Who are you going to prompose to?” And while it’s the natural question to ask, it feels unnatural on my tongue, and I tense waiting for his response.
He shrugs and begins tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about going with a group of friends.”
This confession fills me with relief, and once again I’m forced to remind myself that I don’t ca
re who Jordon takes to prom. It’s none of my business.
The drive to our destination is about forty-five minutes, but talking with Jordon takes my mind off my twisted guts. At least temporarily. He makes me laugh with both dorky and less-dorky humor. My nerves kick back into high gear, though, the moment we pull into the parking garage beside the theater.
I blow a few breaths out and shake my hands, trying to calm myself. Jordon reaches over and takes my hand in his, and for the first time, I notice his long, slender fingers. The type of fingers that belong to an artist or musician. An unexpected warmth shoots through me at his touch, and for a few seconds, I forget how completely freaked out I am about audition and, instead, freak out over my reaction to Jordon Oswald.
“You can do this, Catherine. Just pretend we’re in the treehouse.”
“Except for the part with all the people sitting out in those chairs waiting to judge me.”
“Well, pretend this is a school production, then, and they’re just an audience of adoring parents and classmates.”
I nod to shut him up. Because this is most definitely not some school production being put on for fun. My entire future could rest on the outcome of this. If I can’t do this, then maybe Mom is right and my future lies with joining her in boring corporate law. But if I can make this happen? Maybe, just maybe, I have what it takes. Maybe my ambitions are more than just daydreams.
But hey, no pressure, right?
Jordon comes around to open my door for me. I can’t decide if it’s a polite gesture or if he’s protecting Sarah from my tendency to close the door with a bit more force than necessary. We cross the street to the marble-tiled building and pass through the arched doors to the lobby. Ornate pillars decked in gold curl down from the painted ceiling, acting as frames for the frescoed walls. I’ve seen countless musicals, plays, and concerts here, but always sitting in the orange crushed velvet seats, never standing in front of them.
We pass through the doors into the theater, and my lungs trip over the air within them. It always makes me emotional the first time I come in after a long absence. Jordon tugs on my sleeve, ending the moment.
“Come on. Let’s go sign in.”
We wander down the center aisle to the director and let her assistant know we’re here, then sit with the other hopefuls in the theater seats. Time passes slowly while I wait for my name to be called. So many girls before me are outstanding. There’s even one guy going for the part, and he put such a great twist on it, I’m sure they’ll cast him and either recast Fiyero as female or change the romance up.
By the time someone finally says, “Catherine Reed,” I’m so completely on edge my limbs are buzzing. Jordon leans over and whispers, “Treehouse.”
Standing on shaky legs, I somehow manage to walk up the side steps without tripping and give my name to a woman wearing a headset standing beside the curtains.
“You’re up,” she says with a nod, barely glancing at me. Then, she reaches out and places a hand on my arm, probably noting my twisted features and deathly complexion. “Hey, you’ve got this.”
I give her a weak smile, pretty much convinced I don’t got this, and march to center stage, turning toward the dozens of faces staring at me.
“Good morning, Miss…” The director glances down at her call sheet. “Reed. What are you going to sing for us today?”
I glance to her right and find Jordon, who gives me a thumbs-up.
“‘How Far I’ll Go’ from Moana.”
Her only reaction to the fact that it’s not a song from Wicked is a brief pause before saying, “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
My hands are fisted at my sides. Treehouse, treehouse, treehouse. I close my eyes and imagine the plain plywood walls of the make-believe castle and begin. After the first few lines, I open my eyes and sing to Jordon before finding my stride in the chorus and finally looking at the director. She gives nothing away. When I hit the final note, my nerves are ramped up to full capacity.
“Thank you,” the director says before her assistant calls the next name on the list.
I’m not sure what that means. Jordon said she’d ask me to sing something from the musical after that, but she didn’t. She gave me the same response she gave to everyone else who came before me.
Shaking my hands as I exit the stage, I do some deep-breathing exercises until I’m no longer on the verge of hyperventilating and return to my seat. Dropping down beside Jordon with a sigh, I lean my head back and stare up at the ceiling. “Well, at least I tried.”
“Dude, you blew that outta here.”
I turn toward him, my face scrunched up. “Huh?”
“You were really good. Awesome.”
“But you said they’d ask me to sing something from Wicked after.”
“Trust me, they didn’t need to.”
I know he’s trying to be helpful, but it’s not working. My dark thoughts carry me through the next couple of auditions until Jordon is called. He hands the director his headshot before going up on stage. I still need to get mine done. I wonder if Riley’s mom will do them for me at a discount. After the way I treated her daughter, probably not.
Jordon struts to the center of the stage as if he was born to be there. He doesn’t need to psych himself up. I watch with fascination as his body seems to unwind and then put itself back together as someone else. It’s only subtle body language, but it’s incredible to witness. Once he squares himself, he belts out the first notes of “Dancing Through Life,” and I’m in awe. Even though I’ve heard him sing before, chills race across my skin, and excitement builds in my chest with each note. Maybe it’s this song, or this environment, but it’s as if I’m seeing the real Jordon Oswald for the first time.
When he finishes, the director thanks him and calls the next name. Me? I want to stand on my seat and applaud while screaming his name. How can she just move on to the next person without acknowledging what just happened before her?
Jordon saunters back to me with a huge grin. My own smile grows until it matches his.
“That was…inspiring.”
He inclines his head toward the exit. “Wanna get out of here?”
I’m emotionally drained, and that sounds like the perfect antidote. We turn left, away from the parking garage and toward the bustling energy of downtown Cincinnati, stopping at a quaint coffee shop in the heart of the village. The door opens to the familiar whooshing of steaming milk above the low hum of conversation and clanking ceramic mugs. Beneath it all is a thread of classical jazz, lifting up the rest of it like the foundation of a house. As I inhale the tantalizing scent of roasted coffee beans, my nerves begin to unbunch one at a time.
We order and take our mugs to a threadbare red Victorian couch and set our drinks on the heavily gouged oak coffee table in front of us.
“What did you think of your first major audition?” Jordon asks.
“I thought I was gonna puke, Pitch Perfect-style.”
“But you didn’t.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “No. I didn’t. So, what’s next? I mean, do we wait for roles to be posted, like at school?”
“There will be callbacks first, where they ask those on the shortlist to come in a second time.”
“Oh.” Somehow that thought is even more terrifying.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be called back.”
Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about. Lying to my parents to audition today was hard enough. I’m not big on deception. At least not overt deception. Deceiving them by playing the part my mom cast for me is a whole different form of dishonesty than fabricating a lie. My stomach knots at the thought.
We sit quietly for a few minutes before I notice Jordon squirming in that way people do when they have something to say but aren’t sure if they should. After he’s spent so many days helping me practice and drove me down here today, I’m feeling charitable toward him and decide to let him off the hook. “Whatever it is, just say it.”
He looks almost pained as hi
s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish in a bowl.
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, say it. Consider this a freebie. I won’t get mad, or whatever it is you’re so afraid of that’s making you look like you ate bad cheese or something.”
“You aren’t easy to talk to, you know?”
My pulse picks up. Other than my mom, I don’t have a lot of people criticizing me. Mostly because I focus all my energy on appearing so pulled together. “What do you mean?”
He blows out a puff of air. “I mean, you have all these barriers up, like walls, keeping people out.”
“I have people,” I say, and my tone is harsher than I intended.
“Name three people outside of Hunter and Owen who you know more than superficial facts about.”
Now it’s my mouth doing the fish thing as I grasp at names of the people who surround me. “My mom.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Doesn’t count.”
“Jessa Chang, Hannah Smith, and Natalie Ruiz.”
He lifts his eyebrows above his black-framed glasses. “The girls who abandoned you at Starbucks?”
With a sigh, I slump back against the couch. “Yeah. You didn’t say I had to like them.”
His lips press into a tight line as he studies me, his dark chocolate eyes narrowing, making my heart skip a beat. “Name three people besides Owen and Hunter who know more than superficial things about you.”
“Y-you changed the question.”
He smirks. “No. I refined it.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I narrow my eyes in an attempt to stare him down. Amusement sparks in his dark eyes as he takes a sip of coffee and sets the mug back on the coffee table.
“So, no one?”
I huff, gritting my teeth, before shifting my gaze to my own mug. I reach forward and pick it up, taking a sip. He’s right, and I hate that he’s right. And how does he know this about me? How does anyone know this? My hand shakes as I set my mug down, and I gnaw on the inside of my lip as I attempt to regain my composure. I haven’t worked this hard to cultivate my persona to let some drama dork unravel it all just before prom.
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