The Way It Hurts

by Patty Blount

  “Did you get your acceptance letter yet?”

  Pop.

  My own stage smile froze on my face. Leah Russo’s hoarse croak behind her bright stage smile killed my actor’s high. I’d just provided the vocals to her solo so she could still be onstage, even though she’d had to lip-synch, but Leah would never think to thank you when she could stab you.

  I didn’t want to think about that letter.

  Not special enough. God!

  I didn’t answer her. I would not answer her.

  And then, I forgot all about her when my attention was snagged by a really hot guy near the pit orchestra. His dark hair was long enough to touch his shoulders, and there was a bit of scruff on his face—really cute, but that’s not why I noticed him.

  No, I noticed him because he had the most incredible eyes I’d ever seen. I couldn’t tell what color they were from the stage, but they were so freakin’ intense, I couldn’t look away. Etta always said the eyes told you all you ever needed to know about a person. Anybody who couldn’t make eye contact with you wasn’t worth your time. Most boys’ eyes never made it past my chest, but this boy’s eyes were pinned on mine, and that impressed me.

  Mrs. Dixon walked onstage with a mic and asked everyone to settle down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for attending our opening night performance! I am so proud of these kids. They made all their own costumes and designed the set themselves. And tonight, I want to share with you an amazing last-minute change-up to our program. Grizabella, played by Leah Russo, is ill and couldn’t sing this evening, but she soldiered on and went onstage anyway. Her songs were actually sung by Victoria the White Cat, played by Kristen Cartwright.”

  Leah smiled brightly and applauded me, then grabbed my hand for an extra bow to another standing ovation. My cheeks ached from smiling through the compulsive need to push her into the orchestra pit.

  The boy with the intense eyes stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, then pointed at me with a wide grin. Beside him, another guy held up a sign that said, “Break a Leg, Leah!”

  “Do you know him?” I asked her.

  “That’s Nick. My boyfriend,” she croaked. Her voice was shot, but her face unfortunately still spoke volumes. The glare she shot me said very clearly to stay the hell away from Nick. Too bad, since he was cute. He had short, almost buzzed hair with a little fuzz lining his jaw all the way to his ears.

  “How about the guy next to him?”

  “The blond is Sam, and the dark-haired one is Elijah. Don’t even bother, Kristen. You’re totally not his type.” She dropped my hand as soon as the applause died down.

  Oh, really? We’ll just see about that.

  We were shuttled off the stage, and Mrs. Dixon was almost crying, she was so happy. The entire cast high-fived and hugged each other, but I kept one eye on the crowd, anxious to find my family. Finally, I spotted familiar red hair. “Etta!”

  My grandmother spun around, clutching my mother’s arm. Mom opened her eyes wide. “Oh, Kristen, you were fantastic. I didn’t know you were singing tonight.” Mom wrapped me in a huge hug and rocked side to side.

  “I didn’t know either, not until the last minute.”

  “You were amazing!”

  “Kristen Elise, could you go please put some clothes on?” Dad tried to shield me with his body.

  “Da-a-a-d.” I rolled my eyes.

  Etta gave him a playful tap on the arm. “Richard, don’t embarrass the girl.”

  My grandmother used to act back in the day and still talked as if she were delivering lines, punching certain words with unnecessary emphasis and dynamics. Drove Mom nuts, but I loved it. She wrapped me in a hug and a cloud of Chanel. “I am so proud of my little star. How about we all go out for ice cream to celebrate Kristen’s smashing opening night?” Etta raised her arms in a grand gesture, earning cheers from my brothers. “Oh, darling, you have a public to greet. Go, go!” She shooed me toward a group of little girls standing behind me, bouncing on their toes with their programs clutched in their hands.

  Etta was my first acting coach. Taught me everything I knew. I turned with a huge stage smile to greet the trio of eight-year-olds, whose moms asked me to pose for some pictures. I extended a cat claw, and they happily snapped a bunch of pictures and thanked me when I signed their programs with a tiny paw drawing. I turned to head backstage for my stuff and collided with a body.

  Hands grabbed me by my elbows. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Holy crap, it was him. Intense Eyes Guy. Elijah, one of Nick’s band buddies.

  “Hey. You were awesome.” Those eyes were dark brown and glittered when he grinned at me, revealing a dimple on the right side of his mouth.

  My face burst into flames. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

  “No. Seriously. I have never heard a voice like yours. Blew me away.”

  Oh, he liked the song, not my dance? Slowly, my lips curled. “Thanks.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. He still had that wide-eyed look of amazement, and I was sure I was still smiling a dopey smile. Suddenly, he thrust out his hand. “I’m Elijah Hamilton. Eli.”

  “Elijah. Cool. I’m Kristen Cartwright.”

  “Really great meeting you,” he said, shaking my hand. His hands had calluses.

  His eyes drifted lower, and I felt my face burn hotter. I was very much aware that I had a big chest—my dad could be a real pain about it—well, them. And in this costume, they were right there. I glanced at my family. Mom was watching Dad. Etta was waving a hand under her chin—a reminder that I should stand up straight. Dad was scowling at Elijah.

  Uh-oh.

  “I should, um, you know.” I waved a hand in the vague direction of backstage where normal clothes waited for me.

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.” His cheeks turned red. When I turned to go, he suddenly asked, “Do you sing anything besides all this Broadway stuff?”

  I frowned at the way his nose wrinkled when he said that. “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Anything. Rock, pop, country—whatever.”

  I shrugged too. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

  His smiled brightened. “I have a band. We do—what?”

  Crap. He’d seen the look on my face when he revealed he had a band. His smile melted away. Was he a member of the Beat too? One of the faceless, nameless masses who loved to shoot me down because I had the confidence in my own abilities to point out the flaws in theirs? I knew my stuff inside out and backward. The whole point of the Beat was to exchange our wisdom. I didn’t take it personally; I figured most of these immature morons couldn’t stand getting schooled by a girl. This boy seemed so nice. I hope he wasn’t one of them. “Nothing,” I lied. “Go on. What were you gonna say?”

  He angled his head and nodded. “Um, sure. We do hard rock mostly. But we do covers of almost all kinds of stuff. You’d be amazing on classic stuff from Joan Jett, Heart, or Fleetwood Mac. Hell, you could do new stuff like Halestorm, I bet.”

  I didn’t know what kind of band hailstorm was, but suddenly, I really wanted to cover it. “Oh. Um, well. I don’t—”

  “Shoot me a friend request. I’d really love it if you could jam with us some time.”

  Jam? I frowned. Those jerks on the Beat thought their crappy music was over my head—out of my range, and now, a guy with his own rock band was inviting me to jam. I should record it, just so I could post it. In your face, FretGuy99.

  “Um. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Those incredible dark eyes of his dimmed a bit, and his lips lost the smile. “Think about it. If you’re as good as I think you are, you could sing some duets with me, Nick, and Sam.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his friends. Nick stood with Leah, and the other boy was tall, blond, and beautiful.

  Right. Rock band. Boy, did they look the part.

>   “Duets. Okay. Yeah. Sure.” Jesus, get a grip, moron! Like Dad would ever allow that to happen.

  Elijah took a step closer. “Yeah. Duets. I’m not ready to give you center stage. Yet.” He grinned, full wattage, and my heart almost stopped. Jesus, who was this guy?

  “Kristen, it’s getting late.” Dad tapped the watch on his wrist, but his glare was aimed at Elijah. Elijah just kept grinning—like a dare or something.

  “If you can shake off your entourage, message me. I’m anxious to see what else you got.” He ran his eyes over me from wig to bare feet, and then he walked over to Leah and his friends. I watched them all—but couldn’t tear my eyes off Elijah. He was dressed all in black—black jeans, black band T-shirt, leather cuff on one wrist. My fingers itched to touch the stubble around his lips. I didn’t see any tattoos or piercings, but I could picture him with both. Total bad boy. If I told my family I was invited to jam with Elijah’s rock band, Etta would frown and ask me if I was sure singing in a rock band would look good on my conservatory application, Mom would wonder how I could possibly find the time, and Dad? Well, he would have a cow.

  Suddenly I wanted Elijah Hamilton the way I’d wanted a puppy when I was six.

  • • •

  “Who was that boy, Kristen?” Dad asked when I’d changed and caught up with everyone out by the minivan.

  “His name is Elijah.”

  “Elijah. How very Old Testament,” Etta announced.

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “No, he doesn’t go to my school.” Nick didn’t go to our school either. Leah met him over the summer. I figured Elijah and Sam went to his school.

  “He goes to South,” Dylan piped in, and I wondered how he knew. “And he’s a player, Kris. Stay away from him.”

  “A player? What do you mean? What does he mean, Richard?” Etta demanded.

  And starring as the Worried Grandmother, Henrietta Cartwright. I managed to halt the eye roll that accompanied that thought just in the nick of time.

  “Mother, relax.” Dad put up a hand to halt Etta’s dramatic interpretation of the worried grandmother role. Etta straightened her shoulders and inclined her head, a regal little motion she used to refocus and find her center.

  I shot a glare at Dylan, sitting beside me in the third row of the minivan. He leaned over and quietly explained. “I know him, Kris. He’s a heartbreaker. Doesn’t date, just hooks up with random girls at the shows his band plays.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Dylan. He’s what, eighteen?”

  “Come on, Kris,” he shot back. “It’s not the age. It’s the attitude. Girls throw themselves at Elijah Hamilton because he’s got that whole dangerous vibe thing going on. They don’t get it—he doesn’t care about any of them. The only thing he cares about is music.”

  “I don’t see how you could possibly have time for boys, Kristen,” Etta said, her waving hands visible even in the dark car. “You’ve got conservatories to apply to—oh! Wouldn’t it be grand if you were accepted to Peabody?”

  Peabody. It was an option. Of course, Mom and Dad wanted Julliard. Not that anyone asked me, but I wanted Berklee because their emphasis was on contemporary sound rather than classic.

  I was spared having to reply when Dad pulled into the parking lot behind the Main Street Creamery. Minutes later, we were digging into huge sundaes—dainty cups for Mom and Etta. “You never mentioned you’d be onstage in that…that…” Dad waved his hands in the general direction of my waistline.

  “Unitard, Dad.”

  “Right. Very revealing, don’t you think?” He turned to Mom, who shrugged.

  “Relax, Richard. The entire cast wore the same thing. Didn’t you see that one boy with his genitalia bulging?”

  “Mom!” Gordon clapped his hands over his adolescent ears, but she only rolled her eyes.

  Dad wasn’t soothed by that argument. “How many more performances are there?”

  “Uh, five more.” Two on Saturday and Sunday and one on Monday for the school, and then all the weeks of practice and rehearsal and designing would come to an end. I tried not to think about it. Gordon changed the subject—thank God.

  “Hey, I forgot to tell you guys I’m going to pitch in tomorrow’s game.”

  Etta’s perfectly penciled eyebrows arched. “You guys? Am I to understand that I have achieved guy status, at long last?” She flexed her biceps, the rings and bright red nail polish on her fingers at odds with the motion. “I knew all that lifting would eventually pay off.”

  “Sorry, Etta,” Gordie said, chocolate sauce outlining his sheepish smile.

  “I should hope so.” Etta smoothed her already smooth hair behind her ears. “I take great pains to assure I am never mistaken for just one of the guys.”

  “Yes, Mother, we know.” Dad rolled his eyes. “The hair, the makeup, the clothes—I’m shocked your stylist hasn’t already seen Gordie’s comment on Twitter yet so he can scurry over here to touch up your ensemble.” He delivered that last line with the same inflection Etta put on her words. Mom hid a smile behind a spoonful of ice cream, but Etta’s carefully made-up eyes narrowed at Dad.

  “You know, Richard, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

  “Of course, Mother. I was merely catering to my audience, as you taught me.”

  Gordon and Dylan cracked up at this. Even Mom laughed silently. But Etta was glaring at Dad so ferociously, I was worried she’d pop a blood vessel or something.

  “Oh, come on, Mother. You know we adore you and your biceps.” Dad pressed a noisy kiss to her cheek, and her lips twitched. With his arm still around Etta, he swiped the cherry off Gordie’s sundae.

  “Um, excuse me.”

  We looked up to find some old man standing beside our table, a hopeful expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Henrietta Cartwright?”

  Etta’s spine straightened a bit more. “I am,” she admitted with another incline of her head, and the man’s face lit up like Broadway.

  “I knew it!” He clapped his hands and wagged a finger at her. “I saw you at the Helen Hayes Theater many years ago in Prelude to a Kiss. You were brilliant!”

  “Oh, that’s so kind. Thank you.” Etta flashed a huge smile. The man was willing to leave at that, but Etta insisted on posing for a few pictures with him and signing both a menu and a place mat—one for the man and one for the restaurant.

  Mom and Dad exchanged a look that so obviously said, “Let her have her fun,” so we sat back and waited for Etta to do her thing. Fifteen minutes later, Dad looked at my brother and asked, “What’s this about pitching tomorrow?”

  Gordie beamed at the proof Dad hadn’t forgotten his big news. I had to admit it—Dad was brilliant at handling the extra-large egos in our family, and Etta’s was definitely the largest. Of course, Etta would call it caprice.

  “Coach says I’m really good now—most improved player, and he wants to give me a shot at pitching an inning. A whole inning!”

  “That’s really great…”

  Gordon was eleven and had only one gear—baseball. Now that the spring season had begun, it would be all he’d talk about until June. Baseball wasn’t my thing, so I glanced out the window, letting the conversation fade into the background. A swing of long, dark hair captured my attention. There was Elijah Hamilton, accepting three small dishes with covers from the server at the window that opened to the parking lot. A girl approached him, pretty in jeans and a school hoodie. I watched him stop to chat, flip his hair back, and smirk. My stomach lurched when the girl laughed and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. When he leaned in to whisper something into her ear that had her landing a flirty smack on his arm, I almost looked away.

  But if I had, I’d have missed it.

  He walked to the passenger seat of a white Chevy, the smirk and swagger gone—droppe
d, like some director had just shouted, “Cut!” He didn’t even look back. My brother had called him a player. But I didn’t think that was accurate. No, I think Elijah Hamilton was a performer playing to his audience—like Etta. Like me. And now I had to know what Elijah Hamilton was really like.

  I tossed my hair over my shoulder and tuned back into the table conversation. We were apparently done with baseball and had moved on to Dylan’s on-campus job. My oldest brother was twenty years old and in his last semester of college. He commuted to a state school here on Long Island—SUNY Old Westbury, where he majored in business. Dad was psyched about that because he owned a bar on the west side of our town and was looking forward to having Dylan become his partner.

  “…and might even get a promotion out of it,” Dylan finished.

  Etta turned to me and, with a knowing smile, took the conversation right back where I didn’t want it. “So that boy who seemed so interested in you. The player with the adorable ass. What exactly did he want?”

  “Etta!” I scanned the table, but luckily, Dad and Gordie were still talking stats. I shrugged. “He said he liked my voice. He’s in a rock band. Thought it might be cool if I sing with them.”

  Etta’s proud nose went a little higher into the air. “Sing in a rock band? Is he mad? Doesn’t he understand that you’re not just some part-time karaoke fan but a career performer?”

  “Well, no, Etta, I never had a chance to tell him all that. He asked and—”

  “You said no, of course,” Dad interrupted.

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell him that, either.” Jeez, it’s not like he asked me to marry him or anything. It was just singing. It sounded kind of fun. And it was super flattering. How many drama club cast members got invited to jam in rock bands? Wish I could tell that jerk on the Beat that I do know some shit about metal.

  “Kristen, I don’t like the look in your eye.” Dad narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Oh, Rick, stop. She spoke to the boy for five minutes.” Mom dipped her finger in whipped cream and dotted it on Dad’s nose, which he promptly wrinkled and rubbed against hers. My heart sighed. Pretty much all of my friends had parents who despised each other, and even though my parents were so sweet it was sickening, I secretly cherished that about them.