Glitter and Sparkle

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

  Still teetering perilously on top of the barstool, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to trap in a few very unladylike words.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask Harrison as I crawl down.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing that in something other than high heels?”

  I glance at my shoes. They aren’t high heels at all; they’re kitten heels.

  He eyes my rickety setup. “And why don’t you use a ladder instead of a swiveling kitchen chair?”

  Originally, I had planned to use the ladder. Until I got out here and realized that Dad has anchored them all to the top of the back wall where they’ll be out of the way. Now they’re just high enough I can’t reach them.

  Irritated, I point to the ladders.

  Harrison laughs, obviously enjoying my dilemma.

  When he sees the murderous expression on my face, he says, “Your Dad has pegboard over there. I can hang it for you if you have some clothespins.”

  I tap my foot. This morning when I asked for help, I ended up regretting it.

  He crosses his arms, still looking at the peg board. “You probably don’t have clothespins, though. We could use clamps—where are you going?”

  Don’t have clothespins. Please.

  When I return, I hold out a fistful in my hand, rather proud of myself.

  Harrison looks at them, raises an eyebrow, and then meets my eyes. “You’ve dipped them in glitter.”

  They were for a birthday banner post last year, and they were spectacular. He wouldn’t scoff if he knew how many visitors my blog has gotten since I added it.

  No, he probably would.

  “Will the glitter hinder their performance?” I ask. “Are they in any way unusable?”

  Harrison shakes his head and snatches the clothespins out of my hand. His obnoxious smile tips his lips again. “I forgot how much fun you are, Lauren.”

  And—oh my—butterflies erupt in my stomach when he says my name. Not “Laura-Lou” or some other equally cute and obnoxious nickname—but my actual given name.

  No. Not butterflies.

  Because I do not like him.

  I tamp the feeling down and lock it away so it won’t escape again.

  “How high does it need to be?” Harrison asks as he picks up a corner of the fabric.

  “A little higher,” I say, distracted as his shirt rises over his stomach.

  He stretches higher, and his shirt shifts a little more. “Like this?”

  Bad Lauren.

  I rub a spot behind my ear, feeling a little guilty. “Maybe just a little higher…”

  Oh, I give up. I can look at him, can’t I? I can detest someone while admiring their hotness?

  Suddenly he looks over his shoulder, and my eyes snap up to his. Unlike this morning, he definitely notices.

  He raises an eyebrow, a knowing look in his eyes. I’m waiting for him to come up with something snarky, but, instead, he says, “How about here?”

  “That’s fine,” I say primly, pretending I wasn’t just checking out his abs.

  “All right,” he answers, pretending he didn’t just catch me checking out his abs.

  But he knows.

  And suddenly, and for no explicable reason, the garage feels rather warm.

  Harrison attaches the fabric to the pegs using the clothes pins to secure it into place. The fabric is so heavy, I figure it’s just going to drag it down like it did about a million times with the paint cans, but it stays in place.

  I roll my eyes at his back.

  He finishes and turns to face me. “So what was the purpose of this? Just felt the garage needed a little pink?”

  “No.”

  “It’s kind of your mission, isn’t it? To glitter, paint, or decoupage the world?”

  He’s obviously enjoying himself, and I shouldn’t rise to his bait…but it’s so hard.

  I set my hands on my hips. “I do not decoupage.”

  And it’s true. It’s not my thing at all.

  He rests a hip against the workbench. “No, your preferred medium is glitter. Tell me, does your cat still sparkle?”

  I want to tell him that today’s project doesn’t have a thing to do with glitter, but I’m afraid if I admit I have a craft blog, he’ll use it later as ammunition.

  Again, Harrison points to the backdrop. “Really, what are you doing with this?”

  What excuse am I going to give him for the giant sheet of canvas pinned to the garage wall?

  I turn, collect my supplies, and mumble, “I’m-doing-a-video-for-my-blog.”

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  I turn back around with a tiny, fake Christmas tree in my hand. “I said, I’m doing a video for my blog.”

  For a moment, it looks like he’s digesting that information. I expect him to come up with a quick retort, but he motions to the tree. “And what are you doing with that?”

  “I’m using it to hang the finished miniature ornaments I’m making.”

  “Huh.”

  That’s it. “Huh.”

  What am I even supposed to do with that?

  Trying my best to ignore him, I pull over the card table I found in the coat closet. I flip it on its top and fight to lock the first leg in place. Without a word, Harrison helps.

  After we have all the legs extended, he turns it right side up. “Where do you want it?”

  “In front of the backdrop.”

  I fuss with the tablecloth I’ve picked out and line up my supplies, pretending he’s not standing there, still watching.

  “Are you good now?” he asks.

  “Yep.” I can’t meet his eyes.

  He hovers for a few moments longer, and then he leaves. I adjust my phone on the new tripod that I ordered after the cat/glitter fiasco, and when I’m sure I have it right, I begin.

  Terrified Harrison’s going to come back while I’m filming, I’m a little tense. Thankfully, I finish without any incidents, and just in time, too. As I’m packing everything up, Harrison walks back in.

  “It was just your battery,” he says.

  Distracted, I look up. “What was?”

  “Your car. I jumped it, and it started fine. It looks like the passenger door wasn’t completely shut, and the light stayed on.”

  I stare at him blankly. “You fixed my car?”

  He slides his hands into his jeans pockets. “You should probably drive it around a little, let the alternator charge the battery up again.”

  “Um…okay.”

  “Are you done in here?” he asks. “Do you want help taking that down?”

  I glance at the canvas. “No, I’ll leave it for now. I’ll need it again in a few days.

  Harrison nods. “I left your car running, so you’ll probably want to drive around the neighborhood a few times.” He looks a little uncomfortable. “Or I can hook it to a battery charger…”

  The clock on the wall says it’s almost five.

  “I need to get to practice anyway.”

  He nods and wanders the garage. As I’m picking up the last of my stuff, he stops in front of Mom’s seed starting station.

  Harrison taps one of the long fluorescent lights. “What’s this?”

  “Mom grows flats of plants from seed every spring,” I explain. “She’s kind of obsessed.”

  He looks at the cart. “What does she grow?”

  I join him. “Tomatoes, peppers, broccoli, cauliflower, parsley, daisies, basil…”

  “Why daisies?” he interrupts.

  Surprised, I glance at him.

  “Everything you mentioned is edible,” he explains. “Why does she grow daisies?”

  “She grows a lot of flowers. Those were just the first to pop into my mind.”

  “Hmmm.”

  What’s with him and those one-word, cryptic responses?

  “Your car’s running,” he reminds me.

  I jump, gather all my things in my arms, and walk to the door.
Just before I go through, I turn back. “Thanks for fixing my car. And helping with the canvas.”

  He only nods, but there’s something warm and real hidden in his eyes.

  As I go into the house, those stupid butterflies escape their cage.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  November 19th

  It’s opening night, and I have to be to the school by five thirty. There’s no time to eat dinner with my parents. Since I’m on my own, I go for my usual apple and peanut butter to get me by. I’m so nervous; I couldn’t eat much more anyway.

  As I stand here, running my lines through my head, eating my apple, Harrison pulls around the circular drive and parks next to the guest house.

  So far this week, he’s gone in early every day and gotten off by five. Not that I’m paying attention.

  From the safety of the house, I’m able to study Harrison. He’s in a suit, but he’s already taken off his tie. He swings it in his hand as he unlocks the door.

  I lean my elbows on the counter, take another bite of the apple, and continue my perusal. His hair is in its usual carefully executed messy style, but it looks a little softer. Like maybe he’s had a rough afternoon, and he’s been running his hands through it.

  The front door slams, and I jump up, feeling guilty for no reason.

  “Lauren?” Mom calls.

  “In here.”

  Mom walks into the kitchen, her arms laden with grocery bags. I jump forward to help, and, together, we dump them on the counter.

  After tossing the apple core in the trash, I rummage through the bags.

  “When do you have to leave?” Mom asks.

  “Five thirty.”

  Mom looks at her watch and frowns. “Did you eat dinner?”

  When I tell her what I ate, she rolls her eyes and pulls out several bags of deli lunch meat. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  My stomach lurches at the thought.

  “I’m good, Mom.”

  She hesitates, looking unsure whether sending me out the door without a proper meal would make her an unfit mother.

  “I have to go now anyway,” I tell her as I fill my water bottle. “I’ll see you after the show.”

  “Break a leg.”

  I rush out of the kitchen, grab my costumes from my room, and then hurry to my car. It wasn’t as cold today, but now that the sun’s set, it’s getting pretty chilly.

  Just as I’m sliding into the driver’s seat, I get a text from Grant.

  Can I drive you tonight?

  Immediately, my eyes dart to the guest house. Then, shaking my head, I write back, Can you be here soon?

  My phone rings, and I answer it.

  “I’m just leaving Jordan’s,” Grant says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Immediately, I run into the house. Out of breath, I burst into the kitchen.

  “Can Grant drive me tonight?” I ask, and then I step back because Harrison’s now standing there with my mom.

  Mom looks over, surprised to see me back. She scoops up a pile of sliced carrots, tosses them into a skillet, and then she says, “I suppose…if we meet him first.”

  Harrison leans on the counter, watching me.

  Uncomfortable, I look back at Mom. “I’m running kind of late…”

  “No,” she says without hesitation. “If I don’t meet him, you don’t ride with him.”

  Knowing it’s an argument I won’t win, I just nod and go wait in the foyer. Harrison’s footsteps echo in the room behind me. I don’t have to turn to know it’s him. I can feel it.

  “How’s your car running?”

  I look over my shoulder. “Oh, it’s been fine since you fixed it. Thanks again.”

  He leans against the wall, eating a carrot stick. “Sure.”

  I raise my eyebrows slightly, trying to mentally tell him to go away. I don’t need him hovering when I answer the door.

  He raises his eyebrows in return, telling me he’s enjoying standing right there.

  Sighing, I look away. A car door shuts outside, and I practically leap to the door.

  “You look desperate,” Harrison says. “Bad idea.”

  I glare at him over my shoulder.

  He shrugs. “Trying to help.”

  Sure he is.

  But just in case, I let Grant ring the doorbell before I swing the door open.

  Grant stands on the porch, looking as good as always. I wave him inside.

  Harrison watches us, still leaning against the wall, and when he meets Grant’s eyes he gives him one of those guy head nods.

  With no choice, I introduce them. “Grant, this is Harrison, my older brother’s friend. Harrison, this is Grant, my…” I stumble, not sure what he is. Friend seems like a stretch. Acquaintance sounds lame. I can’t call him the hot guy I’ve been crushing on since freshman year, but—really—what else is he?

  I let the introduction slide because the guys are already exchanging greetings. And it’s awkward. Very awkward.

  Luckily, Mom steps into the foyer, which saves me from dragging Grant into the kitchen.

  “You must be Grant.” She smiles, obviously relieved he’s clean cut and well dressed.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Grant says. “It’s nice to meet you. You have a lovely home.”

  Harrison makes a face while Grant’s attention is on Mom. I narrow my eyes at him, staring him down in a warning. In response, he only grins and pops the rest of the carrot stick in his mouth.

  “Have a good night, Lauren,” Harrison calls over his shoulder as he leaves the foyer.

  I watch his back, silently seething.

  “Are you ready?” Grant asks after he and Mom finish their polite introductions.

  “Yes.”

  I wave goodbye to my mom, retrieve my costumes from my car, and soon we’re on our way to the school.

  Two hours later, I stand backstage, waiting.

  The lights slowly dim over the auditorium, alerting the audience that we’re beginning. The low rumble of conversation dies off, and an expectant silence follows.

  Just like always, I’m battling a small bout of nerves. It doesn’t matter how many times I walk on this stage; I’m always a little scared of opening night.

  The lights rise, and I’m on.

  The night passes in a blur. I remember my lines, every one of them—even the one I’ve been struggling with, but I did trip on a random cord that should have been tucked away behind the wing curtains.

  I have a feeling it was Grant’s mistake, though, so I don’t bring it up with the tech crew.

  Actors rush forward in groups, bowing for the curtain call. I wait with Tyler toward the back, ready for my moment on stage. It might be a tad bit vain, but it’s my favorite part. I love having the lead, being the one with the loudest applause.

  Not that I haven’t done my share of chorus parts. I have. But I did my time, and now the spotlight’s mine.

  Riley rushes out with Brad. The two of them get a huge amount of applause for the small parts they had, and I cheer the loudest.

  Finally, it’s my turn. Tyler and I join hands and step out. With a flourish, he bows low, and I give a large, sweeping curtsy.

  The crowd roars, and I bask in their applause.

  My father stands at the front of the stage, waiting for me with flowers. I dash forward to accept them, and then I almost stumble off the edge.

  Right behind him, Grant waits with a huge bouquet of roses. He flashes me a smile that’s been known to make girls weak in the knees, and I’m sure I’m grinning like a fool.

  As a group, we do one last large bow, and then the curtains swing shut. Thus begins the mad dash from backstage, through the school halls, and out into the foyer where the crowd is just starting to trickle out.

  This would be my second favorite part—the total strangers who come up and tell me what a fabulous job I did.

  Holding my flowers like an award, I thank them, hug them (only the little old ladies), and soak up the praise. By the time my parents filter from
the auditorium, I’m beaming. My smile freezes because Harrison is right behind them.

  What’s he doing here? Nobody told me he was coming.

  Good thing. If I’d known he was out there, I would have probably tripped on a flat.

  Mom rushes up to give me a hug, and I have to avert my head to the side so I won’t smear bright red lipstick on her. Dad laughs and wraps his arms around us both.

  Harrison hangs back, looking awkward. Over Mom’s shoulder, I notice he’s holding something in his hand.

  Shasta daisies.

  My heart stutters suddenly, and I blink at him. His mouth curves in a tight smile, and he gives me a small wave. One of those waves where your arm doesn’t move, just your hand.

  I watch, half-frozen in place, and wait for him to give me the daisies.

  He doesn’t know anyone else in the place; surely they’re for me.

  Finally, he joins us, flowers still in hand.

  I try not to look at them, try not to focus on them. Why hasn’t he given them to me yet?

  Why? Why?

  Our eyes meet, and he looks like he might be about to hand me the daisies when Riley bounds up, closely followed by Grant.

  I look away from Harrison feeling…guilty, I think.

  “You were awesome!” Riley gushes, and then she too pulls me into a hug.

  Then, smooth as ever, Grant slides me out of her arms and pulls me close to his very nice chest. “You really were, Lauren.”

  He smells like soap and boy and dreams come true. And I could enjoy it if Harrison wasn’t standing right there, judging me.

  I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head.

  Giving Grant a little pat, I step out of his arms. “Thanks.” I look down at the roses that I’ve been careful not to crush since the assault of embraces. My cheeks get warm. Lowering my voice, I add, “And thank you so much for the roses. They’re beautiful.”

  With a playful shoulder bump, Grant says lightly, “Just like you.”

  Riley’s eyes are the size of dinner plates, and she’s wearing that wistful, far-off expression she gets. If she didn’t have her hair up in a bun, I know she’d be running her hand down her braid like she always does when she’s really into the romantic part of a movie. In the absence, she clutches her hands at her chest.

  I blush and look away, completely unsure what to say.