by Anna Todd
It can’t be.
Why would Daniel come here?
You’ve finally exorcised your irrational thoughts about a possible encounter with him, and now here he is, moving his easel through the small spaces, knocking into nearly every single person. His eyes meet yours, and you harden. You can’t let him think you’re remotely affected by his presence here. He continues to move closer, and you realize that he’s deliberately headed your way. He sits his wooden easel on the floor and props it up right next to you.
You lock eyes, and he says, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone when you only know their first name, that they’re a waitress, and that they dislike nearly everything except the odd art class?”
You roll your eyes, but the familiar ache blooms in your chest. It’s completely irrational the way you feel about this man, this stranger, after one kiss nearly a month ago.
You play it cool. “No, I don’t have any experience with that, actually,” you say, not meeting his eyes. He chuckles under his breath, and you wonder why he’s acting so happy, as though you didn’t run away from him on a beach a month ago and haven’t seen him since.
“Well, I can help you out if this ever happens to you. First step, you go to every single art class in the Los Angeles area.” His eyes are burning into you, begging yours to meet them. You refuse.
“Every single one?” You doubt it, even though somehow you know he’s not lying.
“Yep. Every single one, every single day, sometimes twice a day.”
You’ve missed his voice, and you still can’t fathom how that could be possible when you’ve only spent a couple of hours with this man.
“Wow. I’m sure some would find that impressive.” You sound much more detached than you actually are.
He laughs, scooting his stool closer. The woman you’ve sort of made friends with is watching the two of you. She practically has little hearts for eyes as she stares.
“Yes, some would. But not you. You find it annoying,” Daniel says with that fucking easy smile and those bright, wide eyes.
You sigh, melting into every word he utters. “You act like you know me.” You try to laugh, but your stomach is turning, your breath is labored, and you sound anything but cool and collected.
“I do.” He stands from the stool and closes the small space between you. You stand too, backing away from his approach. He reaches for your hand and you pull away.
“Don’t touch me, please,” you beg of him. You crave his touch more than your own breath, but you can’t handle another fall back into reality after this hour has passed.
He immediately drops his hand, and his eyes close for a second. The shadows beneath them are darker now, nearly too dark, and you can’t comprehend how someone can be so captivating inside and out. You want to take your words back, you want to throw your arms around him and beg him to be yours, but you know better. You can’t do that. It will end worse for you than that day last month. The moment one of these students recognizes his voice or face, he’s no longer yours.
He sits down on the stool and opens the bag he has hanging across his body. He’s wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt, and those same boots. The sleeve of his shirt has a few little holes in it, and you can’t help but admire them. As much as you tried to paint him to be something else, someone materialistic and shallow, you knew damn well that you were lying to yourself. This man is neither of those things. You know this not only from the little holes in his shirt or the black marks on his shoes—you know this because you saw more of him than that.
He stays silent as he unpacks a case of brushes and then stands up and walks to the front of the room to get supplies. Even though this is supposed to be a marker-and-pen class, he grabs two handfuls of small watercolor bottles. No one, not even the instructor, asks him why or tells him no. You watch as some of the students admire his beauty, the way confidence rolls off his broad shoulders and down his lean yet strong build.
The woman, your new sort of friend, raises an eyebrow at you when Daniel walks past her without looking at either of you. You shake your head at her and shrug your shoulders as if you have no idea what she’s talking about, and focus on your drawing. You manage to correct the ugly mistake on your page and try your best to focus on your work and not look over at the painting Daniel is creating. The minutes drag and drag, and finally, the class is over. Daniel stands, his shirt covered in small dots and a few lines of colorful paint. When he looks away, you steal a glance at the paper in front of him.
Every breath you try to take is lost. You can barely register what’s in front of you.
It’s your face, bright and vivid, staring back at you. It’s you, except a much more beautiful depiction of you than in reality. It’s your face, your nose, your full lips, your eyes. Even your messy hair; wild strands surround your face, and the most beautiful flowers sprout out of nearly every inch of you. The ends of your hair are shaped like petals, and your lips are put together with small, pink flowers. Your eyelashes curve in the most beautiful manner. Your ears have bouquets of colorful lilies sprouting from them.
You’re breathless, and your eyes are fighting a losing battle as you dab at the corners of them with shaky fingertips.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Daniel says, his hand taking yours.
You nod, unsure how to speak or what you would even say to him if you could find the words. Across the top of the page, written in orange paint, are the words:
Let me find what makes you happy.
The woman next to you starts sobbing uncontrollably, and you feel every single emotion that you’ve been trying to fight. You can’t control it, or even begin to contain it, and you can’t believe this insanely talented, incredibly thoughtful man has created such a beautiful version of you.
You stare back and forth between him and it, trying to collect your thoughts.
“It’s so beautiful,” you finally gasp.
He steps closer, letting go of your hand and pulling you against his chest. “It’s identical to you.” He pushes an unruly strand of hair behind your ear, and your eyes flutter closed, trying to imprint every detail of this moment.
“Hardly,” you breathe, resting your forehead against his chest. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart. You want to remember this too.
“I’m not going to let you run away from me this time.” He tightens his arms around your back, and you’re astounded that the line doesn’t sound remotely cheesy coming from his lips.
Maybe because he means it, a small voice says inside your head. Focus on what’s good.
Daniel’s hand moves under your chin and tilts your head so that you’re looking at him. He continues, “I’m going to be here until you see this.” He takes one arm away from you and points to the painting. “I would love it if you allow me to stay longer, but I’m not going anywhere until you see yourself the way you deserve to.”
You can’t take any more from him. Your chest is aching, and your fingers are trembling, dying to touch him. You wrap your arms around his back and press your lips to his before he can speak again. You’ve never believed anyone in your life the way you believe him right now. You want to see yourself in that way, colorful and vibrant, happy. You know he can’t do all the work—it takes what’s inside you to bring his painting to reality—but you’re happy to have him along for the ride. You’re happy to have him beside you.
The Ten-Year Special
Blair Holden
Imagine . . .
You barely miss being hit right in the face by a wayward ball as you walk by the basketball court.
Getting up early to do some research has already proved detrimental, having almost cost you your left eye, but you take a minute and stop and peer at the early-morning activities of the not-so-happy campers of Camp North Star. Children from ages eight to twelve are busy with their morning session, too engrossed in the game to notice that they’d nearly disfigured one of their counselors. You’d come here to scope out their basketb
all skills, wanting to know if they could work for the particular sequence you had in mind, but as usual your mind gets distracted.
You sigh and shake your head. It was all about sports and cheerleading at this camp, a detail you’d missed when applying for the job. You thought you’d get to spend your entire summer with energetic kids who wanted to further their love for the arts, but you’d been radically mistaken. A dismal six people had signed up for your Advanced Acting class, and the participation in the theater workshop was disappointing to say the least. The kids at this camp were restless, their fingers twitching as they watched the clock, waiting for it to signal when they could finally have access to their electronic devices, run outside, jump in the lake, play some ball, and not have to recite the Bard’s “outdated” dialogues.
You observe them, in their natural habitat, looking happy and excited even after having been woken at 5:00 a.m. by their sports instructors. Speaking of said devils, you throw the two immature frat boys an envious glare and try not to think about the unfairness of the world. And you’re pretty sure they hadn’t spent four hours color-coding the entire program schedule for their month at the camp.
But you had. And your students hate your classes.
Well, they won’t anymore.
You grin like the Cheshire cat as you remember the brilliant plan you’d come up with last night. One email from an old online fan club you’d joined when you were thirteen and it was like 2006 all over again. You’d busted out the old playlist and participated in a good ol’ dance party as fellow fans celebrated all over the internet.
And that was when inspiration had struck. You knew exactly what to stage for the camp’s annual performance night—and you knew it was going to win your students over. Heck yes, you were going to be instructor of the year, and neither Frat Boy One nor Frat Boy Two could ever take that away from you.
COLLEEN LOOKS UP from the script you’ve handed her and peers at you intently from behind her thick-rimmed glasses. You shuffle your feet, trying your best not to look nervous as you meet her gaze. It’s all about confidence, you tell yourself. You cannot let her intimidate you into feeling bad about a project you believe in with all your heart. She might run this camp, but you know your stuff. You’re an acting major in one of the most prestigious programs in the country, and if there’s one thing you know, it’s a show that’ll guarantee a standing ovation from the entire house.
So you smooth your pleated skirt and stand tall in your six-inch heels, trying desperately to not look like a little girl playing dress-up.
“Are you sure this play will be popular with our campers? Don’t you think it’s a little dated?”
You bite the inside of your cheek and refrain from a rather embarrassing outcry. Dated? How dare she suggest that! If High School Musical was dated, then Colleen might as well already have one foot in the grave. It had only been ten years since the first film came out on TV, eight since the last one in the trilogy was released in theaters. You’d been thirteen when you’d first seen the original film on television and lost your heart to that blue-eyed boy with the voice of an angel. Even as Colleen drones on and on about the age statistics and how these kids have probably never heard of the film or the songs, you find yourself going through a montage of yourself from ages thirteen and up. Gosh, it’d been one crazy period filled with Wildcat merchandise and karaoke nights with your best friends.
You smile to yourself; no one here knows that it was the films that had pushed you to pursue musical theater yourself. If you could make these kids feel half of the passion you felt for the series, you would be satisfied that you’d done your job right.
“Hey, are you okay?” Colleen looks at you with concern, and you can imagine the dazed look on your face. Your best friend says your fits of intense concentration don’t make you look serene or dreamlike; rather, whenever you get a bit too lost in your head, your facial muscles start twitching and it looks like you’re pretty close to having a seizure. Huh, it must be a genetic thing, because you swear your mom gets the same look whenever she thinks about Harrison Ford.
You relax your features and nod. “Sorry, just got a bit carried away there with the planning. I can see it all in my head, and I promise you it’ll be the best show the camp has ever seen. And can you imagine the publicity? We’re celebrating ten years of a pop culture phenomenon! Those films affected so many lives, and we could pay tribute to the film that started it all?” You hold an exaggerated pause. “If we show this new generation of kids what they’ve missed out on, we could possibly encourage them to opt for performance arts more than just sports or whatever is happening on all those social media apps.”
You give yourself a mental fist-bump for appealing to your boss’s dislike of smartphones and social media. You’ve just got to sell it a little bit more, and soon you’ll have a horde of preteens prancing about onstage to the songs that mean the world to you!
So you lay it on thick. “Colleen, you’ll be recognized widely as a patron of the arts. Imagine the funding the camp could get for its acting and music programs. We barely have any resources right now, but if we make this work, if we get these kids to sing and dance like their little lives depend on it, you’ll have parents rushing to be a part of something bigger.” You gulp in a quick breath. “Do you realize how easily things go viral these days? If we release one video—”
“Do it!” Colleen snaps her fingers, dismissing you with a weary sigh. “If it turns out half as good as you’re trying to make it sound, then we might actually manage to make the parents happy. Happy parents equals happy board members, and it’s always handy to have those folks on your good side. God knows we could use some new bunk beds—try fifty of them.”
“So it’s done then? Can I start working on my script? We’ll need to hold auditions and teach them the routines! I might need an assistant or two, maybe a vocal coach? What about the costumes? I’m sure we can—”
“I don’t want to hear about this until we’re lifting the curtains and I’ve got to worry about some kid throwing up from nerves on my stage.” She waves her hands at you. “Now go on, do what you have to do.”
On the inside you’re squealing, but you manage a respectable nod and rush from her office without breaking out your famous moves. Only when you’re in the safety of your private cabin do you jump and squeal and put on your High School Musical playlist to give your muscle memory a true workout.
This is going to be fantastic—you just know it.
“THIS IS A DISASTER, a complete and utter disaster.” You’re sitting with your throbbing head in your hands on the floor of the small auditorium where the camp holds its events.
Your cocounselor and the closest thing you have to a friend here, Janie, sympathetically pats your head. “They’re not that bad.”
“He’s supposed to be Troy Bolton! Do you realize what that means? He’s got to be the most amazing basketball player, singer, potential boyfriend material, out there. Right now, Mr. Wells is doing a pretty crappy job of that. He hasn’t been able to make a single shot, Janie.”
“Well, you’ve got to admit those are some pretty big shoes he’s got to fill. This Mr. Bolton sounds like quite the accomplished person.”
“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen High School Musical. This entire camp is filled with pop culture heretics. What were you doing in 2006?”
“Watching documentaries on the reproductive cycle of elephants? Did you know an elephant can stay pregnant for up to two years?”
You stare at her, completely dumbfounded. “You could’ve seen Ryan and Sharpay’s ‘Bop to the Top,’ and you chose to watch elephants copulate instead?”
She shrugs. “We all have our priorities.”
Before you can shake her and ask her what the ever-loving heck is wrong with her, you’re summoned onstage. Eliza Monroe, the eleven-year-old playing Gabriella, is quite the diva, and as usual she’s having issues with her costar, the Troy that was never meant to be, little Aaron Wells.
>
You frown at her. “What is it this time, Eliza?”
“He’s ruining the song!”
“No, I’m not,” faux Troy protests. “If you quit trying to be a show-off and stealing all my high notes, maybe we wouldn’t have a problem.”
“I’m doing us both a favor here, buddy. Have you heard how you sound when you try and sing that last part? Here, this is how you sound: ‘This couLd beEeeE, the start of sOmethING newWwW,’ ” the little diva screeches. “We don’t want to damage people’s eardrums now, do we?”
Ouch, eleven-year-olds are worse than most of the people in your Advanced Acting class.
You raise a hand. “Whoa, hold up. You’re being unnecessarily rude, Eliza, apologize to Aaron.” She may be right, but you’d die before you’d admit that.
“There’s no need, this is stupid.” Aaron attempts to take off the basketball jersey with the number fourteen embossed on it. You’d found a bunch of knockoff costumes from the film on Amazon and opted for next-day delivery. It took quite the mental fortitude to give the jersey to Aaron when you wanted to wear it to bed instead.
Trying to break up the latest drama between the two, you wonder if you’re ever going to be ready in time to put on the show you promised Colleen. With auditions having been held two and a half weeks ago, you have exactly one more week till the final performance. But with dismal pickings, you’ve ended up with a mismatched cast who seem to all hate each other. However, since they were the only people who showed up, you’ve got to put up with their daily tantrums.