CHAPTER 17

Maybe she's right and we do all have something to lose. Because after last night, there won't be more private rehearsals with Timothy. There can't be. I wish it didn't hurt so damned much. . "First day of freedom. How do you feel?" Avery asks as we head to English on Monday. "Like a new woman." As we filter into the classroom, my gaze lands on the boy in the second row. The messy hair, the broad shoulders under his jacket. When he turns to listen to something Brandon says, I soak in the strong lines of his profile. Timothy and I haven't spoken since I slammed the bathroom door in his face at the restaurant. Last night after studying with Avery and Jessy, I practiced in my room, the window shut. The text came through after dinner. TIMOTHY: We need to talk. Instead of responding, I'd kept my curtains closed until I turned out my own lights. There's no way to make this better because what I want is for him to take it back. Not what he said, but the resignation after. He'll I'd even take the irrational, angry Timothy over the coolly distant one. Because that, at least, would be validation that he felt something. That he still feels it. "Carla, are you passing notes?" I half hear the teacher's question, but Carla's response has me snapping to attention. "Emily sent it to me." The teacher intercepts the message. Denial slams into me as I recognize the paper from my notebook, the paper I'd written on yesterday morning. That's impossible. "Emily, why don't you come up and read this for the class." My legs are blocks of ice as I shove myself out of my seat. I can't meet Avery's gaze or Carla's or anyone's on my way to the front of the room. I take the paper, unfold it, and draw a breath. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- No one gets in deep Except you You take the shovel from my hands, scrape back the dirt I watch you dig Your hands, your arms, your heart My soul splinters with every inch you gain Until you're at the bottom --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The words I wrote privately spill out, fill the silent room. My tongue has swelled to twice its normal size as I sneak a look over the top of the page. Everyone's staring, but there's only one gaze that drags mine like a magnet. Timothy's sitting back in his seat, his posture casual, but his face is anything but. A muscle tics in his jaw, those dark eyes sparking with emotion. He's still as a statue, but beneath the surface, he's roiling. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Still, you don't stop You find the edges of my deep, the cracks You peel it back, toss each piece over your shoulder As if each one isn't a layer of my heart Hold my breath while you look inside Hold my breath while you meet my eyes --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I might wear my heart on my sleeve, but this is something new. Perfect transparency. I'm stretched thin, a spider web ready to tear in the lightest breeze. But it's not for Timothy, it's for me. Each word is clearer, more deliberate than the one before. Each emotion is more raw, but my hands have stopped shaking. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It's too much, too deep I see that now You rise and I take your place I throw the pieces back inside, make a new floor and keep going Without looking up, I know you're gone And I'm alone Wondering if it was my fault to dig that deep --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I'm throbbing when I finish. Still, a part of me remains intact, as if I've peeled away the layers of my heart, leaving only the most vital parts, and seen for the first time the wonder it truly is. I fold the piece of paper, the piece of my soul, and walk back to my seat. For the rest of class, I ignore everything and stare straight ahead. I don't talk anyone until Avery and I go off campus for lunch. "Jessy stole your notebook." she says once we're sitting outside the cafe. "No." I say firmly. "It was in my drawer this morning. I would've noticed it was missing. She ripped out the page." "She wanted to humiliate you." Her lips curve. "It didn't work. You were great." "It wasn't a performance, Avery. It was like putting my intestines on display for everyone I hate." "You wanted a stage, you got one." My phone buzzes with another text from Timothy, but I ignore it. He won't approach me at school. He's their prince, and this is a reminder of the bullshit lines he sees between us. A way for him to stay removed, unemotional, in control. I turn Avery's words over through the rest of classes. You wanted a stage, you got one. I always felt as if being on stage meant playing a role, but now I wonder for the first time if this is how my Dad feels playing his own music, if it's possible the crowd can make you as vulnerable as it makes you strong. At the end of the day, I drop my books in my bag, grab my gear, and head to rehearsal. "Emily." Miss Norma says when I'm barely in the door. "I want to run the dancing scene. Can you grab Chris?" I head up to the stage and drop my bag in the wings. After shrugging out of my jacket and rolling up my sleeves, I scan for him. My attention snags on two figures behind a curtain, bobbing heads mashing together. "Can we break up this two headed dog thing?" I ask. Chris pries his face away from Carla, looking disinterestedly at me. "Emily, I'm surprised you even showed. You seemed emotional in English today." She smiles wickedly. "Your little poem had a very unrequited love vibe, don't you think? Listen, I know you didn't get asked to prom, but Chris and I will tell you all about it." Chris snorts at her meanness and I turn my back. At least she doesn't know what happened between me and Timothy. Falling for the guy in my pool house, the one they all worship? I'd never live that down. Chris and I take the stage, and I force myself to step closer to him, wondering how Ariel ever loved this guy. The choreography is simple, but Chris trips as he sings the chorus, and I hold in a groan. Miss Norma calls, "Stop! Chris, what's going on?" "Emily's fucking it up." I barely hear Miss Norma chastise Chris for his language because I'm looking past him to take in Carla's mischievous expression. My hands ball into fists. "Maybe if you spent half as much time practicing your dance moves as your seduction moves, you'd have it down." "Again." Miss Norma commands. We do it again. And again, Chris makes it look like my fault when we screw up. Carla's already up off the floor, heading for us. Miss Norma sighs."Emily, I understand it's challenging, but we can't keep doing this. I'm going to have to---" "It's not challenging." I glare at my costar. "She's right. It doesn't look hard." Every heads whips toward the open auditorium doors. There's a collective gasp followed by whispers as people realize the same thing. Timothy Adams is in rehearsal, and he has a fucking opinion on it. Chris recovers first, barking out a laugh. "You can do better? Be my guest." Even Norma doesn't object as Timothy makes his way up the steps, sets his bag on the floor, his jacket over that. His tie is loose, and his shirt clings to the slopes and planes of his chest and shoulders. He rolls up the sleeves as he approaches. My anger at Chris fades. He's a pawn in this game of Carla's, nothing more. The frustration I feel with the boy in my pool house though... Oh, that's a living, pulsing thing. "What are you doing here?" I hiss as he approaches. Timothy reaches up to flick the top button of his shirt open, then the second, his gaze never leaving mine. "You haven't answered my messages." "A rational person would assume I didn't want to see them." My attention drifts to the exposed skin at the top of his chest as he takes my hand, tugs me closer. I'm too startled to resist when he fits my hips to his and murmurs his response next to my ear. "Thank fuck you don't speak rational." Someone starts the music. Timothy nudges me back, and he steps into the choreography Chris screwed up. I've died. There's no way in my lifetime I expected to see Timothy Adams dance on stage at our school, not to mention with me. But it's not a dream, its a waltz, and his touch warms my waist through my shirt, his confident hands moving my body where he wants it. When I lift my gaze to meet his, I'm taken from stunned to wrecked. The longing from the restaurant hallway is there, but there's also fierce determination, as if he knows this is a bad idea and he gives zero shits. There's something beneath the fierceness. If we we're alone, I'd pressure him to tell me, but I don't have to wait long for him to spill his secrets. Eight bars in, the guy I can't stop thinking about sees my "What the hell?!" and raises me a "The fuck he is?!" Because Timothy starts to sing. His voice is smooth and full, wrapping around me as if we're the only two people here. He's playing Chris part better than Chris does. I feel each word in my soul. His gaze holds mine as he sweeps me across the floor. I dig my fingers into his shoulder through his shirt, living for the warmth of his palm against mine, the one I read at that carnival so long ago. I knew something was going to change for me this year, I could feel it coming like a promise. I'd thought it was landing the lead in the musical, but its more than that. Its Timothy Adams. I don't know if this is his way of showing me I can't avoid him or the world's most public peace offering, but no girl or fish could resist this rebel prince. He's strong and sure. The cool edge that follows him around has melted, and the invitation beneath is impossible to reject. It takes a moment for me to realize he's stopped, we've stopped, and the stage crew cuts the music. "Its not her. Its you." Timothy words are loud enough for the entire auditorium to hear. Chris watching from the corner, stunned. Timothy's touch leaves my skin tingling, my heart hammering as he steps away. I'm missing his warmth, his talent, his strength, even before he picks up his bag and jacket and heads for the door. I don't pretend I'm not watching him go, standing in the middle of the stage and waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. Actions speak louder. When Miss Norma calls us back to order, I catch sight of Carla's pale face, her slack mouth, and I understand what happened. In this power of struggle between me and the assholes, I forced Oakwood's prince to choose a side. And he chose mine.