CHAPTER 30 (1)

The rest of the weekend, I’m a bundle of nervous energy—practicing with Timothy and alone. Because of the tight timeline, we’re all business. Every minute, from dawn until midnight, we write and rewrite, play and sing, go over every section of my vocals and his guitar until the result is real and powerful and moves me from the first chord. Monday morning, I can barely listen during Entertainment Management, my stomach flipping over as I stare off into space and go over the arrangement in my head. On my way out of class, I notice a missed call from Haley, plus a voicemail. Emily, we sent you flowers for midterms, but the florist couldn’t deliver them because there was no one with your name at the dorm address you gave us. I told them to try again, but here’s the number— I write down the number, then hang up on the voicemail. This is bad. I call the florist, who’s super confused and asks if there’s another address to deliver to. I don’t want to give her the Vanier one, so I go down to the shop and get them myself, calling my dad on the way back. “Hey,” I say when he answers, panting as I take the steps up from the subway, the big arrangement of purple orchids and roses heavy in my arms. “I got the flowers. Thank you, guys, that was very sweet.” “The florist said they couldn’t deliver them.” I can hear him frown over the phone. “It was a mix-up. Everything’s fine. There’s actually something else I wanted you to send me.” I tell him, and he pauses. “If we send it to the same address, it’ll arrive.” “For sure,” I tell him. After hanging up, I text Avery to remind her I gave her dorm as my address and that if someone happens to show up with a package, she should sign for me. “It’s a little early for congratulations flowers. You haven’t even auditioned,” Rica points out from her desk chair as I push open our door. “They’re from my dad and stepmom. The card says, ‘Good luck on midterms!’” I set the arrangement on my desk, still wrapped, and Heath swims to the glass to check it out. I drop onto the bed, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. “Fuck, I’m an asshole.” “Not the usual response to flowers.” I roll onto my side to look at her. “My dad doesn’t know about… the showcase.” “Parents don’t need to know everything,” Rica says, folding her arms. “Mine don’t.” “You never talk about your family. You’re not close?” Her dark brows lift. For a moment, I think she’s not going to answer, but she does. “My parents are both doctors. So’s my brother. They’re not thrilled I’m here. I told them it’s better here than Ibiza, where I spent last summer.” “You were never tempted to be what they wanted? Or to pretend?” Rica opens her notebook computer in front of her. “I’m not gonna tell someone else’s story. I’m going to be the biggest DJ in the world. And every person who thinks that’s not true gets to be wrong about me.” An expression of sheer determination crosses her face, and I can’t help being inspired by her resolve. “This sounds stupid and self-centered,” I start, “but did I do something to make you not like me? Because I really wish we could start over.” She shifts in her seat. “Just because I like my space and my resting bitch face is on point doesn’t mean I hate you. I mean… I fed your fish the other day.” “Really?” Rica shrugs. “He looked hungry.” That lightens my heart. “Thank you.” “For what?” “For being you.” She shakes her head before turning back to her computer, but I swear there’s a trace of a smile on her lips too. “Whatever. What time’s your audition?” I check my phone. Shit. “In an hour. I need to go warm up.” I get off the bed, grab my things and start for the door. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear her call, “If you fuck it up, I’m sending the flowers back.” He’s not here. I’m in the grand auditorium twenty minutes before our scheduled time, and Timothy’s nowhere to be seen. I call him, text him, but nothing. I pace in the hall until the door cracks and an admin assistant sticks her head out. “Mr. Adams?” “That’s me.” “You’re on deck.” She looks at me dubiously but lets me inside. I head in the back door and into the wings as the current performer, a pianist, continues his audition. “Next. Timothy Adams.” The disembodied voice comes through a microphone. Wiping sweaty palms on my pants, I take the stage. A panel of adjudicators sits half a dozen rows back, representing each of the faculties. Their faces are familiar Miss Tamayo, Frank, the dean, plus a man whose name I don’t know who’s a classical music teacher. “Miss Carlton,” Ms.Tamayo observes tightly. “You’re not on our list. What are you doing here?” “Timothy and I are auditioning together.” The judges exchange looks. “Where is Mr. Adams?” the dean asks. My stomach twists as silence falls over the auditorium. The thought that rises up is involuntary, and awful. He left. He left again. When I’m about to open my mouth, the doors of the auditorium burst open, and Timothy strides in, guitar on his back. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he says loudly enough the judges can hear too as he makes his way up the aisle. “One of our first-floor neighbors was broken into, and he cut himself on the glass. I called 9-1-1 and got him into an ambulance.” My jaw slackens. “Is he okay?” “I think so.” “We’ll give you a few minutes to warm up,” the dean decides, turning to the admin assistant. “Let’s get the next person, please.” I shut my eyes, heart still hammering as we head back to the wings together and a ballerina crosses our path for the stage. Timothy squeezes my shoulders. “I wouldn’t leave you,” he murmurs, reading my expression. “I won’t. Not again.” I study him, the nerves warring with gratitude in my body as he quietly tunes his guitar. “Mr. Adams,” a voice calls moments later when the dancer finishes. “Are you ready?” We take the stage, and the dean nods. “Miss Carlton, you can accompany Mr. Adams, but if you make the showcase, you won’t be credited for the performance. It would be unfair to the freshman students who were not permitted to audition.” Before I can argue, Timothy’s on it. “She’s not my backup. She wrote the song. She’s in this every bit as much as I am, and if you won’t let her audition, I’m not auditioning either.” Could my heart expand any more? My gaze trains on the four adjudicators. “I say we let them do it. If it’s not good enough, we say no,” Frank weighs in. “All right,” the dean decides. I turn and close the distance between Timothy and me. He gives me a nod of encouragement. “Thank you,” I murmur so only we can hear before returning to take my place at the other mic.