Love Out Loud

Prologue

Lennon

Twenty-Two Years Ago

“Okay. It’s almost showtime, people. One more time!” An excited, tinny voice comes through my headset. “Five till places.”

A chorus of “Thank you, five” follows. I add my own, then mentally run through my cues. Even though I’ve done this a million times, I want it to be perfect.

“Here we go,” the voice says a few minutes later. “Lennon, bring the house lights down.”

In the booth at the back of the high school auditorium, I use my index finger to slowly slide the dimmer switch on the light board all the way down until the space is in complete darkness. The chatter of the audience quiets. A baby wails somewhere near stage right, and someone shushes it gently.

“Spotlight,” the same voice demands, and another slider glides under my fingertips, illuminating Davey McMan, a short, goofy sophomore wearing a bowler hat and a vest over a thin, white shirt.

He tips his hat back and greets the audience with his normal charisma.

The audience laughs like they always do, and I bring the spotlight down.

“Curtain.” This is where the magic starts. My heart beats faster in anticipation. In the dim light of the stage, the green velvet curtain slides open in fits and starts as Tim pulls the rope from backstage.

“Music,” the voice in the headset barks.

The orchestra conductor, Mrs. Smith, raises her arms to cue the quartet sitting on the stage as well as the rest of the musicians sitting in the pit.

They’re a mix of student musicians—some of them friends of mine—and hired professionals to fill in the gaps.

The trumpet player onstage brings the instrument to his lips, using the head of a plunger to make a wah-wah-wah sound.

And with that, the final performance of my high school career has begun.

Our assistant director continues to read cues through the headset, but we’ve practiced this so many times, it’s practically second nature.

Sliders glide under my fingers as I turn mics on and off, going mostly off muscle memory.

Student actors in the chorus all dressed in various black leotards, shirts, pants, and skirts walk to and fro, singing their parts behind Anne Jensen, who is hamming up her opening solo at center stage.

There’s a quick transition into a softer song, and I lean forward in my chair.

I can just make out the vague outline of a young woman standing perfectly still at center stage.

The voice demanding a spotlight vaguely registers as I slide the center spot up to illuminate her in all her glory.

Short blonde hair in pin curls. A black leotard with lace sleeves that cover her arms in a nod to the adjustments our school administrators demanded we make to this show. Black tights and high-heeled shoes.

The musicians vamp a bit as they wait for her to pop her head up and step forward, her signal that she’s ready. “Mic two, up,” the voice comes again. This time, I’m glad for the cue. I had been lost in her. I’m always a bit lost in her.

Her chest heaves for two bars. That’s it. Just two bars. But I hold my breath for what feels like a lifetime waiting for her to steal the show like she always does.

Her head comes up, and she smiles the most brilliant smile I’ve ever seen.

She’s not faking it, either. She’s at home on that stage, always has been.

She once described it to me as a high unlike any other.

This is our last performance before we graduate, and she’s now let the pit vamp for longer than usual, so I know she’s soaking up every minute.

Her blue eyes are sparkling; I can see them even from here. Her joy is contagious. I’m suddenly aware that my cheeks hurt because I’m grinning, too. She’s completely in her element there, at center stage, ready to own the audience. Give it one song, and she’ll have them in the palm of her hand.

Her eyes glide over the auditorium, taking everything in. Then, she finds me. She always finds me, because she’s my best friend.

She steps forward, and Mrs. Smith cues the pit. Her smile widens a fraction. Just for me.

And that’s when it hits me.

I’m in love with Lark Caspian.