Chapter 22
Dafne
It’s safe to say I look good today. No, you know what–I look great . I’ve slept with my hair in a braid and woke up with pretty waves. My skin is glowing thanks to my meticulous skincare routine. I don’t usually wear much makeup to rehearsals–there’s really no point when it’s going to melt after twenty minutes of warm-ups, but I have a mandatory class this morning and feel rather dainty, so why the hell not. It’s important to recognise particularly good days looks-wise. Affirm that shite, as Phoebe would say. I pat a shimmery champagne eyeshadow color over my lid, apply a small amount of waterproof mascara on my upper lashes, a soft strawberry red lip with a blotted effect, and blend the usual few drops of concealer over each bag under the eyes–consistent sleeping patterns are still a work in progress, especially with so much to think about. Thankfully the pain from my injury is mostly gone, and I feel lucky it only took about a week. Phoebe left early to get some alleged alone time in the yoga studio, or that’s what the note she left on our night stand said. So it’s just me, and after deeming the work on my face satisfying, I get up to make myself some tea and honey before my nine o’ clock mock audition class. The over fifty hours per week third year- students are subjected to are starting to take their toll, and even though I have a generally good feeling about today, I’m also incredibly tired. The kind of tired that settles in your joints and bones and makes you wonder if your body is supposed to hurt this much at this age.
After the kettle rattles–which manages to make me jolt even though I’m the one who put it on the stove–I pour the tea in my mug and add a generous amount of acacia honey. I’m about to stir the sweetened mixture, when it occurs to me how it looks exactly like Theodore’s eyes, save for the green. It also occurs to me that such thoughts should not occur at all, since I’m not sure where we stand. I guess we’re not on the warpath anymore, so where are we then? With everything that’s happened we didn’t really manage to properly discuss what that kiss meant, and he seemed downright annoyed by the possibility of anyone thinking we were together. I shake my head, down the drink as I’ve seen Phoebe do countless times with her tequila, and grab my things to leave.
I find Isabel, who’s wearing cat-eye sunglasses despite the absence of sun and putting together a cigarette, her eyes rolling into their sockets at my chastising expression.
“You know that’s terrible for your lungs, therefore for your vo–”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she chuckles, knowing from experience I only wish she’d cut this particular habit off for her own good. I think about recent events and settle on what seems the least shocking thing that’s happened to me as of late.
“I went out with someone.”
She turns towards me, and her eyes look like they’re about to fall off their sockets like in cartoons. I’m not sure if I should be offended by her shock.
“What?!”
“You wanted me to tell you something you didn’t know, and I did.”
“That was a figure of speech but who bloody cares–who is it?”
I shake my head, and motion locking my lips up with an invisible key.
“You can’t drop a bomb like that on me and then not tell me,” she groans, her cigarette bobbing wildly between her lips. “I thought you didn’t date.”
“Who said anything about dating? And you could always guess,” I shrug.
“Do I know this person?”
“I think so.”
“Is it Mr. Boyd?”
“Why would you say that? I’m not into old men.”
“He’s barely fifty.”
I eye her once, and she shrugs .
“Alright, then … is it Theodore?”
My stomach does something one might see in a parkour demonstration. I did not expect her to say that, and I scramble to school my face into neutrality. It’s the second person who seems convinced he and I have or had something going on. The second bloody person. That’s what I get for saying things out loud and manifesting them.
“How was Price your second choice after Mr. Boyd?” I joke as I hold the door open for both of us.
She squints at me, like I’ve just said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. “I just thought all that crazy nemesis tension you have going on was bound to blow up eventually. You know, in the fun way of the term.”
I laugh and shoot a silent prayer to whatever divinity is willing to listen that she’ll drop the subject.
The worst part? It doesn’t sound half bad. It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Which clearly means I have a secret penchant for masochism.
Once we get to class, I drop in my seat and notice with unreasonable relief that Theodore isn’t here, only to remember this is one of the classes we don’t share. Ollie arrives a few minutes later and leans on the edge of my desk, slipping a packet of white chocolate-covered biscuits towards me. “You know that old lady I sometimes meet on my morning jog?” he asks.
“The one with the yellow hat?”
“The very one. She keeps giving me these, and I don’t have the heart to tell her I find them disgusting. Please enjoy them for me.” That draws a genuine smile out of me, and I stash the packet in my bag. I look up at him and notice he looks like he didn’t get a minute of sleep.
“Ollie, are you feeling alright? You don’t look alright–no offense.” He smiles weakly, and it seems like I’m not the only one with a tendency to deflect.
“None taken–I think a spring in my mattress broke, there’s something sharp stabbing me on the back all night long,” he yawns. I let my head rest in my hands.
“A spring.”
“You know those sharp metal things that look like one of Phoebe’s curls?”
“Hilarious , ” I reply drily, and a second later Ms. Danson comes in, her new assistant trailing behind her with the equipment cart.
“Have you and Price talked at all this week?” Ollie whispers as he sits at the desk next to mine while the assistant fumbles with the camera settings.
“Not really,” I say casually. I feel rather than see Ollie lean closer, pretending to stretch his long arms over his desk.
“Are you going to?”
“Ollie what is with you and–”
“Mr. Hall,” Ms. Danson starts, “Would you like to go first today?”
Ollie shoots me an annoyed look, and I blow him a kiss.
“Of course, Ms. Danson, I’d love to.”