Chapter 20
Rue
Before heading into church with my mom on Sunday, I stare at the Little Birdie post I’ve been working on nonstop this week.
I only have until eight o’clock tonight to post something, otherwise the app will expose my identity to everyone.
Sure, I could just share the tip currently in my inbox about a random student who keeps stealing Sharpie’s from the teachers’ lounge, but I’d like to try to remedy the mistake of my last post, if possible.
And as much as I’m dreading posting anything ever again, right now is the worst time for everyone to find out I was behind that last post.
My dearest Fledglings,
It’s rare a fearless flapper like me makes mistakes, but when it happens, this beak will be the first to admit it.
Our dear Mabel Evans and Carlton Peters may, after all, have been innocent in their endeavors that fateful day.
For another insider has come forward and admitted they heard the pair discussing nothing but the musical itself, and quite innocently.
Our sweet Meredith Evans has nothing to worry about when it comes to her sister and her beau.
All we can hope for is a swift reconciliation. Cheer them on, my darling flock!
Yours truly,
Little Birdie
Rolling my eyes, I put my phone in the pocket of my jeans.
It sounds so stupid, and it’s not even true, but it’s the best I’ve got.
Nothing else I’ve written has felt convincing enough.
I’m so worried Meredith will write it off and still believe my last post over this one.
Then again, it would say a lot about her if one anonymous post could tear everything apart, and another could try to stitch it back together like nothing happened, but I still have to try.
Besides, this could be my last chance to make things right. I have a feeling if I let too much time pass, the potential for this situation to be deemed a misunderstanding will vanish, leaving a more permanent mark on my friends.
The parking lot is already filling up as Mom and I walk toward the double doors of the church building. My heels click against the pavement while Mom chats with someone she knows from the women’s group, but I can barely hear her over the anxious hum in my own head.
On top of all this, I haven’t stopped thinking about when I last saw Ezra. The way he almost touched my face and consumed my entire heart with that unapologetic stare.
But even though I’ve forgiven him, there’s still a huge part of me that’s hesitant to trust him after what he did. There’s still a bit of fear there, a grudge I’m still trying to crush.
Inside, the sanctuary is already buzzing with soft music and polite greetings. We slide into a pew, and I bow my head out of habit while the choir sings about grace and redemption.
And that’s when it hits me—like a punch to the heart.
How long have I been refusing to give grace to Ezra? How long have I held him at arm’s length, even when everything in me wants to inch closer?
I cross my arms and stare at my feet, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes.
I’ve been so caught up in Little Birdie, in the lies people believe about me along with the ones I’ve told myself.
I’ve been immersed in the gossip I didn’t ask for but somehow can’t seem to escape.
And all that noise has made it so easy to forget the important things. Like kindness. Forgiveness. Love.
Ezra hurt me. That hasn’t gone away, but he’s also not the same boy from middle school. He’s trying. And our time together this past month has made me realize something.
I definitely feel a lot more for him than forgiveness or even friendship. I can’t deny it anymore.
That thought makes something warm bloom in my chest.
The pastor starts the message, and I do my best to listen, but my mind keeps drifting back to Ezra.
The way he still remembers every trivial thing about me four years later.
How good it felt to hug him after that basketball game, and the way everything we do for show as a couple has me wishing none of it was fake.
I’m getting addicted to the moments of genuine conversation we’ve been having.
The moments when he shares things with me that his other friends don’t understand.
Moments where he brings things about me to my attention that I never even realized.
I sent the Little Birdie post, but I don’t feel nearly as relieved as I hoped I would. There’s still a nagging in my brain telling me to do the scariest thing ever—to come completely clean and admit I’m the one behind the app. But that thought freaks me out way too much, so I keep ignoring it.
My only consolation is seeing Meredith standing beside Carlton’s desk in homeroom on Monday, talking to him in low tones I can’t decipher. I don’t know if what she’s saying is good, but at least they’re speaking again.
It’s progress.
And when third period ends and it’s break time, I find Carlton waiting by my locker with a tiny smile on his face.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask.
“Finally, that little bird had some sense knocked into it.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “And I thought things with Mere were over for good.”
“Well, you can’t really blame her. I mean, the whole thing sounded pretty suspicious.”
He sighs. “Yeah. But it was nothing. A misunderstanding, Rue.”
I wait for him to elaborate. I know from experience that staying quiet often leads people to keep talking in order to fill any uncomfortable silences.
“I was just talking to Mabel about my parents and the split they’re going through. I’d normally talk to Mere, but I could tell how overwhelmed she was getting with the musical. I didn’t want to add my problems to her load, you know?”
I feel a pang of sympathy at the mention of Carlton’s parents. Through their split, he’s put on a good “I’m okay” face, but I should know better. Of course the situation is weighing on him.
“I get it,” I say. “But C, it’s still a little weird for you to go to Mabel for emotional support instead.”
“Why?” He frowns. “She and I have always had that kind of relationship.”
Once upon a time, I thought he and I had the same thing. I maybe even thought I was special, but that’s clearly not the case. “Have you told Meredith this?” I ask.
“Yeah. She finally heard me out in homeroom this morning thanks to that post. I tried texting her before today, but she blocked me.”
I wince. “Well, I’m glad she listened. Hopefully now things can just go back to how they were.”
He smiles at me in a way that might have excited me before I stopped crushing on him. But now, there’s only one smile that makes me feel like I’ve been zapped by lightning.
Carlton pushes off the lockers and heads toward his next class, and I stand there for a moment, watching his retreating figure disappear into the blur of students.
Relief and guilt twist through me like tangled threads.
His relationship with Meredith might actually be repairable now, but only because I intervened in a way I never should have had to.
And even though I fixed the symptom, I only did so by lying some more.
That knowledge sits like a stone in my chest. Still, it does the trick, and as February shifts into March, Carlton and Meredith’s relationship slowly repairs itself into something much like what it was before.
At least, from the outside it seems that way.
Thankfully, that time passes without any drama.
On Valentine’s Day, Ezra surprises me at my locker with a giant bouquet of wildflowers.
It feels like the entire school watches as he plants a soft kiss on my cheek, and flutters explode across my stomach.
Even though he and I never discussed him doing that, I tell myself it’s just him being a good fake boyfriend no matter how much I want to believe he’s starting to think of me in a romantic way for real.
My posts as Little Birdie become reduced to whatever tips end up in the admin inbox, with no extra comment from me. Nothing harmful, and I choose the most boring stories every time.
My group of friends complain more and more about how bad the musical is. It’s validating, and a huge relief to know I’m not the only one who thinks so. But the best part? When I’ve finally had enough, I actually take Ezra’s advice and tell Miss Fern what I think is wrong with it.
My hands shake with nerves as I walk to Miss Fern’s office after rehearsal. I try to breathe through the discomfort, and at one point, I even second-guess myself and walk away before turning back, marching to her door and knocking.
At first, she’s defensive, just like I expect, but when I show her the list on my phone, she thoughtfully considers each point I make.
“This is…quite good information, Rue,” she says. “I’ll think about if there’s any way I can incorporate your thoughts this late without it being a major inconvenience to the actors.”
It’s clear she takes at least some of my advice, because over the next month, I notice subtle but impactful changes in the musical from the sound booth. When I point them out to Ezra, he beams at me.
“You did it. I knew you would. And I’m really proud of you, Rue.”
“Thanks.” I grin at him. “I’m just happy this musical is no longer something I’ll have to be embarrassed about. It’s no Mr. Saltzman production, but it’s not half bad now.”
By the time opening week rolls around, Ezra and I haven’t come up with an excuse good enough for Miss Fern to let him stay any longer, but for some reason, she lets it slide. I’d like to think it’s because she’s grateful I helped her show.
When Ezra and I reach the theater on Tuesday, everyone is uptight with the usual opening-week panic. My crewmates rush past me with broken props, and the smell of epoxy fills the air soon after.
Ezra chuckles as Miss Fern rushes past us with the wild eyes of someone probably surviving on caffeine and determination. I nudge him. “Be nice. At least she fixed it.”
The two of us slip into the sound booth, and for a moment it almost feels like all the other rehearsals that have come before this. It’s still just us in here, surrounded by a mess of tangled cords and the hum of the soundboard we’ve practically memorized.
The sound booth hasn’t changed, but Ezra and I have.
I try to focus on my cues and using the correct switches and dials at the right times, but my phone constantly buzzes with a new notification from the Little Birdie app every few minutes.
There are so many tips from students wanting to be featured ever since I started sending out the most trivial, low-stakes blasts from those in my inbox.
I’m just glad this is my last month as the admin.
I quite literally can’t wait for the app to choose someone else.
Ezra pivots in his chair, and his knee bumps mine playfully. “Where do you keep disappearing to in that head of yours?”
I laugh. “Oh, you know. Places.”
The scene onstage switches to Meredith and Carlton’s duet. Ezra adjusts the volume on their mics, grinning with amusement. “This song is so much better now, thanks to you.”
I laugh. “Why, thank you.”
Then, quietly, without looking at me, he says, “I know things are messy with Carlton and Meredith right now, and I know how much you probably still like him. But I just want to make sure you’re not getting hurt again.”
Is that what he’s so worried about? It’s so sweet my eyes sting. “Ez, I haven’t liked Carlton like that for a long time.”
He gives me a doubtful look. “Come on. The guy has your whole friend group wrapped around his finger. Maybe not Dot. At least, not anymore.”
I giggle. “You sound jealous.”
He meets my gaze. “Oh, I’m definitely jealous. He has your attention.” He says it with a massive smile and so much confidence that my chest flutters.
I just shake my head and laugh, completely at a loss for words. I don’t know how to genuinely flirt with Ezra because everything between us has been for show. And before that, we were just friends. “He doesn’t have my attention,” I finally manage to say.
“Then who does?”
We stare at each other. A blush covers my face as he smiles at me. There’s so much eye contact. I don’t know what to do with it. So, I answer his question with a question. “Who do you think deserves it most?”
“Hmm…” He leans closer, until our knees are touching. “Whoever makes you smile the most. And whoever you feel like you can be yourself around, but challenges you to be even better.”
You, I want to say. The answer is definitely you.
Especially the second part. I want to be better than I’ve been lately. I want to be honest.
But that would mean coming clean about Little Birdie. And once that happens, I’m pretty sure he’ll want nothing to do with me.