Chapter Three
When I rise from my final bow as Lily St. Regis during Sunday’s curtain call and the house lights come up, my eyes are drawn to a two-fingered whistle coming from the back of the auditorium.
Noah smiles and gives a salute. I grin. Still feeling a little in character, I lift my hand to bounce the curls of my short blonde wig and give him an impulsive—and rather outrageous—wink.
His head tilts back, but he is too far away for me to hear the chuckle that shakes his shoulders.
I expect Noah to come up to the stage and talk to me, but when the crowd clears, he’s gone. I’m more disappointed than I should be. But what did I expect? I’m just a sixteen-year-old girl in a high school musical. He’s Noah Spencer, future star of London’s West End.
Ah, well. Back to my regularly scheduled life-after-musical, I suppose.
On Monday morning, at the end of my second period class, I’m called to the principal’s office.
The. Principal’s. Office.
My stomach swirls. What have I done? Am I in trouble? Have they called my parents?
I’ve never been called to the office before.
Never. I wrack my brain for something, anything, that might explain the summons.
I’m a model student. Respectful. Even my friends have occasionally called me a prude.
I can’t remember the last time I had my phone out during class without permission. This has to be a mistake.
As I pass the gym, the reek of hormone-laced sweat almost overpowers the unpleasant aromas wafting from the adjacent cafeteria. Coupled with my nerves, the government-issue food products, ever-present scent of moldy dishcloths, and testosterone-on-crack boy-stink is almost enough to make me gag.
I pause at the glass office door, swallow hard, then push it open and walk to the counter to wait—respectfully—while Mrs. Tulley, the secretary, finishes her call.
“Hi, Faith. What can I do for you?”
I hold up the yellow slip of paper. “I got a notice to report.”
“Oh, right. Right! How could I forget?” The secretary beams, as if getting called to the office is some sort of honor. “You look worried. Don’t be, sweetie. You’re not in trouble.” Mrs. Tulley scoots backward on her wheeled chair. “You have a delivery.”
Swiveling to the table behind her desk, Mrs. Tulley grabs a long white box with a purple bow.
“For me?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nods, her eyes sparkling. “See? Nothing to worry about at all.”
I let out a deep breath.
“Great job in the musical, by the way. I almost didn’t recognize you in that blonde wig. And what a fun accent! What was that? New York?”
“Joi-zee.” I take the box from Mrs. Tulley’s grip. “Thanks. Do you know who it’s from?”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Nope. Don’t have one.”
“Oooh . . . a secret admirer, perhaps?” She winks. “There’s a card. Go on, Faith. Open it.”
I put the box on the counter and pull the card out from under the bow. The envelope is sealed with Madeleine Faith Prescott scrawled in cursive on the front. I don’t recognize the handwriting as my grandma’s, and no one else in my family would put “Madeleine” on the card.
I pull the card from the envelope, but it’s simply the contact information for Kerri’s Flowers & Gifts.
“Noah who?” When the secretary speaks, I jump. “Sorry.” Mrs. Tulley has the good grace to blush. “I don’t mean to be nosy. There’s writing on this side.”
I flip the card over to read the message.
Great show, Madeleine Faith! Sorry I couldn’t stick around after. Hope to see you at the LCT auditions on Saturday.
The message is written in a tiny, precise script. Below the message, a bolder signature leaves only his first name, but those four letters almost fill the remaining space.
Noah.
I read the message again.
Auditions? What auditions?
“So . . . ?” Mrs. Tulley looks like she’s going to burst with curiosity.
My stomach, which had just started to recover from being called to the office, flutters. “Um, they’re from Noah Spencer.”
“Noah Spencer.” Mrs. Tulley squints as if trying to put a face to the name. “Noah Spencer, Noah Spencer.” Her eyes widen. “Oh! Noah Spencer. The missionary boy. Such a sweet kid. Always so polite. Wasn’t he in your sister’s class?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I slide the bow from the box, pry the lid up, and draw in a fragrant breath. Inside, five long-stemmed, lavender-colored roses nestle in a soft bed of baby’s breath. I run a finger over one of the velvety petals. No one has ever sent me flowers before. Not even on Valentine’s Day.
Valentine’s Day? What am I doing, thinking about Valentine’s Day in November? This isn’t a romantic gift. It can’t be.
Can it?
No, it isn’t. Stage performers are often given flowers at the end of the performance. Even Mom knew enough to present me with a small bouquet after the curtain call when she came to see the show on opening night. Noah’s gift is a simple act of courtesy from one actor to another. That’s all.
A bright orange piece of paper, folded in half, rests across the roses’ stems. It’s a flyer advertising upcoming auditions for the Leopold Community Theatre’s winter production of The Sound of Music.
I read the card again. A smile tugs my cheeks. I hope to see you at the LCT auditions.
He’s auditioning. He wants me to audition.
He wants me to audition. He . . . believes in me.
It’s not something I have a lot of experience with. And coming from him? A guy once accepted to a London theatre school? I’m . . . floored.
The bell for third period rings. I replace the flyer and slip the box’s lid back over the roses. “I’m going to be late to class.”
Mrs. Tulley grabs a small piece of lavender paper—not as pretty a shade as the roses—and scribbles a note. “Here you go, honey. Excused tardy. I added a couple extra minutes so you have time to go to your locker if you need to.”
“Thank you.” I slide the bow back around the box but stick the card in my pocket. “Can I leave these here until the end of the day?”
“You bet.” Mrs. Tulley nods, and I nearly float to my locker. I exchange books quickly, so I can text Jenna.
Faith:
Noah sent me roses!
Jenna:
Noah Filchman? Eww.
Faith:
No, you dope. Noah Spencer. Cute waterfall guy.
Jenna:
Oh riiight! THAT Noah. Gimme the deets!
Jenna:
Gotta stash my phone before Mr. G sees. C-U @lunch?
Faith:
YES!
As soon as I get home, I add Noah’s flowers to the vase holding my opening night bouquet.
“There.” I smile, pleased with how the additional flowers perk up the slightly-wilting arrangement Mom most likely nabbed from a grocery store display on her way home from work Friday night. “Perfect.”
I pull the card from my pocket and re-read Noah’s note before pinning it to my bulletin board. The dry-erase calendar above my desk shows nothing but an open square for next Saturday, so I grab a marker and fill the square with LCT Auditions. I surround the words with a heart.
Shooting a glance toward the mixed bouquet on my desk, I wrinkle my nose. “How old are you, anyway?” I wipe the childish doodle away with the tip of my finger. “It’s a theatre tradition. It’s not a romantic gesture. It doesn’t mean anything.”
But as I pull my homework from my bag, I can’t help the dreamy little smile that tilts my lips upward, because maybe . . . maybe it could.