Chapter Five
“I got a call back!” I do a little happy dance and then run down the stairs. I’m not all the way down yet when I shout toward the first person I see. “Mom! I got a callback!”
“Who called you back?”
“Dr. Hitchings! The director of the Leopold Community Theatre!” My phone’s glittery pink case winks in the light as I wave it around. “He asked if I could come in Tuesday evening for a callback. A second audition.”
“Aww,” Mom says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Did the first one not go very well?”
“No. It went fine. Great, even! I mean, I got a callback!”
“So a callback is a good thing?”
“Yes! It’s awesome.”
Mom laughs. “Well, congratulations, honey. I hope you need a big old cast and at least nine stitches from all the broken legs.”
“Right.” I laugh, a giggle, really. I’m breathless. “Thanks.”
Mom’s brow furrows. “But don’t you have Show Choir practice on Tuesday?”
“Show Choir is right after school.” My lips almost hurt from smiling so widely. “My callback isn’t until six forty-five.”
“You won’t be out late, will you? Didn’t you say you have a test on Wednesday?”
“I was planning to study with Jenna and Cole anyway, and I’ll be there by eight at the latest, home by ten, ten-thirty. No big.”
“Everything counts toward college.” She crosses her arms. “One bad test can wreck your whole semester’s G.P.A.”
“I know, I know.” My shoulders slump on a sigh. “But it’s U.S. History. With the extra credit I turned in last week, I’m already over a one hundred average. Don’t worry.”
“Any score below a B+ and your drama artsy stuff gets nixed. No show choir, no dance team, no community theatre. Got it?”
“Got it.” My enthusiasm wanes. Whenever Mom whips out the word artsy, I know I’m on thin ice.
Too bad I don’t always heed the warning.
“Gretchen never had to quit volleyball when she got a B.”
As soon as the words exit my lips, I regret them.
Athletics are almost a religion in the Prescott home.
My mom was a volleyball and track star at her high school in Nebraska.
Dad played intramural sports in college, all the way through med school.
My brother Ryan declined three different full-tuition baseball scholarships from smaller schools when he chose to forego playing college sports and focus on his pre-med studies at the U of I instead.
And Gretchen, Golden Gretchen, set dual records for serves and kills at Kanton High that have yet to be broken, as far as I know.
Mom’s lips form a thin line. “Your sister graduated in the top two percent of her class.”
“I know, but—”
“And her college tuition would have been paid by a volleyball scholarship if she hadn’t torn her ACL the third time.”
Colleges have music and drama scholarships, too, but I know better than to take the argument further. You can’t prove the value of the arts to someone who has no love for them.
Mom can’t carry a tune in her gym bag. She thinks dancing should be reserved for four-year-olds in tutus and the occasional wedding reception—and it is certainly not to be considered a sport.
School sports impart valuable life skills, but the arts are expendable luxuries for flighty airheads with no sense of healthy competition.
No sense of competition? In the theatre department? She has no idea.
Still, I know her threat has teeth. Last year, right before Christmas break, I got a B- on a Biology test the week of my ballet recital.
I was the Sugarplum Fairy in The Nutcracker, and regardless of the fact that mine was the second highest score in the class—and I still ended up with an A for the semester—that was my last ballet recital.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll have plenty of time to study. I prom—”
Pink glitter vibrates in my hand, and I look at the screen. Unknown caller.
“Go on.” Mom sighs, shooing me away. “But remember what I said, okay?”
“I will.” As I turn to go back upstairs, I push the button to answer. “Hello?”
“Hi, Faith. This is Noah Spencer.”
“Hi!” Too enthusiastic. I sound like an idiot. Don’t be an idiot, Faith.
“I asked Dr. Hitchings for your number. I hope that’s okay. I can’t believe I didn’t think to get it from you the other day.”
The thrill Mom doused flares high. I force down a giggle. To let it out would be worse than uncool. “No. I don’t mind. Did you get a callback, too?”
“I did. He wants me to read for Rolf. So I was wondering . . . I’m going to be working a tiling job in Kanton on Tuesday afternoon. Would you like to carpool with me to Leopold?”
I go into my room and shut the door. “Do you need a ride?”
“Uh, no.” Noah laughs. “I was offering one. I thought maybe we could grab a sandwich or something before the audition. My treat.”
“Your treat?”
“Um, yeah.” Noah clears his throat. “I’m, uh, trying to ask you out. Pretty smooth, huh?”
I answer his laugh with my own, but words fail me. Noah Spencer is asking me out.
Noah Spencer, who sings like a dream, who loves the theatre, who is kinda hot and totally nice, is asking me out. Me.
Noah Spencer, who graduated two years ago with my golden sister . . . is asking me out?
Is that weird? Or just . . . amazing?
“Faith? Are you still there?”
“Oh! Yes.”
“So . . . would you go out to dinner with me before our callback audition?”
“I’d like to, but . . .” I bite my lip. My parents rarely get home from work before a quarter to six, which means there won’t be time for him to meet them—a Prescott dating requirement—and still leave time for us to have dinner before the audition.
“You have a boyfriend, right?” He sighs. “I should’ve known. Sorry. I didn’t think to ask.”
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend.” I press a hand against the heat of my cheek. “But I have Show Choir rehearsal after school. I won’t be finished until around 4:30.”
“Perfect. I get off at four, so that will give me a chance to clean up a little. Should I pick you up at school?”
“That should work.” Guilt pricks me, but what are my options, really? “Around 4:40? That’ll give me time to gather my stuff in case Mr. Barron goes over time.”
“You mean there are times he doesn’t go over?”
“Right.” I laugh. “A quarter to five then. I’ll watch for you from the front doors. Will you be driving the truck?”
“Unfortunately, no. I got my car back. It’s a somewhat ancient Buick four-door. Three-door if you only count the ones that open. It’s a rusty shade of blue, but I imagine you’ll hear it before you see it.”
“Ah. A classic, huh?”
“More of a beast, actually, but I’m sure she’d appreciate the compliment.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Of course. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to laugh.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“At least you’re honest. I call her Eliza. As in Doolittle.”
“Ah. My Fair Lady.”
“The same. She’s crass and loud and regularly threatens to do me in, but,” he half-sings the next few words in a British accent, “I’ve grown accustomed to her . . . pace.”
“I don’t think that’s how the song goes.”
“Forgive me. I’m a habitual hack. And that, I must admit, was one of my very worst lyrical hacks. You can smack me if it gets annoying. Most everyone does.”
I’m glad to be on the telephone instead of in person. My smile feels like it’s stretching toward something goofy.
“So, on that sour note,” Noah continues, “I’ll say goodbye for now and plan to pick you up at the high school at a quarter to five on Tuesday.”
“Great. In the meantime,” I affect a brash cockney accent, “please give Miss Doo-li-ul me regards.”
I can still hear him laughing when I hang up.