Chapter Six
I glance at the clock for the fortieth time since school let out. “Mr. B, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go.”
“But it’s only—” The choir director glances over his shoulder at the clock in the back of the auditorium. “Oh. I guess we went over time. Again. Sorry, guys. Okay, I’ll see you all back here Thursday after school.”
I fly off the stage and out of the auditorium to my locker.
Just outside the high school’s front entry doors, Noah stands with his hands in the pockets of an unzipped, sturdy brown jacket.
Looking like he’s stepped off the cover of an L.L.
Bean catalog, he wears a blue and white flannel shirt over a navy t-shirt and faded jeans with dark brown lace-up boots.
His gaze is directed toward the parking lot. He hasn’t seen me yet.
I glance down at my own outfit of skinny jeans with a dark pink hooded cardigan over a black fitted tee. On my feet, black high-top Converse.
“It’ll do.” I push through the doors.
Noah turns. “Hey.”
“Hey. Sorry I’m late. Mr. B kept us overtime.”
“Big surprise.” Noah rocks back on his heels. “So . . . do you need to go get your coat?”
“I didn’t bring one.”
“Here. You can borrow mine.” He starts to slip off his coat.
“No, it’s okay. Really. I’m warm blooded. Besides, we’ll be inside most of the time.”
Noah squints at me, as if trying to gauge what to do. At last, he puts his coat back on. “My car’s been running for a while, so it should be warmed up by now.” He does a little half-bow and gestures to where his car is parallel parked.
“There’s a certain trick,” he says, lifting the door handle at the same time he presses a foot against the bottom seam of the door, “to opening this door.” When the hinge gives a painful groan, he adds, “And an apparent need for a little WD-40.”
“Thanks.” I slide into the seat.
Noah shuts the door and walks around to his side. As he pulls away from the school, I say, “Oh, would you mind dropping me off at my friend Jenna’s house after the audition? I left my car there this morning and rode to school with her. I promised to help her study for a history test later.”
“No problem. Where does she live?”
“Out on Twin Oaks Drive.”
“That’s near where I was working today. Mac’s got me tiling a foyer in a new house out there.”
“Mac?”
“John MacIntosh. My boss. He owns MacIntosh Contracting. And he’s my landlord.”
“That’s handy.”
“More than you know. When my parents went back overseas, Mac let me move into the apartment above his garage in exchange for mowing his grass and stuff. It’s a pretty good deal.
Plus, he throws these little construction jobs my way.
” Noah turns the heat up a notch. “Truthfully, I think he’s hoping to turn me into a carpenter so I have something to fall back on if I don’t make it in show business. ”
“That sounds familiar.” I let out a sigh. “My brother’s a doctor, my sister’s pre-law, and I’m planning to major in Musical Theatre.” I give a wry laugh. “My parents are hoping I’ll ‘come to my senses’”—I make quote marks in the air—“before I graduate.”
“Where are you going to go to college?”
“I’m not sure yet. I suppose I’ll go to whichever school is willing to take me. I’d love to go somewhere in New York, of course.”
Noah nods. “N.Y.U. has a fantastic program. And you’re right there, in the heart of N.Y.C.” He sings the letters like the song from Annie. “Er, sorry.”
“No apology necessary. You’re speaking my native tongue. But you’d rather go to London?”
Noah turns onto the highway. “At the risk of sounding like a snob, theatre is . . . well, older in England. There’s such a rich history there. And I want to be a part of that theatre-life before I tackle Broadway.”
It makes sense. “So you plan to come back some day?”
“Not back here, other than to visit, of course. But the States? Yeah. I’ll stay in London for a while, most likely. Build my resume around the connections I’ll make at the London Academy. Granted I get in, that is.”
Conversation flows so easily that when I finally turn my face forward I’m surprised we’ve already reached the edge of Leopold.
Noah smiles. “Good company makes time fly.”
He turns left, toward the business district. “I thought maybe we could eat at that little café on the square. They make great sandwiches. And this time of year, they have a peppermint mocha that’s really good.”
“Mmm. That does sound good, but since we’re going to an audition, I’ll probably just get a salad and some lemon water.”
“Killjoy.” He wrinkles his nose. “But your idea is better.” Noah pulls into a diagonal spot across from the café. “Now,” he turns to me, “you sit tight and let me be chivalrous.”
“What?”
“I’ll come around and open the door for you.”
He doesn’t wait for my reply. A moment later, he wrenches the door open with the eardrum-searing twang of metal on metal.
“Well, it’s not the most elegant form of chivalry,” he says with a wink, “but a guy has to work with what he’s got, right?”
I slide out of the car, jumping a little at the force with which Noah slams the door shut.
“Sorry. Eliza requires a strong hand. It’s part of her charm. Do you want my coat?”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. We’re just walking across the street.”
The café is comfortably warm, and the aromas of baking bread and foamy coffees make it cozier.
“I’ve never been here before.” Each wall is painted a different playful hue. The dining area features a mismatched collection of distressed tables and chairs. “It’s charming.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. I never noticed. The food is really good, though.” Noah looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “What? Did I say something funny?”
“You sounded, well, normal there for a second.”
Noah’s eyebrows go up—way up—and I realize what I’ve said.
“Not that you’re not normal.” Heat flames in my cheeks.
“I mean, well, you sounded like a regular teenage boy there for a second. Like the guys at school. They all act like they’re completely famished all the time.
When food enters the room, they see nothing else.
I usually get out of the way. Someday one of them is going to bite off one of my fingers, if I’m not careful. ”
“I’m nineteen, so technically I am still a teenager.” He shrugs.
“True. But you don’t really act like one. That’s a good thing,” I’m quick to add. “It’s nice to talk to someone who has more on his mind than the big game or who might buy them some beer.”
“Ahh.” Noah gives me a cockeyed smile. “I do suffer from a ravenous appetite occasionally, but I promise to try and restrain myself from biting or otherwise endangering your fingers.”
“My fingers appreciate your interest in their safety.”
We examine the chalkboard menu, then order and find a table while we wait for our food. Our drinks are delivered. Out of habit, I reach for the salt shaker and sprinkle some onto my napkin. When I look up, Noah’s head is tilted at on odd angle. His expression, puzzled.
“Salt keeps the glass from sticking to the napkin,” I explain. “Seriously. Try it.”
With a shrug and a sideways smile, he lifts his glass and shakes a bit of salt onto his napkin.
We chat about everything from school, to his job, to family, his move from Eastern Europe to Iowa . . .
“You’re very easy to talk to, Madeleine Faith.” Noah tilts his head. “Something wrong?”
“No. It’s just . . . nobody calls me Madeleine Faith except my Grandma. It’s a little strange to hear it from anyone else.”
“Sorry. It just has a ring to it. It rolls off the tongue. I can stop if you—”
“No. I’m not used to it, but I like it.” I take the lemon wedge from the side of my glass and squeeze it into my water. “Want to know a secret?”
“Do tell.”
“I was thinking of using Madeleine Faith as my stage name. You know, like Faith is my last name instead of Prescott.”
“I like it.”
“I signed up for the musical with my full name. If I get the part, everyone’s going to call me Madeleine, so I guess I’d better get used to hearing it.”
“I think you’ll get the part.”
“Leopold has a lot of talent.” I lower my voice. “If it comes down to me or a local girl, I’m out.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. Dr. Hitchings is new here. He doesn’t know who’s from Leopold, who’s from Kanton, or who’s from Timbuktu.”
Our food arrives, and once the waitress departs, we dig in.
I look up from my salad to find a smile playing on Noah’s lips.
“What?”
He gestures to my bowl with his fork. “Not a fan of the tomato?”
“Not remotely.” I look down at my salad, which I’ve habitually separated into edible and nonedible sections. “Do you want them?”
“I don’t want to be a pig, but if you’re going to leave them . . .”
I take Noah’s fork and, one-by-one, spear my discarded tomatoes and place them into his bowl. They disappear almost as fast as I deliver them, no utensil necessary.
He reaches for his glass, which is now sweating condensation. It does not cling to his napkin.
“See?” I point my fork at his glass. “The salt trick really works.”
“Huh.” He smiles. “I’ll have to file that under the ‘Life Hacks’ tab in my brain.”
I flourish my hand and give a mock bow. He grins.
We eat quietly until I notice Noah is eyeing my discarded croutons.
“Should I be watching my fingers?”
“What?” He swallows. “Oh. Sorry. Tell me I wasn’t drooling.”
“Only from your eyes.” I laugh. “Noah.” I enunciate each syllable slowly, like a preschool teacher might. “Would you like my croutons?”
“Yaaaasss.”
“Help yourself.” I glance at the oversized clock behind him. “It’s already 6:15!”
Noah looks at his phone. “Wow. I guess we’d better hurry. Are you about finished?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” I dab my lips with the napkin and glance at the ticket the waitress delivered a few minutes ago, upside down on a little black tray. Should I offer to pay?
“Don’t even think about it.” Noah swipes the bill with one hand and reaches for his wallet with the other. “My treat, remember?”
“But you’re saving for school, and—”