Chapter 10
Rayne
Smile Again—blackbear
Pointe class is a total disaster. Miss Chelsea, our teacher, is nice.
Very nice, even. She doesn’t make a big deal over the fact that I’m the only one in the class who doesn’t dance en pointe.
But I suddenly feel like an outsider. It’s humiliating to be the only one still wearing soft ballet slippers instead of the hard, uncomfortable pointe shoes.
It’s also embarrassing to be the only one who can’t do the exercises properly, even with soft slippers.
The other girls can do it with such ease that I want to cry because I feel so incompetent.
But I grit my teeth to hold back the tears, because I don’t want to let anyone see how much it matters to me. Zoe and Mae keep giving me sympathetic looks, which I have to ignore; otherwise I’ll really start crying.
Don’t overthink it, sweetie. Pay attention to the music, listen to your body, feel the rhythm. You can do this. There’s more to ballet than perfect technique.
I can hear Mom’s voice in my head, and I want to listen to her, but I can’t. She’s too quiet, and my self-doubt is too loud.
By the end of class, my feet hurt like hell. Strictly speaking, everything hurts. I’m completely exhausted. Somehow, I imagined that my first day would be different. Less awful.
“Take your time,” Zoe says for what feels like the thousandth time as we leave the practice studios after class.
Mae stays behind because she has another class.
Zoe and I are supposed to have contemporary dance now, but it doesn’t start until Wednesday because it’s being taught by a guest instructor from New York who isn’t here yet.
My relief that the first day of training is over almost overshadows my frustration at my utter failure. But only almost.
“I don’t know if time will help. I’ll never be as good as you,” I whimper. I hate the sound of self-pity in my voice.
“You don’t know that. Besides, you’re really not as bad as you think you are.”
“Hmm,” I say, and Zoe rolls her eyes.
“Really. You’re just a little out of practice.”
“I’m not even sure I ever had any practice,” I sigh. “I should have taken it more seriously when I had the time.”
Zoe stops in the middle of campus. She drops her gym bag on the ground with a thud. “You have time, okay?” she says firmly. “You don’t have to get everything perfect right from the start.”
“Zoe, I’m not trying to be difficult, but you’re incredible. You’re so good that I—”
“I can’t do everything, either,” she says, interrupting me.
“At the beginning of my first semester, I had terrible problems with the pas de deux. I couldn’t figure it out at all.
That’s why . . . I know how you feel, believe me.
I also know that it can actually start working if you take your time and put a little less pressure on yourself. ”
She looks at me and I’m immediately overcome with guilt. “I’m sorry, that was stupid. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“You didn’t.” She smiles. “You’re just frustrated. Believe me, no one understands better than I do. Look, if in a few days or weeks you still feel like you can’t get the hang of it, we can squeeze in a few extra practice sessions, okay?”
“You’d do that for me?” I ask, surprised.
She grabs her bag and slings it back over her shoulder. “Of course. That’s what friends are for.”
“Are we friends?” I can’t suppress the sound of uncertainty in my voice, and the glimmer of hope.
“If you want,” she says kindly.
I almost don’t dare to say yes, because I think of Hailey and how badly our friendship ended. I don’t know if I can get so deeply involved with someone and end up being disappointed again.
You’ve already gotten involved, the quiet voice in my head reminds me. It’s true. Except with Easton, it’s somehow different.
“Can you just decide something like that?”
“Yes. Mae would have loved to adopt you yesterday; she’s good at that. She doesn’t need a day to know if she wants someone in her life or not. And she wants you in it. Both of us do.” She smiles at me again, and I believe her. We slowly start walking again and head toward the dorm.
“I’m not very good at friendship,” I say after a while, because I think she should know.
“Neither am I,” she replies honestly. “But Mae is, and she’ll show us the ropes.”
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “Okay.”
“Of course, that means at some point we’re going to grill you about how you know Easton.” She grins, and I know, I just know, that they would never pressure me to tell them everything if I didn’t want to. She’s just trying to lighten things up a little.
“It’s a long story.”
“Those are the best and the worst.”
Apparently, she’s speaking from experience.
“How do you know him?”
“Also kind of a long story. Well, no, that’s not totally true. Jase and Easton are friends. That’s how I know him.”
I glance at her, knowing there’s more to it. “But there’s a long story behind that?”
“There always is. Maybe one day we’ll tell each other our stories.” She opens the front door of the dorm, and I step into the warm hallway.
“That would be nice,” I reply. I guess there are people who it’s easy to become friends with and trust. People I can be myself with. Actually, it shouldn’t surprise me. After all, it was the same with Easton.
* * *
The sky is clear and dark as I set off for Easton’s place that evening.
I’m so nervous that I ask the Uber driver to circle the block twice once we’ve reached the house where the band lives with Willow, Easton’s sister.
The third time, she gives me a skeptical look, a wordless query whether I really want to be here or if she should take me back to the school after all. But I decide to get out.
I’m late, and I’m sure Easton is wondering where I am.
Take a deep breath. Open the door. Get out. None of this is hard, not at all. It just feels that way. Somehow I manage to walk toward Easton’s place. The house has definitely seen better days, but the light shining through the windows onto the street is warm and welcoming.
My pulse races as I stand in front of the door and raise my hand to knock.
I finally manage to do it. I don’t understand why I’m so nervous.
We talked this morning, and he said we’re still friends.
Everything is fine. Still, I have butterflies in my stomach, and my palms are sweating again.
Maybe it’s because he still doesn’t know who I really am.
The door opens, and Easton is there. He looks at me and smiles, and I have no idea how he does it, but I’m suddenly calm and warm inside.
“There you are,” he says.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No big deal. We’re not in a rush.”
“I know, but I hate being late.”
He gives me a knowing grin. “Yes, I remember.”
Of course. After all, I told him.
“Come on in.”
He steps aside and takes my jacket, and my heart leaps with excitement as I enter the hallway and then the living room. The interior of the house is a little shabby, with wallpaper peeling in places and a wooden floor that’s old and scuffed, but it’s cozy and filled with music.
I recognize the sound of “Smile Again” by blackbear coming from the large speakers in the living room, and I can’t help but smile because I sent Easton that song last June. Just for a second, I imagine he put the song on for me, but I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.
Atop a fluffy beige rug sits a huge dark brown sofa with a seat so wide that two people could easily lie down next to each other.
To the right of the couch is a small coffee table.
One wall is covered by a tall bookcase, which contains hardly any books but mostly records.
Easton has already told me which records he has, but I know that at some point I’ll stand in front of that bookcase and flip through every single one of them.
The room is dominated by the band’s instruments and equipment.
Jax’s drums, the other guys’ guitars, and the piano Jax plays when they’re practicing acoustically.
On the walls behind the instruments are various band posters, neatly arranged in black frames.
I see one of Dad’s tour posters in the middle and quickly look away, because my heart immediately starts to ache.
Strings of lights are attached to the shelves and windows, and the tiny bulbs fill the room with a soft glow. The whole room exudes a warm coziness that takes my breath away for a moment. This feels like a real home. Like my old home.
“The fairy lights and candles are Willow’s contribution,” he says.
“It’s nice here.”
“We put a lot of effort into renovating this room.”
He’s standing in the doorway, hands buried in his pockets. “I can see that,” I tell him.
We go silent for a moment, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. More . . . thoughtful.
“Will you show me your room?” I ask, not quite sure why. But I really want to see the part of the house that belongs only to Easton. Maybe I also want to avoid meeting his sister and his friends, even though he already said the guys wouldn’t be here tonight. Who knows when they’ll be back.
“Sure,” he says, sounding so surprised that I immediately backtrack when I realize how it might have sounded.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Sorry, that was a dumb idea.” Heat rises to my cheeks. God, what was I thinking? That was totally rude. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to interact with other people normally. With friends.
“No, it’s not. I’d love to show you my room. Come on.”
My face is burning, and part of me wants to run away again, but this time I resist the damn escape reflex and follow him upstairs.
One flight up to the second floor and another, much narrower one to the attic.
I don’t know what his old room looked like, but I’ve already fallen in love with this new one thanks to a photo he sent me last fall.
It was one of those moments when I wanted to answer but couldn’t bring myself to do it.
The ceiling is low, just high enough for Easton to stand upright.
Under the slope of the roof are his bed and a small table.
Opposite those sit a couple of low dressers.
There’s no closet, but there are two large beanbag chairs.
Directly across from the door are an acoustic guitar and an electric keyboard.
I can’t help thinking about him sitting at the grand piano in the studio this morning, his fingers dancing across the keys.
Maybe I’ll ask him to play something for me later.
The main reason I wanted to see his room, though, is the walls.
His are dark blue, not black like mine used to be, but something about them feels familiar.
He’s also written all over them in white.
His handwriting is messy. I can’t make out the words from a distance, but I’m sure they must be song lyrics and thoughts. Just like mine.
I walk carefully across the room, acutely aware that I’m in his private inner sanctum. It almost feels like I’m inside his head, and he willingly let me in. I stop in front of the keyboard on the low stool and press a key. A low sound rings out, and I’m not at all surprised that it’s turned on.
“I like your room,” I say quietly.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he answers.
“I have so many things to tell you.” Nervously, I push a strand of hair behind my ear. The time has come; I have to tell him. “My silence . . . It had nothing to do with you. It was just about who I am, and who my parents are—”
“You don’t have to say it,” he interrupts me gently. His voice is so soft and warm.
“But I want you to know.” Still sitting on the stool, I turn to face him. He’s sprawled on one of the beanbag chairs, looking at me intently, and I can see how blue his eyes are even from a couple of yards away. Maybe I’m only seeing it because I actually know how blue his eyes are.
“I know. I know who you are, Rayne Bellamy.”
My breath catches. I have no idea what my heart is doing, whether it’s beating too fast or not at all. It’s possible that the whole world has stopped for a second.
“How?” I stammer, feeling dizzy,
“Your name is unique. I’ve read the articles.
I’ve seen pictures of you. Your purple hair is pretty distinctive.
And your Insta name is Mockingbird. You told your father about us.
He said his daughter showed him our YouTube video.
You wrote to me just a few days before he did.
Looking back, I wonder how it could have taken me so long to figure it out. ”
I stare at him in a daze. He’s right. There were many clues, and taken together, they paint a pretty clear picture of me.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.” My voice is strained. I’m so overwhelmed I don’t know what to do with myself. He knows. “Does that change anything?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to. If I were you, I probably wouldn’t have told me either. After all, we hardly knew each other.”
“But I didn’t even tell you after we got to know each other.”
“You’re still the same person.”
“Am I?” I ask, trembling. How can he make this so easy for me?
A crooked smile appears on his face. “Yes. It doesn’t matter if I call you Birdy or Rayne. You’re the same. We’re friends, and I’m sorry about what happened. I’m so sorry.”
Blinking, I avoid his gaze, unable to utter a word. I’m going to start crying, I’m sure of it.
“Rayne?” His eyes are so, so blue. And worried.
My heart tightens, and there it is again, that black hole in my chest. The pain that claws at my insides and takes my breath away.
“How are you?” he asks me.