Chapter 5
Five
CHLOE
During my free period the next afternoon, I head down to the drama department to look through the play archive.
My Story Arts teacher assigned a group project already, and I need to find a play to analyze.
Anita and Charlotte entrusted me to select something because they can’t agree.
Charlotte wants classic; Anita wants contemporary.
Honestly, I don’t care either way, but they voted me the tiebreaker, so here I am, trekking down to the music and drama wing instead of catching up on my economics homework.
I don’t venture to this part of the school often, and it takes me a few wrong turns before I finally end up in the right place. The student aide—a short brunette with orange plastic glasses—points me toward a bookcase taller than me, overflowing with scripts.
“Has Cardinal Ridge put on all these?” I ask.
“No,” the girl says. “But the drama teachers keep a big stock to use in classes. I’m going to lunch now. Just sign out whichever one you take on the computer and lock the door behind you. I have a key.”
“Right. Will do, thanks.” I search the shelves for something vaguely familiar, finally just selecting a few at random, hoping they’ll at least be interesting.
I shut the door behind me when the faint tinkling of piano reaches my ears.
Normally, I would ignore it, but something about the music intrigues me.
I still have twenty minutes left in the period. I follow the sound. It’s quiet in the empty hallway, other than the piano keys.
My sneakers squeak too loudly on the waxed floor. It feels like talking in a library, like violating some sacred space meant only for whispers.
A practice room door stands slightly ajar. Behind the frosted glass, a tall figure leans over an upright piano. I pause, listening. Goosebumps freckle my arms. I’ve never really listened to classical music before. Now, I wonder why.
The smooth melody carries me like a leaf on the wind. I feel airy, all my stress forgotten thanks to this stranger.
When the music stops and silence reigns once again, it takes me a moment to come back to myself. I rub my shoulder, surprised to find the tension has dissolved. Weird. And then comes the shuffling of paper—sheet music, probably—and the sound of a backpack zipping.
I turn to leave when the practice room door squeaks open.
“Baker?”
Busted. I don’t know who I expect to be behind the door, but it certainly isn’t Rhoads Simpson.
“Heyyyy.” I pivot, guilt written all over my features.
“Whatcha doing?” He smirks.
“Oh, nothing. I just heard music, so...”
“You followed it down the rabbit hole?”
I shrug, sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Guess my secret’s out now. Honestly, it’s like I want people to know. I did leave the door partially open.” He grins, shutting the door behind him and stepping closer to me.
“Secret’s safe with me.” I draw an invisible ‘X’ over my heart with my index finger.
“Thanks. I wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”
“Well, you’re really good. At the piano, I mean. At least from the teeny-tiny, littlest bit I heard.”
“Thanks.” Is he blushing? “I’ve been playing since I could reach the keys. Want to know another secret?” He picks up his headphones and places them over my ears. That woodsy orange scent filters into my nose. He pushes a button on his phone and music fills my head.
He mouths something and points to his ears, but I shake my head. Five stars to the noise-canceling headphones for doing their job. He mouths again, slower this time, exaggerating his movements so I can read his lips.
His lips. I’m staring at his lips, and I am absolutely not thinking about what he’s saying. I’m thinking about how they’d feel against mine.
Whoa, where did that come from?
Cool air hits my ears. Rhoads has removed the headphones. “Philip Wesley.”
“What?”
“Philip Wesley,” he repeats, shaking the headphones. “It’s called ‘Dreaming in Color’.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Did you like it? I’ve been trying to learn this song for a few weeks.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He laughs. “Sooo, you hate it.”
“Not at all!” Honestly, I really hadn’t heard much. As soon as I’d noticed Rhoads’s lips, blood had pumped in my ears like an ocean. “Is that what you were playing just now?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I guess I need to practice more, huh?”
“I liked it.”
The corners of his mouth flick into a smile, and there I am again, thinking about his lips. My nerves tingle. Distraction. I need to distract myself. Change the subject. “So, you always listen to classical? Not punk or metal?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. That information could definitely hurt your street cred.”
“I hope I can trust you, then, with my big secret.” He looks vulnerable then, as if sharing his music preferences means more than it seems.
“You can. Probably.” Why is my mouth so dry? I just saw him talking like this with Katie Song the other day. It’s no big deal.
An idea strikes me then. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
At the same time, he says, “So, I was wondering—”
We both laugh, then he says, “You first.”
“That penalty kick you took. How did you do it?”
“Oh, that? There’s nothing to it.”
I glare. “Says the striker. You saw my miserable attempt, so clearly that’s not a universal fact.”
Rhoads adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “I mean, it just takes practice.” His eyes light up. “I could…teach you. If you want?”
My heart zings. This is purely for soccer reasons, not romantic reasons. Yes, he’s gorgeous, but if spending a little time training with him will improve my soccer game, then I’d be an idiot to turn him down, right? “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Why not? Though…I think we need to make a trade.”
“A trade?” What could I possibly offer to him in exchange? “What do you want?”
He looks up toward the ceiling and lets out a single breathy laugh, before he smirks. Glances at my lips, then back to my eyes. “You share your infinite breakfast wisdom with me, and I’ll teach you all I know about scoring goals.”
I blink rapidly, as this information settles. “Breakfast?”
He nods. “Yep. That tip about Peggy’s hash browns being the best in town was on point. I know you’ve got more opinions.” He leans closer. “Share your secrets with me.”
Rhoads Simpson wants me to tell him where to eat pancakes? Why is that turning my insides into a bag of wiggly caterpillars?
It’s not like he asked me to breakfast.
Not yet.
My friends are going to have a field day with this.
I clear my throat. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. I think that’s a worthy trade.”
“Weeknights are out because of games and practices. But we both seem to have the same free period. Does that work? Maybe a weekend here or there, if needed?”
I nod, working out the logistics in my head and telling my skin to undo the impromptu sunburn. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay, great. We’ll start next free period. That’ll give me enough time to plan.” He rubs his hands together like a cheesy super villain.
“Will we be allowed to go down to the practice fields?”
“Oh, you’re not ready for that yet. Got to learn to walk before you run. So to speak. Meet me outside the locker rooms.” Mischief lights his expression.
“Wait. What does that mean? I don’t like the look in your eyes.”
The bell echoes in the empty hall. I flinch at the interruption, my whole body on edge.
Rhoads places his headphones back over his ears. “Productive trip to Wonderland, today, eh? Catch you later, Alice.” He winks, then disappears down the hall.
What have I gotten myself into?
* * *
By the time the bell rings at the end of the day, I have seventeen missed messages in my group text to Charlotte and Anita. It hasn’t been that long since I checked it, but clearly, they’ve been busy.
Charlotte
Shenna James said she saw you talking to Rhoads Simpson in the music wing. Fact or fiction?
Anita
Divulge, Chloe!
Charlotte
What did he say?
Anita
Wait, why were you in the music wing?
Charlotte
Anita, FOCUS.
WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING?
IF YOU’RE MAKING OUT WITH HIM…
And so on.
I shake my head. Making out in school is so not my MO. Charlotte knows that, but still. The thought had crossed my mind...
Word certainly travels fast. And what is it to Shenna James if Rhoads and I were talking?
Though, come to think of it, Shenna always seems to know everything before anyone else does.
It’s like she has eyes and ears all over the school.
And if I remember correctly, Shenna is in the fall play, like always.
She was probably down the hall at the time, rehearsing or something.
I type a response.
We talked.
Immediately, my phone vibrates.
Charlotte
About?
Music. And…soccer…and breakfast
Charlotte
Oh my gosh, did he ask you out??!!
…
Anita
!!!
Charlotte
!!!!!
Not exactly. But he did offer to teach me how to take a solid penalty kick in exchange for breakfast recommendations.
Charlotte
!!! …Also, we’re mad at you for making us find out from Shenna James of all people
Anita
I’m not mad, for the record. But I am quite intrigued about this new development.
I stick my phone back in my bag and smile. My friends’ opinions aside, I’m going to up my offensive game and prove to Coach Dixon I belong on the field in every situation. And what’s a few stacks of pancakes between acquaintances, anyway?