Chapter 4 #2
“Okay, yeah, maybe you could blend in more if you tried,” he says, fingers steepled against his lips as he continues to study me. “But then you’d be another plastic doll like everyone else around here. And that’d be a damn shame, because I think you’re already perfect just the way you are.”
I roll my eyes. “All right, cheeseball. No more Disney Channel for you.”
“I’m serious, Al. I mean it.”
“Oh please. You have to say that,” I mutter. “You’re my best friend.”
His gaze lingers on me a beat too long.
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Something flickers behind his eyes—something I can’t name, but it makes my heart flutter in that stupid, dangerous way it shouldn’t around him. Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of everything. How close we’re standing. The way his shoulder brushes mine. The heat radiating from his skin.
The hairs on my arms rise into little goosebumps. I shiver, blaming the ocean breeze. The chill of the wind. The lack of a proper sweater or jacket. Anything but the way he’s looking at me.
“Let’s get going, okay?” I clear my throat and step back, shrugging off his touch. “I don’t want to be late.”
He blinks, and for the briefest moment, I see a crack. A flash of hurt. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by his usual easy grin.
“So, where to?” he asks casually as we walk across the quad toward the main campus building. “I’ve got Professor Grant for Intro to Business first.”
“I’m Theater History and Visual Culture. Then Vocal Performance Studio.” I shake my head with a grin. “And, of course, French this afternoon—the class you somehow talked me into. Still not sure why I agreed.”
“Because you love seeing my pretty face,” he says with a wink that’s way too self-satisfied. “Besides, my father says knowing multiple languages is essential for business these days. You’ll need it to communicate with your legion of international fans someday.”
“Yeah, right.” I scoff.
Spanish would’ve made way more sense, especially living this close to Mexico. But no, I signed up for French. It’s not like I’m jetting off to Paris anytime soon. Not like Hayes’s mom, who flies there every Christmas just to shop for holiday gifts, and again twice a year for Fashion Week.
But Hayes already speaks Spanish fluently. And Greek. And like five other European languages. He figured picking up another one would be “easy” and promised we’d study together. Said he’d make sure I got an A too.
“Yo, Vassilios! Over here!” someone yells from the steps of the student union.
I glance up and spot a cluster of good-looking guys in matching athletic hoodies and team slides loitering around.
Hayes’s football buddies. I’d met most of them over the summer at the workouts and practices Hayes dragged me to.
Long, sweaty afternoons where I killed time reading horror novels in the bleachers.
Dylan Masterson waves at us. Star running back, party god, surrounded by sorority girls in Greek-letter tanks, their glossy hair bouncing like shampoo commercials.
Truthfully, he gives me the ick. He’s attractive, sure, but he knows it and wields those good looks like a sleazy used car salesman.
Dylan is all jawline and overinflated ego, with a spray tan and zero self-awareness.
Next to him is Tony Hernandez, the team kicker.
Tony is the complete opposite of Dylan. Warm, funny, effortlessly charming, with big, kind eyes.
He came out recently, and even though we live in California, our small town still skews conservative.
Some alumni grumbled about Tony’s “locker room presence,” whatever that was supposed to mean.
Hayes—despite only being a freshman—shut it down fast, making it clear he had Tony’s back.
No room for debate. After that, everyone else fell in line.
“Go hang with your friends,” I say, nudging Hayes lightly with my elbow.
He looks surprised. “You don’t want me to walk you to class?”
“Nah, I’m on the opposite side of campus anyway.”
“So?” He smiles, easy and warm. “I don’t mind. I like walking with you.”
I know he’s just trying to be nice and probably feels bad I don’t have friends like he does, but I don’t need an escort across campus. I’m not ten years old.
“I’ll be fine. Have fun.”
“Al—”
“Jesus Christ, Hay. Just go.” I give him a shove.
He chuckles, backing away. “Meet you at the dining hall at noon? Lunch on me?”
I nod, turning toward the Arts Complex without looking back.
My first class of the day goes well enough. I’ve always loved theater—the stories, the symbolism, the history. I’m hopeful Vocal Performance Studio with Professor Jones will be just as good.
I first met Professor Jones over the summer at an open house for accepted students.
He spoke on the arts panel, then stuck around to chat afterward.
We ended up talking for twenty minutes about everything from professional choirs to vocal strain.
A few days later, I spotted him again at the Hercules auditions.
He was in the audience, volunteering as a vocal coach, when I thought I’d nailed Megara… but apparently didn’t.
“Hello, Ms. Smith!” he calls out as I slide into my seat for my second class of the day. “Nice and early. I like that.”
“Hi, Professor.”
I’m the first to arrive, so I take my time unpacking, pulling out my notebook and a handful of pens, arranging everything just so.
“Welcome to The Studio. I think you’re going to enjoy my class.” He gives me a kind look. “Shame about Hercules. You holding up okay?”
I look down, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“Ego’s still a little bruised. But yeah, I’ll live.”
“That’s the business, I’m afraid,” he says with a shrug. “But don’t let it stop you. You’ve got one of those rare voices, the kind that makes people forget to breathe. Best soprano I’ve heard in years.”
I glance up, caught off guard. He says it like it’s a fact, not just fake encouragement because he feels sorry for me.
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. And I’ve got a feeling you’re just getting started.” He straightens, a smile spreading beneath the thick bristles of his mustache as he adjusts his bold bow tie, bright as a painting against his rich brown skin. “Speaking of, I do hope you’re auditioning for the Fall Showcase today?”
Shit.
I totally forgot about that.
Every year, top students from Vocal Studio perform solos at the showcase. It’s supposedly a huge deal on campus and exactly the kind of thing I need on my NYU transfer app. I’d meant to prep a piece, but between Hayes, the dog, Amber, and everything else, it completely slipped my mind.
Frustration knots in my throat.
“I don’t think so, Professor. I don’t have anything ready.”
“Surely you’ve got something memorized from your Hercules audition you can sing for us?”
I mull over his suggestion as the room fills behind me. My confidence still feels paper-thin. Am I really ready to put myself out there so soon? What if I fail again? Or worse—what if everyone laughs at me?
And yet… I don’t think Professor Jones would be pushing me unless he really thought I had a shot.
Just before class begins, Rebecca Choi slides into the seat beside me with a friendly wave. She’s petite and always effortlessly put together, with silky dark hair that falls in neat layers around her face and preppy designer clothes that somehow never wrinkle.
Rebecca’s a freshman too. She moved to Laguna Hills last year, and even though she’s one of Amber’s closest friends, she’s not nearly as awful as the rest of them. She actually clapped for me during my Megara audition, while Amber and the others snickered in the back row.
To be fair, I don’t know if they were laughing at me or something on Instagram. They were glued to their phones the entire time.
After a quick rundown of the syllabus, Professor Jones launches straight into showcase auditions. Each time he calls a name, my pulse spikes. I’m practically vibrating out of my seat. Then—he says mine.
For a second, I think about bolting. But no. I can’t let fear stop me from doing what I love. Even if I suck, even if everyone really does laugh, I have to at least try.
Like my body’s on autopilot, I walk to the front of the studio, open my mouth, and sing.
My voice wobbles at first—soft, unsure—but by the time I hit the chorus, I find my stride. I forget the room, the eyes, the pressure, and just let go, nerves melting away until all that’s left is the song. It’s just me and the music.
I belt out each new line, hitting notes no one else in class has even touched. A grin spreads across my face as I nail the final crescendo. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the strongest start of all time—but the rest?
I crushed it.
Only Rebecca claps when I finish. The rest of the room stays silent. Maybe they’re stunned. Or maybe just petty. I don’t care. I don’t need them to clap. All that matters is what Professor Jones thinks.
“There it is. That’s the voice I was hoping to hear again.” He nods, clearly impressed. “You’re in the showcase, Ms. Smith.”
Endorphins flood my body, and I feel it—that high of being heard. Of being seen. For once, I don’t feel like the weird girl, or the loser who didn’t get the part. For just a few minutes, it feels like maybe I’m enough, exactly as I am.
But deep down, I know better.
Nothing good in my life ever stays that way for long.