5. June #2
I gnaw at the corner of my lip, no clue what I’m doing.
Maybe there’s a student in the class who can play for me.
But that’s a big ask. I could backtrack to DPAC and ask Nick to help, except I’m not even sure he’s still there, and what if he’s teaching?
Then I’ve got no piano player and I’ll be late on my first day.
I exhale, my breath trilling my lips as I whirl on Shaw. “You’re offering to play for me?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He stops and slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I knew you’d need help.”
I knew you’d need help, my ass. Shaw’s the definition of quid pro quo. “And what are you getting out of it?”
His hand tugs out of his pocket, but it falls at his side. “Can’t I just want to be near you?”
“Absolutely not.” I scoff.
He rolls his eyes, brushing past me on his merry way to my class in Campbell. “We better hurry or you’ll be late.”
Out of options and ideas, I resign myself to following Shaw. Campbell’s stone facade comes into view, and my mind fills with more worry.
I have a loose syllabus, essentially what Mal’s class had been when I was a camper, with a few additions. But what if the kids don’t listen to me? Or what if they think my ideas are dumb? What if they stare at me, apathy and boredom in their eyes? Teenagers can be mean.
Shaw stops on the steps, turning to me. I push ahead, hoping he lets me lead because he doesn’t know which classroom I’m using and not to watch my ass walk up the stairs.
We make it to 201B—blessedly empty. It’s an older ballet studio; one wall is all mirrors reflecting the morning sunshine from the opposite bank of windows, dust motes floating in the air.
The scuffed hardwood floor creaks beneath my feet. An old upright piano sits in a corner. I press the A keys, starting after middle C, and sigh in relief. “In tune.”
“Nice.” Shaw sits on the bench, looking up at me. We’re too close and my stomach flips over. Not butterflies. Pesky houseflies buzzing in my belly, making me feel guilty. Guilty? For what? Being in the same room with an ex when I have a very fake boyfriend?
Students trickle in, and I put space between us. The kids toss bags against the mirrors and flop onto the floor. One boy wears an “I Can’t, I Have Rehearsal” shirt, and I breathe easier. These are my people.
More students file in, and I grab the attendance sheet from my bag. “Hi, everybody. I’m Juniper, she/her. We’ll get to introductions in a minute, but first, I wanted to take attendance. Say here when I call on you, and tell me if you have a preferred name, and what your pronouns are.”
I go down the list—and it’s a long list. It’ll take a while to get their names straight, especially since I’ve got a Bailey, Haley, and Kaylee.
Oh, and a Kae lyn . None of them is even the least bit excited.
Tension and teenage body odor stink up the room, but I’ve got no idea why they’re so nervous on the first day.
Auditions are this afternoon. Duh, metaphorical facepalm. “So, do we feel prepared for auditions?”
Silence. Stricken faces. Nervous glances.
Perfect, I’ll spend my first class coaching audition pieces. If Shaw sight-reads dozens of 32-bar cuts of music, that is. “If I coach everyone, can you handle playing for them?”
One side of his mouth curls up. “You know I can.”
I don’t miss the few smothered giggles from the campers. I cross my arms and take several steps away from Shaw, but his eyes track me. “And who’s auditioning with a Jason Robert Brown song?” I ask, petty glee in my tone.
Jason Robert Brown, bless him, writes insanely complex music. I hope Shaw has to play “King of the World” from Songs for a New World twenty-four fucking times until his fingers fall off.
One boy’s hand shoots up. “Uh, The Bridges of Madison County ?”
“‘It All Fades Away’?” I ask.
The boy—Drew, I note on my attendance sheet—nods. Bold audition choice for Les Mis . He’s probably going for Marius. I cut my eyes to Shaw and raise my brows in challenge.
“Easy,” Shaw answers, and then the fucker winks at me.
My arms are still crossed, so at least the campers can’t see that my hands are balled into fists.
What is he doing? “All right, we’ll start with Drew, then go down the list. If you want to practice your audition, come on up.
If we run out of time, I promise to stay after class until everyone who wants to sing gets a chance. ”
As I coach, I slip into a trance—watching auditions, giving suggestions—and the hour-and-a-half class races by. I explain a few concepts so that even the handful of students not auditioning get something out of it.
We get through every 32-bar piece, which Shaw plays perfectly.
As angry as I want to be at him for flirting when he’s engaged, there’s no way I could’ve done this without him.
I shoot him a begrudging yet sincere smile before turning to the campers.
“There’s no point telling you not to be nervous about auditions today. You will be nervous.”
“Gee, thanks,” Ryan Huang calls from the back of the class. He sang “I’d Rather Be Sailing” from A New Brain —a deep cut. The kid knows his musicals. But he’ll be my class clown. He’ll get away with it, too, because he’s that damn charismatic. An Enjolras for sure.
“Nervous is good!” I laugh.
“Not if you have to pee every two minutes.” That’s Chantal. A bigger girl with an even bigger voice. Sweet Barbra Streisand, can she belt. Her 32 bars of “Don’t Rain on My Parade” gave me chills.
“Will you let the teacher teach?” They fall silent, so I continue. “Nervous is good. Nervous means you care, it means you’re passionate. It means you want to be in the room so damn bad you’re shaking from it. Focus on that when you audition.”
“Is that what you think about?” Santi interrupts. His dark eyes pin me with frightening intensity. A Javert, if ever there was one.
I inhale, using the extra moment to formulate my answer.
Granted, I haven’t been a teenager in a good long while, but I remember how I hated a teacher talking down to me or treating me like a kid—when they sugar-coated their answers because they wanted to make me feel better.
“Truthfully? I try to, but it doesn’t always stick. ”
I have them, I feel it. It’s that instinct honed from years onstage.
They hang on my words, so I speak from the heart, which is fucking terrifying.
“When I audition, I have to think about paying the bills, what the director is looking for, who I’m up against. Conservatory is such a unique experience—being surrounded by people who love what you love, who speak your language.
And counselors and instructors who push you to be better for the sake of the art itself, not because you need a good grade or to sell tickets.
When I was in your shoes, yes. I wanted it so bad there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. ”
My words sink in. And maybe my instincts tell me to give a dramatic pause, for effect. After a beat, I ask, “Is there anywhere else you want to be?”
The oldest girl in the class, Naomi, shakes her head and her shock of red curls brushes against her chin. “Nope. Right here.”
Assenting murmurs follow.
“Walk into that audition knowing you are exactly where you’re meant to be. And sing your face off.”
My students are energized, ready. Way more confident than when they’d come in.
Damn, teaching is cool. When class is over, the dance and music track kids leave for their respective lessons, but the theatre kids stick around for their next class, which starts in ten minutes.
Most of them file out to use the bathroom or fill their water bottles, though a few stay in the room, scrolling on their phones.
The piano bench scrapes as Shaw stands, coming closer. I can’t back up anymore, I’m already at the wall, where he crowds me close. “You’re really great with them.”
“Thanks.” My one-word reply is terse, hoping he gets the hint.
Shaw’s arm darts out, laying his palm against the wall above my head and leaning in. “You were more chatty last night.”
“I didn’t know you had a fiancée last night.” I swallow past the knot in my throat, pushing this oily, dreadful feeling down. But it only gets worse as Shaw’s eyes follow my neck.
He shrugs, the asshole, and says, “It wasn’t relevant.”
My voice is low, seething, with my teeth clenched together. “Hannah isn’t relevant to you?”
“Nick wasn’t exactly relevant to you, either,” he chides, like my morality is tiresome.
I’d told everyone at the bar that Nick and I had been dating for several months. So, shitty option A, admit to Shaw that we’re faking it. Or, shitty option B, Shaw assumes I’m the kind of person who’d do that to their partner. Fuck, I’m too stressed and angry to think of a less shitty option C.
Shaw brushes a strand of hair off my forehead and I fight the urge to knock his hand away.
I don’t want to make waves, but he’s emboldened by my lack of response and leans even closer.
Why did I bother making him feel comfortable?
His eyes are on my mouth as he says, “Playing hard to get is cute, but I’m not going to stay interested for much longer. ”
What in the dude-bro podcast fuck is this shit ?
“I’m not playing hard to get,” I fume. “I’m playing leave me alone.”
His nostrils flare, eyes narrowed and hard. Finally, this is the real Shaw. The asshole beneath the playboy persona. What did I ever see in him? I slide from beneath his arm to get away, but he follows close behind, smugness just radiating off him.
Before I can tell him to back off again, in walks Natalia Rivera, my entire reason for being here this summer, and she says, “Hey, you two.”
“Hey.” I keep my voice even. I cannot let her see the emotions tangling inside of me.
More students enter, and my stomach drops. How many of them saw us? Or worse, overheard us? I grab my tote bag from the ground with too much force. It swings and bangs into my leg as I brush past her for the door. “Have a good class today!”
I race for the stairs at the end of the hall, running down them. Instead of exiting the building, I duck into an empty classroom on the first floor. Shaw won’t wait for me, there’s no way. And I need a moment to catch my breath.
It’s day one and I screwed everything up.
Who am I kidding? I screwed up before Conservatory even started.
I shouldn’t have given a shit what Shaw thought of me last night, but I did, roping Nick into my pathetic scheme. And of course I give several shits about Natalia’s opinion, so I asked Nick not to “break up” with me the very next day.
But he barely spoke to me this morning, and Natalia saw my unfortunate conversation with Shaw.
By thirty, I should be a wise paragon of maturity, doling out advice from my mountaintop. Or over cocktails, whatever. Instead, I’m acting like the kids I’m supposed to be teaching.
Natalia will never want to hire me.