Chapter Thirteen
Catherine
Four weeks until prom
“Are you disappointed?”
I slam my locker and turn to find Jordon standing behind me. “Huh?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see the cast posting yet.”
My heart begins to hammer. “No. When was it posted? And more importantly, am I not on it? Why am I supposed to be disappointed?” Just the thought of looking at the cast list and not seeing my name makes defeat drip through me like acid. I swallow back the sadness and paste a smile on my face. “No doubt you’re on the list, though. Let me see.”
He eyes me carefully as he pulls up the email on his phone. I start at the top. Some girl named Lexi got the part of Elphaba. I didn’t see her callback performance, but there were several others who were very good, so she must have been fantastic. Below that is Jordon in the role of Fiyero. And then…my name next to Glinda.
I squeal and grab Jordon’s wrist, shaking it so much he drops his phone but manages a fumbling catch before it smacks on the tile.
“Oh my gosh! I got Glinda. I can’t believe it. Were you just messing with me? Why would you do that?”
He scratches the back of his head. “No. But you didn’t get Elphie.”
“I got a part, Jordon! A big part. I thought I might get ensemble at the most. I mean, I really set myself up for that. But when you asked if I was disappointed, I thought maybe I didn’t get anything at all. This is so…I don’t know what, but is there a word that’s better than fabulous?”
He laughs and slings an arm over my shoulder. When he turns me toward my first class, Owen and Riley are standing together, staring at us open-mouthed. I shrug Jordon’s arm from my shoulder. “I got Glinda!” I tell Owen.
His expression falters before he manages a genuine grin. “That’s great, Cat.” He pulls me in for a hug.
I turn my head to tell Jordon I’ll text him later, but he’s leaning into Riley, smiling. Flirting. A dark shadow passes overhead, dissipating my glee over getting cast in Wicked.
“Did you hear Riley and Jordon are going to prom together?” Owen asks.
The dark cloud threatens a storm as I turn to Owen. “Yeah. She and Jane were talking about it in physics yesterday.”
“Does that bother you?” The careful tone of his words is the only indication it’s a loaded question. We may be pretending for everyone else these days, but Owen still knows me better than almost anyone.
I shake my head. “Of course not. They’re both like the quintessential boy and girl next door. They’ll make a cute couple.” This is so not true, and I’m not sure why I’m lying to Owen. Am I protecting him or me?
Definitely me.
Once we get settled in class, I grab my phone and type a quick text to Jordon.
I have to wait until lunch for his response.
Instead of being excited, though, my stomach is twisted into more knots than it was before either of my audition performances.
My hands clench in my lap as I sit across from my mom. I barely touched my dinner, my guts as constricted as my hands.
“Are you feeling alright, Kitty Cat? You’re not eating, and you look a little pale.” My dad returns from the kitchen with another bottle of wine and tops off my mom’s glass.
“I’m fine, just…”
He sets the bottle down and walks around the table, placing the back of his hand to my forehead. “You’re not running a fever.”
“I’m not sick. It’s just…”
“Just what, Catherine?” Mom sets her fork down and picks up her wine to take a sip before studying me from across the table.
I take in a shaky breath and let it back out. “So, I, um—”
“Are you pregnant?” my mom screeches.
“Oh my God, no! What is wrong with you?” I say before I can stop myself. But really, this is the first conclusion she jumps to?
Dad narrows his eyes at me. “Please don’t talk to your mother that way.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Then what has you so out of sorts?” Dad asks.
“Okay, I’ll just spit it out. I got a part in Wicked. It’s not the one I tried out for, but it’s a big role. It’s down in Cincinnati. Rehearsals start soon. It’s a big deal.” The words rush from my mouth so fast, I’m not sure all of them are understandable.
“I don’t understand,” Mom says. “When did you have time to audition?”
My hands stop twisting, and I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “Last week.”
She shakes her head, not understanding.
“Last Saturday. With Jordon.”
Her left eyebrow shoots up, and I know I’m toast. “The day you said you were working on prom stuff? You lied to us?”
“Not exactly. I just omitted some of it. We did work on prom stuff that day, too. It just wasn’t all we did.”
Mom folds her hands on the table, a sign we’re in for a long talk. “Why?”
“I didn’t even know if I was going to get a part.”
“What about school?”
“I’m almost done. I have a four-point-oh heading into finals next month.”
“And what about OSU? You can’t commute from Columbus to Cincinnati all summer.”
“That has never been my choice. You know that. That’s your alma mater. I want to go to UC.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“No, you’ve talked to me about this. I listened, but I never agreed.”
“Are you just acting out? Is this some sort of teenage rebellion?”
I take in a deep breath and count to five before blowing it back out. “I am not rebelling. This is something I really want to do. It’s a part of me, the same way corporate law is a part of you and research is a part of Dad.” I glance at my watch. “I need to go. I’m rehearsing with Jordon tonight.”
“We’re not done talking about this,” Mom says.
“I know,” I say with a sigh. “We never are.”
I consciously dressed down for tonight’s rehearsal, wearing a pair of mom jeans and a T-shirt that says, “Straight Outta Rehearsal.” I told myself it’s because I’m running lines in a treehouse, but part of me thinks I’m going out of my way to convince Jordon, or more likely myself, that I don’t care if he goes to the dance with Riley. Why should I? Owen will be Prom King. I’m going with the hottest guy in school. After I convinced him to fake things a little while longer.
I park my dad’s LEAF in front of the Oswalds’ house and walk around to the side gate, letting myself in. Dusk has painted the horizon a deep plum with streaks of gold and coral. Crickets and frogs belt out their nightly opera as my shoes sink into the soft grass.
“Up here,” Jordon calls when I make my way to the patio.
He’s standing on the platform, arms resting on the railing. A dark gray beanie perches on the back of his head, making him look like a total hipster. So not something I’m into. Which means the fact that my heart skips a beat as I climb the rickety staircase to the suspect swinging bridge is completely unrelated.
When I reach the platform, Jordon pulls the door to the treehouse open. Inside, flickering LED candles provide a soft glow, allowing us to see in the dying light. When I get close, I notice the dark stubble sprouting along his jaw. Nope, not even a little sexy. I like the clean-shaven look.
I pull my script out and set my bag on the floor beside the wall. Jordon drags the beanbag chairs closer, and I take the orange one, flipping to my first scene.
Jordon remains standing as we run lines. First, we just read them, then we repeat them, adding inflection and emotion, until we both have the scene down.
After an hour, he sets his script down and drops into the lime green beanbag opposite me. “How are the donations for Morp coming along?”
“Don’t call it that.”
“What? Morp?” The left side of his mouth tips up in an adorable grin.
“That sounds so stupid.”
“I thought that was the name your boy came up with.”
At the mention of Owen, I drop my gaze to my hands and shift in my chair. “Whatever. It’s still stupid.”
“Do I detect trouble in paradise? Is Hamilton High’s power couple on the skids?”
I shoot him a dark look and pick up my script, reading my first line. He takes the hint, but there is an underlying tension in our performance this time, something that’s part anger on my part, and part something unfamiliar on his, something I can’t identify, but it feels a little like amusement.
“You thirsty?” he asks after we’ve run through our scene another half-dozen times.
“A little.” We haven’t done any singing yet, and my throat could use a little moisture before I try.
I follow him out of the treehouse, back across the bridge, and down the spiral staircase. Being outside shakes me out of my sour mood. The evening air is warm and dry, like a fluffy towel straight from the dryer.
Jordon struts across the patio and pulls open the French doors leading into the kitchen. He flicks on the overhead light, flooding the space with brightness and illuminating a huge pristine work area that rivals any professional kitchen I’ve ever seen. Dark granite countertops appear as if they’re straight off the showroom floor, as if they’ve never been used. Top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances are lined up against a tile backsplash.
Jordon yanks open the Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher. “Arnold Palmer?”
“Thanks.”
He pours two glasses of the iced tea lemonade mix and sits at the huge center island. I take the stool next to him, staring out the window, completely forgetting about the earlier weirdness. Then words flow from my mouth like verbal diarrhea. “So, you and Riley?”
“Yeah. She asked me.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “She asked you?” That goes against everything I know about my former best friend. I guess we’ve both changed.
“Yeah. Is that so strange? A girl being interested in me?”
“Of course not.” I tear my eyes away from the backyard to look up at him. His deep brown eyes are focused on me, launching a flurry of unexpected ripples through my veins. “You’re talented, funny, and smart, but I guess I just don’t see Riley as your type.”
He stares at me with intensity, and our gazes lock, my mouth goes dry, and heat pulses along my veins. A long minute passes before he clears his throat and turns back to his drink. “Who is my type?” he asks, his voice huskier than usual.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve become one of those girls, the ones who turn into stupid babbling idiots in front of a boy they like. This is not who I am. And what possessed me to even wade into this topic, much less mention that Riley’s not his type? “I don’t know.” I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “Someone who shares your interests.”
He glances back over at me with an unreadable expression, his long musician’s fingers following the drops of condensation down the side of his glass. “Know anyone like that? Maybe you could introduce us.”
My own glass is cool against my palms, and I set it on the counter before rubbing my hands on my jeans. “I-I um…” His eyes bore into mine until my throat feels as if it’s closing in on itself, and yet I can’t look away. At least until he licks a drop of tea off his bottom lip. Then I can’t tear my eyes away from his mouth, my body growing warmer with each passing second.
The air between us is electrified, as if lightning is about to strike. He moves toward me, his shoulders angling in. My gaze lifts to meet his again, but now he’s staring at my mouth. I lean closer, the heat of his body drawing me in like steel to a magnet, as if I have no control. My hand comes to a rest on his jean-clad knee to keep me from tipping over, and warmth zings through me.
My limbs turn to mush as we lean toward each other at the same time until we’re breathing the same air. His breath is fresh, like mint, and I close my eyes, anticipating the moment when his perfect lips will meet mine. Did I just say perfect? Has he always had perfect lips? How did I never notice this?
The inevitable meeting of soft skin never happens. Instead, he pulls back abruptly, tipping over his stool. It topples to the floor, crashing against the tile, his beanie falling off. The inferno I’d felt building between us is doused by an icy bath of confusion.
Jordon’s hands are in his hair, pulling it at wild angles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have…I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Oh my God.” What the hell was that? Was I really about to kiss Jordon Oswald?
“You and Owen.” He turns away, then spins back. “This was a mistake. I just thought…oh shit…I don’t know what I thought.”
“A mistake, yeah. I should go.”
“Good idea.”
He walks me to the front door and barely waits for me to step outside before he closes and locks it behind me.
Tears pool in my eyes as my cheeks flush with embarrassment. What is wrong with me? Owen and I are still pretending to be the couple of the year. At least Jordon had the integrity to get away from me as fast as humanly possible.
Once I’m strapped into my seat, the tears begin to fall. I wipe my cheeks and start the car, blowing out a deep breath as I pull away from the curb. Whatever budding friendship Jordon and I may have been developing was probably just destroyed because of a stupid, impulsive act on my part.
And Owen. Shit. I talked him into staying with me so we could be prom royalty. And this is how I thank him? A strangled laugh escapes. God, I’m a complete mess.