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“It might even look the same, from theoutside.”
I lift my gaze to see Finn leaning against the opposite wall, his faceimpassive.
My throat tightens, and I force myself to take a breath that fills my lungs even though it’shard.
He’s going to tell me it’s not asong.
He’s going to kick me out, say this was all a mistake, that he doesn’t want to superviseme.
Hedoesn’t.
Instead, he says, “Keepgoing.”
* * *
“Are we having fun yet?”Elle asks over the music, reacting to my grin as I dance next toher.
“Better than class,” I callback.
I’ve never been to a bar or club except for a concert. This place, with its pounding bass and neon lights and grinding bodies, barely seems in the same category asLeo’s.
If the first few days were like learning to play an impossible sheet of music, the rest of week one was like turning the page and realizing there are ten more pages, each harder than thelast.
After my lesson with Finn, which improved somewhat in the last fifteen minutes in that he let me finish but still said we had a lot of work ahead of us, I started sociology homework only to realize I’ve been working from an oldtextbook.
Wednesday, Talbot assigned us hours of film to watch before next week’s class, which is going to be nearly impossible given I’m going to Dallas for the weekend for my dad’s celebration. Plus, I narrowly avoided slipping up on the phone when we were talking about myvisit.
Once I get the showcase, everything will be okay. I repeat it like amantra.
Auditions are in three weeks. I need to use every second I have to choose the right piece, to work it until it’sperfect.
But for tonight, it’s hard not to want to let loose and be young andalive.
“You seen Jake?” I ask Elle. “He said he’d cometonight.”
He’s the only first year who seems to want the showcase as much as Ido.
Elle shakes her head. “But there’sRae!”
She points at the DJ booth, where Rae’s charmed her wayin.
I’m no closer to making inroads with her. I know she makes electronic music. Her chest has an old-style turntable and a bunch of mixing equipment. But I don’t know about her family or her dreams or anything except what toothpaste sheuses.
My phone vibrates in mybag.
Beck: BAR.NOW.
Elle and I wind through the crowd to where Beck is holding court at the bar in a pale-purple dress shirt, half tucked-in. His dark hair is spiked, his grinwide.
“Shots!” hedemands.
The bartender’s pouring into almost a dozen glasses, and I wrinkle mynose.
Beck passes me two, and I pass one back. “Going home for the weekend tomorrow,” I tellhim.
He slides back the second shot. “Your family’s anything like mine, this mighthelp.”
I grin as my attention skims the group of us at the bar—about ten from Vanier, a mix of first years we know and second years Tyler invited—my gaze locking on a familiar one a few bodiesaway.
