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I roll onto my side to look at her. “My dad doesn’t know about… theshowcase.”
“Parents don’t need to know everything,” Rae says, folding her arms. “Minedon’t.”
“You never talk about your family. You’re notclose?”
Her dark brows lift. For a moment, I think she’s not going to answer, but she does. “My parents are both doctors. So’s my brother. They’re not thrilled I’m here. I told them it’s better here than Ibiza, where I spent lastsummer.”
“You were never tempted to be what they wanted? Or topretend?”
Rae opens her notebook computer in front of her. “I’m not gonna tell someone else’s story. I’m going to be the biggest DJ in the world. And every person who thinks that’s not true gets to be wrong aboutme.”
An expression of sheer determination crosses her face, and I can’t help being inspired by herresolve.
“This sounds stupid and self-centered,” I start, “but did I do something to make you not like me? Because I really wish we could startover.”
She shifts in her seat. “Just because I like my space and my resting bitch face is on point doesn’t mean I hate you. I mean… I fed your fish the otherday.”
“Really?”
Rae shrugs. “He lookedhungry.”
That lightens my heart. “Thankyou.”
“Forwhat?”
“For beingyou.”
She shakes her head before turning back to her computer, but I swear there’s a trace of a smile on her lips too. “Whatever. What time’s youraudition?”
I check my phone.Shit.“In an hour. I need to go warmup.”
I get off the bed, grab my things and start for thedoor.
I’m halfway down the hall when I hear her call, “If you fuck it up, I’m sending the flowersback.”
* * *
He’s not here.
I’m in the grand auditorium twenty minutes before our scheduled time, and Tyler’s nowhere to beseen.
I call him, text him, butnothing.
I pace in the hall until the door cracks and an admin assistant sticks her head out. “Mr.Adams?”
“That’sme.”
“You’re on deck.” She looks at me dubiously but lets meinside.
I head in the back door and into the wings as the current performer, a pianist, continues hisaudition.
“Next. Tyler Adams.” The disembodied voice comes through amicrophone.
Wiping sweaty palms on my pants, I take thestage.
A panel of adjudicators sits half a dozen rows back, representing each of the faculties. Their faces are familiar—Talbot, Finn, the dean, plus a man whose name I don’t know who’s a classical musicteacher.
“Miss Jamieson,” Talbot observes tightly. “You’re not on our list. What are you doinghere?”
