I drive home after my audition. As much as I wish I could have waited with Carlton till his turn was over, Dad wouldn’t like me missing dinner.
Or tonight’s phone call.
Still, I’m excited to hear Carlton tell me how his audition went when I call him tonight.
The weather is warm, the last remnants of summer barely in the air, so I roll down the windows of my yellow sedan and let my long braids whip out behind me. There’s so much traffic here, it almost makes more sense not to own a car. But, coming from a town like Stockbridge, which is full of vast expanses of nothing, I’m used to driving. It’s not a bad thing either; being stuck in New England traffic. The trees have already begun to shift from lush green to orange and maple. The stunning scenery of Boston passes me by as I arrive in East Cambridge, my new neighborhood. Tour boats float along the twinkling Charles River that separates Boston from Cambridge. The bulbs in the green iron streetlights lining the road illuminate as the day starts to dim, and the brownstone I now call home comes into view.
This is the life.
Or, it will be once I impress Carlton with my ability to fit in. Then his impression of me might finally shift from “that cute, new girl who doesn’t have anything in common with me and my friends” to “girlfriend material.” After today’s audition, though,I’m a little doubtful. Zayne’s performance definitely put mine to shame. I’ll be amazed if I get a part at all.
I park on the street and grab my leather backpack from the passenger seat. From the outside, the average person walking by would take one look at our elegant home right on the Charles River and think we’re living a dream.
But from the outside, my life is a lie.
When I open the front door, Dad’s favorite jazz station greets my ears, floating down the hall from the TV. I plop my bag on the entryway table and make my way down the hall. I stop in front of the first door, knocking. “Beau?”
The door opens and my younger brother peeps his head out. “When did you get here?”
“Just now.” I ruffle his curly hair. “What do you want for dinner?”
He shrugs. “I don’t really care.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not. Because you’re a middle schooler now, and everyone knows middle schoolers don’t care about anything.”
“Whatever.”
I know he’s annoyed by my teasing, but I can’t resist. Ever since we moved to the city, Beau has been on a mission toreinventhimself, meaning he’s now too cool for everyone. If I can get away with making fun of him while Dad is working, I’m obviously going to.
I turn on the stove and make us some mac and cheese, covering the pot with a lid so it stays warm until Beau will inevitably creep from his room to the kitchen to secretly eat. I take my bowl to my room when I’m done so I can call Carlton.
I have to admit, my new bedroom is amazing. The walls are painted a soft, buttery yellow, and my bed is adorned with plush pillows and a cozy comforter in shades of sunny gold and pale lemon. Near the window, gauzy yellow curtains allow sunlight tostream in, illuminating the space. I sit on my bed and take a few bites before tapping Carlton’s contact photo on my phone. The phone rings a few times, but he doesn’t answer.
I frown. Try again. Still no answer.
I can’t help the pang of disappointment that shoots through me. I go on Instagram and find his page. He posted a photo this morning before school. In it, he’s got his back to the camera, hands in the pockets of his beige uniform pants, his shoulders relaxed. He’s standing in front of the drama room, and the caption reads, “Happy to be back home.”
I scroll through the comments. There are over fifty of them. Some are from random people complimenting him, and others are from profiles I recognize—his friends, talking about how excited they are for the next play. But one comment makes me pause.
lilo_thestagegirl:Wonder what Little Birdie will have to say. Either way, this better be the year that gets you into Underwood.
I try to remember more of what Carlton told me over the summer about Little Birdie, the anonymous gossiper from Fallbrook. We were at the beach when he first brought it up, waiting in line for cotton candy. “You won’t have to worry about her posting about you,” he told me. “Not unless you join the drama club. We’re the only students who get talked about for some reason.” He snaked his hand around my waist. “And even if you do join, I bet there will be nothing but nice things to say about you.”
I laughed, not really caring about the chance I might get posted about on some random app that only the kids at my new school cared about. It was probably some loner who didn’thave any friends, with nothing better to do than talk about other people.
I look at the Instagram comment again, focusing on the second part of it.
Either way, this better be the year that gets you into Underwood.
I expand the comment and see that Carlton replied.
carlton_peters:Oh, it will be.
My heart sinks at his response. Since the day I met Carlton, he’s gone on and on about getting into Underwood Academy, Boston’s most prestigious acting school for high school and college students. Probably in the same way that I’ve incessantly talked about getting into Harvard or Yale. But if Carlton gets into Underwood, he’ll spend the rest of high school there, leaving me behind senior year.
With a sigh, I navigate away from his page and allow myself a few moments of stalking my favorite fashion influencers. I screenshot a few outfits I’d love to put my own spin on.
“Dot?” Beau says from my bedroom doorway.
