I look down at the leather jacket, white shirt and unreasonably short skater skirt that Breeze forced on me. Black heels, giant hoop earrings, green eye contacts and heavy makeup complete the look. It’s all a part of my best friend’s fool proof plan to rid me of stage fright—a plan we came up with when I scored the role of Mary in our school’s Christmas play.
Six years later, I still need the wig to perform in front of crowds, but at least I’m performing. I guess you can call it a rousing success.
“Maybe this is proof that I don’t belong at Redwood Prep,” I murmur.
“It’s too late. You already accepted the scholarship.” She fixes the red bob that’s covering my long, brunette hair from view. Blue eyes focused, she fusses until the strands meet her approval. “And you know why you can’t turn this down.”
She’s right. My entire future is at stake, but is it worth spending senior year as the ‘new girl’ at Redwood Prep, home to the elite and stupidly wealthy? Girls from the wrong side of the tracks get eaten up and spit out here.
As if summoned, the trio who just performed glide off the stage in their sparkles and glamor. They look left, catch sight of me and then laugh rudely as they walk away.
Breeze whirls around, nostrils flaring. She’s already on the defensive. “What’s so funny?”
“Breeze.” I grab her arm to keep her at my side. The only thing shorter than my pint-sized best friend is her fuse. “Don’t engage. I don’t want to get on their radar.”
“You can’t spend your entire year being invisible,” she argues, eyebrows tightening to punctuate her point.
Actually, that’s my sole plan. Starting next week, I’ll be a ghost floating through the halls of Redwood Prep. On theweekends, I’ll trade the sprawling lawns and elegant fountains for chain-link fences, graffiti and garbage. Once I’m on my turf, I’ll come alive long enough to get my bearings and do it all again the next week.
The curtains on stage wheel closed and the backstage crew frantically sweep all the glitter and confetti from the floor. There’s dedicated staff for the task. I’ve never seen a high school production this size and it just goes to show how seriously Redwood Prep takes their music program.
“Focus. It’s almost time,” I tell Breeze when I see she’s still evil-eyeing the Mean Girls trio.
Breeze huffs and adjusts the collar of her funky quilted shirt. “At leastyouhave actual talent!” she yells loud enough for the entire backstage to hear.
“That’s yet to be determined,” I murmur.
She flicks me with her French-tipped nails. “Shut up. We are not allowing self-doubt to have a seat at the table.”
“Self-doubt is the only one at the table,” I grumble.
“What was that?” Breeze frowns and leans in. Then she quickly jumps back. “In fact, I don’t want to know. It was probably something self-deprecating and not true.” She flaps her hands. “Let me repeat myself, Cadence Cooper. You are going to kill it out there.”
Even with my stomach twisted into knots, her words lure a smile from me.
A member of the crew approaches at that moment. “Hey, are you Sonata Jones?”
He squints at the clipboard as if he’s not sure he’s saying that right.
Breeze snorts and covers her mouth with one hand. I pretend not to notice. Creating new stage names for every performance is a thing I do. It helps me pretend that I’m someone else while I’m playing.
I nod. “Yes, that’s me.”
He gives me another weird look before saying, “Our final act isn’t here yet, so we’re going to intermission. You’ll be up as soon as they arrive.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He gives me a blank look.
“What act is so important that you’d go into intermission rather than cut them from the lineup?” I demand. “Isn’t this supposed to be a student showcase?”
It’s not that Iwantto perform for the students at Redwood Prep tonight, but I’m halfway through my next-on-stage jitters. The thought of prolonging the torture makes me physically ill.
Clipboard Guy purses his lips. “Look, it’s already unprecedented to have an act we’ve never heard of open for The Kings.” His stare turns icy. “Feel free to bow out if you have an issue.”
“You’d kickmeout rather than the ones who couldn’t be bothered to show up on?—”
The rest of my words die a flailing death as my best friend bumps me out of the way with her hip and shrieks, “The Kings are playing tonight?”
