Stephanie notices. Of course she notices.
"You two have that post-hookup awkwardness," she observes on Wednesday, watching Ben hurry past our café table without stopping. "Except you didn't actually hook up."
"We tried," I mutter into my coffee.
"And the bonds said no." Robbie's voice is sympathetic. "How are you doing with that?"
"Fine." I'm not fine. I'm mortified. The memory of trying desperately to feel something—anything—while Ben touchedme, and my body refusing. Like it had forgotten how to respond to anyone who wasn't pack. "It's fine."
"You've said 'fine' three times," Stephanie points out. "That's never a good sign."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a reminder notification.
HEDDA GABLER AUDITIONS - TODAY 2PM - STUDIO 3B
My stomach drops.
Right. Auditions. Where I'll be trapped in a small room with Ben and twenty other students, all of us performing our carefully prepared monologues while Professor De Scarzis judges our worthiness for the fall showcase.
The fall showcase that could make or break my standing here. The role that could prove a scholarship student belongs in the same room as legacy admits. The production that talent scouts actually attend, looking for the next generation of professional actors.
This isn't school. This is my entire future.
"Fuck," I say eloquently.
"You'll be fine," Robbie says. "You're the best actor in the program. Everyone knows you're getting Hedda."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
What I'm worried about is seeing Ben. Really seeing him, not passing in hallways. Having to sit in the same room for two hours while we both pretend nothing happened. While we both pretend we didn't try and fail to have sex three nights ago.
While we both pretend the bonds didn't win.
TheholdingroomoutsideStudio 3B is packed when I arrive.
Students sprawled across every available surface, some running lines under their breath, others doing physical warm-ups. The energy is electric with pre-audition nerves and competitive desperation. Charlotte Reeves—junior, Alpha, legacy admit whose mother played Hedda on Broadway—is holding court in one corner, surrounded by admirers. Her confidence is palpable, practiced. She knows she's competition.
I sign in on the sheet outside—fifteenth in line—and find a corner to claim. My monologue is memorized perfectly. I've run it a hundred times. Nina's final speech from The Seagull, about endurance and faith and bearing your cross.
About surviving when survival seems impossible.
Ben's name is three slots after mine on the sign-up sheet. I try not to think about that.
"Vespera."
I look up to find Maya from Movement class settling beside me. "Hey."
"Nervous?"
"Terrified," I admit.
"Please. You're going to kill it." She stretches her arms overhead. "I'm hoping for ensemble at this point. Maybe Thea if I'm lucky."
"You'll get more than ensemble."
"Not with Charlotte in the room." Maya's voice is matter-of-fact. "She's been training for this since she could walk. Her mom's been coaching her. She even looks like Hedda—that cold, beautiful, trapped thing."
I glance over at Charlotte, laughing at something one of her friends said. Maya's right. She has the look. The breeding. The training.
