“Yeah. I just got into a fight with someone. What happened to you? Why are you leaving?”
It seemed like Blaze was the only one who’d missed the show.
“I don’t know. William . . . everything’s so weird,” I commented without thinking about it.
“William isn’t what he seems to be,” I heard him whisper.
“Blaze.” His dark eyes were focused on the floor.
“You might think I’m jealous, but it’s not like that.”
“I know you aren’t. I saw you with Jackson.”
I bit my lip after that slipped out.
“Jesus, June. You can’t say stuff like that out loud,” he said, then stormed off.
I faced the music for the umpteenth time and peeked outside.
“June, there you are!” Poppy beckoned me and gave me back my phone.
“Where’s Amelia?” I asked, confused, ignoring the group of girls with Poppy.
I saw her motioning for them to zip their lips.
I was such an idiot. Why was I so eager to join a group when everyone did nothing but hide things from me and screw with me? I was alone. Again.
>> <<
The walk home was almost two miles in the dark, and I held back my tears the whole time.
Luckily, my mom was still painting in her studio when I got home, so she didn’t notice my indecent outfit. I locked myself in my room with a sigh of relief.
The sense of guilt for what I’d yelled at William, combined with the humiliation I felt, converged into a tangled mess that was too painful and impossible to figure out.
I walked into the bathroom and rummaged through the drawer under the sink, fumbling around frantically. I held my breath as I ran my thumb along the ceramic curling iron. Then I plugged it into the outlet. I sat on my bed and stared at the little red light with a heavy heart. I couldn’t think about it.
Finally, the light turned green. I was home free. It would all be over soon.
19
June
Theater class had barely started when the teacher stood up, cursing like a sailor. The string of words that the teacher spewed made everyone in the theater laugh, and the assistant next to him turned purple.
“Jesus fucking Christ! I swear I’m gonna expel you again if it’s the last thing I do! You’re good for nothing! The worst Romeo in the history of theater! I can’t handle these miscreants any longer! I’m leaving, you’re in charge, Miss Kavanagh. Good luck. Send the principal the psychiatrist bill he’ll have to pay after spending months comprehending these dingbats!”
“And that would be the theater teacher?” I asked Brian, who was sitting next to me.
“Can you blame him?”
Brian motioned to the stage where James Hunter was standing, unconcerned by the teacher’s reaction. A black T-shirt hung on his chest, covered by a studded leather jacket on his shoulders.
“James, please don’t vape. Not onstage.” The flustered assistant was a few seats away from us.
James shrugged. “What’s the problem? Romeo never vaped?”
“Well, actually, Shakespeare doesn’t mention . . .” The woman shrank in her seat, then riffled through the notes on her lap.
