But it’s fine. I like being backstage.
I rack the dust mop, grab my backpack, and head for the exit. But when I swing the door open, it stops with a soft thump.
“Sorry.” I look around the door. Liam’s there, rubbing his elbow and shaking his head, but he’s got a tiny smile.
“My bad. I forgot they opened outward.”
“Still. You need that to swim.” I nod at his arm. His sleeve is riding up a bit, showing off the little vein down his bicep. Liam has reallynicestrong arms. I think I do too, but mine are just kind of big from all the work on lights and scenery. His arecutdefined.
His grin widens, and I can’t help mirroring it a little. He steps closer to me, and his body heat washes away the last chill of the theatre.
“Yeah. Or act, if I get a part.”
I back up, but the door is right behind me. “If you’re fishing for intel, it won’t work. You’ve got to wait for the callback list like everyone else.”
But I can’t imagine him not getting a callback. Not after an audition like that.
I turn and head toward the Art wing, but Liam hurries ahead of me and turns to walk backward, so I can see his face as he speaks.
“Not even a hint? To make up for all the shmoodies you owe me?”
“I don’t remember owing you any shmoodies. You’re not on the shmoodie list.”
There is no shmoodie list. I only bring one for me and one for Bowie.
“If I get a role, will you put me on it?”
“No.” But he gives me the biggest, goofiest frown, and I accidentally crack a smile.
He laughs. “Just you wait. I’ll make that shmoodie list someday.”
And then he spins on his heel and walks next to me. His shoulder brushes against mine, and for a second I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. As far as I know, Liam’s straight, and most straight guys would drop ano homoafter brushing against another guy. Especially a gay one.
Then again, Liam’s never been homophobic, unless you count him being nice to me: Straight guys being nice to gay guys is kind of homophobic as is.
Still, he makes sure to give me some space. I’m justhopingimagining things.
He is really beautiful; the kind of beautiful that guys shouldn’t be allowed to be. The kind where I can’t always tell if I’m jealous or attracted to him or both. But I shake the thought off as I stop at the door to the pottery studio; Liam keeps on going for a few steps before turning back quizzically.
“This is me. See you.” I give him a wave before letting myself into the studio.
There’s a weird, wet earth smell to the pottery studio, like the way the ground smells after it rains.
“I’m all done,” I tell Jasmine, who’s hunched over one of the tall worktables, poking a little wooden stick into the corner of a tiny box. There’s a smear of brown clay on her cheek, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
I don’t catch her answer, but she gets up, takes her tiny box to the closet thing that stores the pottery, then grabs her tools and takes them to the sink in the back.
I hop onto one of the high stools and pull my binder out to organize my notes from today, but I pause when I feel warmth on my back, like someone’s looming behind me. I jerk away.
Liam has followed me in.
“What?” I say. “Don’t loom over me like that.”
“Sorry.” He backs away. “I was just checking this out. I never took pottery. Or any art class, really.”
“Oh.” I can’t imagine that. I’ve been in one (or more) Theatre classes every year. “My sister does pottery.”
I nod toward the back just as Jasmine emerges, scrubbing at her cheek with a flimsy brown paper towel.
