If you can’t imagine any other way to get the role than to have your mother buy it for you, maybe you reallydodeserve it.
“I really do, don’t I?” Charlotte says, beaming at me. My eyes burn with unshed tears. She continues her chatter, but I don’t understand a word: My ears are blocked by an awful buzzing sensation. My heart races, and my breathing becomes too fast and shallow.
I have to get out of here.I murmur an excuse, something about going to the ladies’ room, but my friends don’t react at all. Amber and Scarlett are totally focused on Charlotte. I can suddenly see so clearly how our world revolves around her. It’s enough to make me sick.
I walk away on shaky legs, staggering across the dance floor in my high heels and looking around hectically for my brother. I’ve got to find him so I can get out of here. Go home, where no one can watch me fall apart.
But I don’t see Caleb anywhere, even though I know he’s still here. He would never leave without telling me and making sure I had a way home.
At some point, I stop caring and give up on trying to find him. Tears pour down my face as I lurch out of the ballroom and rush outside. I’m greeted by a wall of pouring rain, but the last thing I want to do is go back in there and get my coat. It would be just my luck to run into Charlotte again.
No thanks, I can really do without that.
I angrily scrub the tears off my cheeks. They feel too hot on my cold skin and mix with the heavy raindrops that are falling from the dark sky as I hurry home.
It’s not far, only fifteen minutes. But I’m soaked to the skin anyway when I finally reach the wrought-iron gate to our yard, which opens with a soft squeak. The houses on Beacon Hill may be big, but the yards are almost nonexistent. Ours is just big enough for my mother’s beloved terrace and a small patch of grass where two beech trees are growing. Dad built a treehouse for Caleb and me in those trees years ago. I’ve always loved it, even more so since Caleb decided he was too cool for it.
Since then, the treehouse has been mine alone. It’s my own personal haven, my hiding place.
A light is still on in the living room, and I slip out of my high heels and tiptoe as silently as I can through the garden. While it’s unlikely that my parents will hear me, I don’t want them to catch me climbing the ladder to the treehouse instead of going inside to bed. Then they would want to know what happened, and I don’t want to talk about it.
I’m shivering when I finally crawl inside, my dress sopping wet.It’s no wonder, since I did just run through the March rain without a coat, like a living cliché.
Swearing quietly, I feel for the switch of the battery-powered fairy lights, and a moment later the warm light of countless tiny bulbs floods the treehouse. I pull the sticky, wet dress off my cold skin and reach for the old Harvard sweatshirt that I keep up here. It belonged to my dad; I rescued it months ago from the Goodwill box. Mom tends to get rid of anything that we can’t save in time.
I sigh with relief as I cuddle up in the cozy hoodie, which is so big it reaches my knees. The material is soft, and it’s coming apart at the seams, but that doesn’t bother me. I collapse onto the cushions that almost completely cover the floor, pull two wool blankets over my legs, and reach for my notebook.
My racing pulse finally slows as I open it and gaze at the empty pages. Pages just waiting to be filled with my thoughts and pain. As I set pen to paper, I hear a familiar voice that makes me start with shock.
“What are you doing here, Pixie? Aren’t you supposed to be at the dance?” Jase is standing at the door to the treehouse and doesn’t seem to care one bit that he’s just as wet as I am. Rain drips from his messy blond hair onto his shoulders, and for the thousandth time, I notice how beautiful he is.
More beautiful than an eighteen-year-old should be. Plenty of boys his age could be described as cute, maybe hot. Not beautiful. But with Jase,beautifulis the only word for it.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I say sharply, without answering his question. I hope he doesn’t notice my face turning red, or that I’ve clearly been crying.
He grins. “Until I fall down dead someday from your constantcomplaining.” He leans casually against the doorframe. The door hasn’t closed properly behind him, and I can hear the rain, but I don’t tell him to shut it. The sound is peaceful, different somehow from the sound of the drops that rattle on the roof.
“Then I should probably try a little harder,” I tease, only just managing to hold back a smile. He thinks that I hate the nickname he gave me, and at the beginning I might have. Over the last four years, though, it’s grown on me. Not that I would ever admit it. Jase is Caleb’s best friend, and they spend so much time together that sometimes it feels like he’s moved in with us.
He laughs softly, and my heart skips a beat. Jase doesn’t laugh often, and it’s nice to hear it.
“Maybe,” he replies with a grin as he steps into the treehouse. The door closes behind him with a barely audible click, and all at once the room feels too small. He takes another step and kneels down in front of me on the floor so I’m looking directly into his eyes. They’re much too green. “So what are you doing here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say with a sigh, plucking a wet strand of hair off my forehead as my thoughts wander back to Charlotte. For a few seconds, I almost forgot I left the party because of her.
Jase just tilts his head and looks at me. He’s staring so intently that it makes my skin tingle. Then he takes the notebook and pen out of my hand, tears out a page, and puts it on the floor. He sits down with one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent.
“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously as the pen scratches across the paper.
Without saying a word, he hands me the piece of paper.
What happened?
I raise my eyebrows. “What are you doing?” I repeat, my question still unanswered.
He smiles and shrugs, holding the pen out to me. “Answer the question.”
Part of me wants to push him out of the treehouse, crumple the paper up into a ball, and throw it out after him. But there’s another part that’s curious about where this all will lead. So I take the pen out of his hand and do what he asked. I answer the question.
