As psyched as I am to have my little sister in the 05405—the zip code for the part of Burlington where Moo U is located—I hadn’t anticipated how uncomfortable it would be watching guys hit on her. Especially the guys on the hockey team. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a decent bunch for the most part. But the ones who aren’t spoken for are total players, and I’m not talking about on the ice.
Suddenly, I have the overwhelming urge to storm over there and rip Cooper’s arm off, even though he’s like twice my size. But I don’t for a couple of reasons. Number one: Hannah’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. In fact, she’d probably clobber me if I tried to butt in. And number two: the last thing I want right now is to have anything to do with anyone connected with the Moo U hockey program.
Call it a hockey moratorium, if you will. A form of self-preservation.
Ian snags my attention by tugging on the sleeve of my lavender English Laundry dress shirt. A gift to myself with the generous holiday bonus Harrison and his mom gave all the V and V employees. I bought one for Adam, too—white, with a subtle, amber-checked pattern that matches the gold flecks in his brown eyes. It was supposed to be a Christmas present.
Guess I should probably return it.
“Come on,” Ian says, giving my shirtsleeve another tug. “Frosty is beckoning. The show must be about to start.”
I let him drag me to the dark corner of the bar where Professor Frost is holding court. Adam is there, too, of course, so close I can smell his body wash. That outdoorsy scent I love—loved—love so much. I chug what’s left of my water—as if that’s going to dampen my overactive hormones—and subtly shift away from him, out of body wash range, where I can at least pretend to listen to the professor’s final instructions.
“All right, everyone.” Professor Frost does his usual hand-clapping thing to get everyone’s attention. “You know the order. We’ll start with World’s Worst, then Film Noir, then Whose Line. If there’s still time, we’ll play a quick round of Questions Only to close the show. Got it?”
We all nod and mumble our agreement.
“Take a seat on the stage, and when everyone’s settled, I’ll introduce the first game.”
We trudge up to the stage, where there are twelve empty chairs in two rows. Almost by unwritten agreement, Adam and I take seats on opposite sides of the stage, him in the front row, me in the one behind so I can sneak peeks at him. He looks nervous and uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and jiggling his leg.
He never gets this way before a big game. If anything, he’s absurdly calm, almost zen. But the idea of performing in front of an audience when he’s not on skates has always freaked him out.
If I’m honest, I’m more nervous than usual too. But it’s not the audience I’m scared of. It’s Adam. More specifically, being paired up with him in a scene, something I’ve been fortunate enough to avoid since Adam returned to class.
Or maybe it’s not luck. Maybe Adam said something to Professor Frost. Asked him not to put us together. That thought makes me simultaneously depressed and relieved. Depressed because it confirms that he wants nothing to do with me. Relieved because if it’s true, at least I won’t have to face him on stage.
The first part of the performance passes in a blur. I do my thing in World’s Worst (worst infomercial: a breath mint that’s also a laxative; worst person to share an office with: a narcoleptic kleptomaniac), and I’m partnered with Courtney for Film Noir. Professor Frost asks the audience to shout out locations—laundromat, bus stop, pizza place. He picks bus stop, and then Court and I act out a scene waiting for the bus like we’re in one of those old-timey, black-and-white detective movies, breaking the fourth wall and narrating directly to the audience.
We work really well together, and our scene has the audience rolling in the aisles. Figuratively, of course, because we’re in a wine bar, and there are no aisles. But their laughter isn’t figurative, and neither is their applause when the scene ends.
I’m on a performance high as I fist bump Courtney and we return to our seats, Adam temporarily forgotten. But not for long. I catch his eye on the way back to my chair—the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak and I can’t stop darting not-so-furtive glances at him. He gives me one of his brain-short-circuiting smiles and a thumbs-up, making me more confused than ever.
What’s his deal, anyway? Date me, dump me, disappear on me, and now—what? Drive me crazy?
I sink into my seat with a muffled groan. This show can’t end soon enough. And that’s a sentence that has literally never crossed my mind in my life before today. The stage is my happy place. Or it’s supposed to be. I hate that tonight feels different. I’m just glad it’ll be over soon. Then I’ll never have to be in the same room with Adam again.
What a relief. And a tragedy.
“Our next game is called Whose Line,” Professor Frost explains, checking his watch. “And given the time, it looks like it will be our final game tonight. When you came in, we gave you slips of paper and asked you to write amusing lines. We collected those papers and handed them out to our performers, who have been instructed not to look at them. During their scenes, they’ll pull them out at random times and use the lines you’ve written, sight unseen. Let’s start with—”
“Adam,” someone yells from the VIP table. I think it’s Lex.
“And Kolby,” my sister shouts.
I shoot daggers at her from my seat in the back row, but she just grins back at me like the Cheshire cat, looking smug and self-satisfied. I glance around the table, and the other VIPs have that same stupid, superior, I-know-something-you-don’t-know look on their faces. It’s the first sign that something is rotten in Denmark.
The second one is Adam. He’s already on his feet heading for the front of the stage, practically salivating he’s so eager to get started. And eager and Adam don’t usually go together where improv is concerned. Plus, his expression is a carbon copy of my sister’s. Whatever is going on, he’s clearly in on it.
But Professor Frost isn’t. He squints out at the audience, then at me, then at the audience again. “Kolby was just up here. I think we should give him a break and let someone else have a chance.”
“We want Kolby, we want Kolby,” my sister—did I mention that she’s a traitor?—chants. The rest of the table picks it up, and pretty soon the whole crowd is joining in.
“Looks like you’ve got a fan club.” Ian, who’s sitting next to me, fist bumps my shoulder.
“Looks like.” Actually, it looks more like a bunch of coconspirators than a fan club to me. But I’m not getting into that with Ian. For all I know, he’s part of the plot, too.
The chant gets louder, and Frosty throws his hands up, admitting defeat. “All right, all right. Who am I to go against popular opinion? Come on up here, Kolby.”
