“Anya…you’ve got a phone call,” he says, stepping into the space between me and Nicki. His arm doesn’t brush mine this time, but the tiny hairs on my skin reach for him anyhow. He holds out his palm with his thumb and pinky stretched out as if he has a phone. “It’s the Grammys, they made a mistake and wanted to know when you could pick up your artist-of-the-year award.”

  Anya shoots out a laugh, which does a great job of breaking the ice that only I’m experiencing and sets off a chain reaction of all of us trying to recreate her guffaw to perfection. Nicki comes the closest. The lightness fades eventually, though, and when Nicki talks Anya into helping her pick out a song from the list, Henry and I are left alone. Awkward has a flavor—it’s a mix of butter and salt, with a hint of vinegar. It’s all I can taste.

  “Why aren’t you singing?” He swings his elbow into my arm. It’s not the same as his normal playful touch. I can tell. I made it weird.

  “Oh…I’m…piano girl, remember?” I feather my fingers, playing the air.

  “Right…but I’ve heard you hum. When you’re practicing at Elena’s…”

  My jaw tightens as my lips draw tight and I shrug.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know that there’s a song on that list that is all humming. I’m probably more of a background girl. You know…coordinated dancing and claps?” I swing my arms on either side of my body then snap to the rhythm of the country song one of the juniors is singing right now.

  “No…you definitely aren’t background.” He shakes his head lightly and his eyes linger on me before flitting up to the stage. I swallow once his attention leaves. I wish he wouldn’t say things like that—things that are twisted with compliments when all he probably really meant was I’m a really bad dancer. There’s that tone, though…the way he says things.

  Do not try to kiss him again, Lily!

  A tight wave grips at my insides just remembering what happened an hour earlier.

  “Hey, about before…I’m under a lot of stress. That was just me panicking and freaking out a little, and I know we’re friends. Just friends. I don’t want things to be weird now, though, so…”

  “Yeah,” he stops my blabbering. His eyes haze as he looks up at the stage, gripping his bottom lip under his teeth as he pauses with thought. He slowly starts to nod, but he doesn’t turn to face me. “No problem. Really, Lily. I get it. Let’s forget about it, huh?”

  He glances at me briefly, waiting for my answer. His palms are tucked in his back pockets and he’s ready to move on from this conversation.

  “That sounds…great.” That last word is barely audible when it leaves my lips. It was loud enough for him to hear it, though, and he nods with a smile, closing that chapter for good in his mind. I, however, will continue to dwell on it, probably around the same time I watch him rush across the lawn for rowing practice every day.

  I’m doomed.

  “You’re up next.” Nicki’s grin is dreadfully smug, and Anya can barely hold her laughter in as she passes the slip of paper to me.

  “Next for what?” My heart has instantly gone from the depths of my stomach, where it was wallowing in self-pity, to my throat, where it is fighting with rapid beats to leave my body entirely.

  I unfold the paper and read the song title six or seven times, fully aware that it’s an Aretha Franklin song but unable to click with the idea that my new friends think I should sing it. In front of people. Out loud. Here.

  Now!

  “Oh, hell no!” I crumple the paper up and take Anya’s thin wrist in my hand, forcing the paper into her palm.

  “You’ll be great! Come on; I’ve heard you hum!” She begs me, and I flash my eyes to Henry who is laughing under his breath.

  “What the fuck is with you guys thinking humming is anything at all like singing? There are no words in humming!”

  Henry shrugs at my tirade, but his gaze is distracted on a crowd of people gathered on the other side of the stage.

  “Girl, I sang earlier, and it was terrible. You cannot fail. I’ve already won the award for worst performance of the night,” Nicki says, taking the paper from Anya’s hand and pushing it back into mine.

  I sigh out, my pulse no slower at all. I’m going to die from some stroke or hemorrhage or something because of this moment right now. There is nothing that could make this worse.

  “Henry will watch.” Nicki’s voice comes out in a sing-songy tease.

  The moment has just gotten worse. Damn.

  I look at her sideways, and she laughs on one side of her mouth, fully aware that I won’t kill her because, out of our relationship, she is the dominant roommate. In fact, I’m the sub in every relationship. I always give in, and I’m going to now. Drawing this out is only going to make it worse and bring more attention to what I’m about to do to music by the Queen of Soul.

  “Fine,” I huff, looking to Henry. His eyes are still scanning the crowd far away. “Are you really going to watch this? It’s not too late for you to run for the hills before I ruin your ears for life.”

  “What?” He shakes back to attention, looking down at me. “Oh…yeah. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  His response was a guess at my question. I can tell. Alice does that to me sometimes when she’s busy with something and I need her help. Collin’s a better listener.

  My fingertips begin to pulse with my nerves, and I have to sway in place just to keep my feet from falling asleep or my knees from locking and buckling me to the ground. Everyone out here is dressed to impress someone else—even Nicki’s eyes are painted blacker than normal, and her hair is a shiny, straight ribbon of silk that she probably spent an hour on straightening with my iron. Anya’s wearing a short skirt and an enormous sweater that falls off one shoulder, and I’ve noticed more than one freshman boy glance at her because duh…skin!

  I’m in the same leggings I woke up in and the same long-sleeved blue T-shirt that I wore yesterday. My hair is in a twisted bun that’s losing pieces every time I take a step. At one point, I had a pencil tucked in there, but I lost it somewhere. Or maybe it’s just buried in my knotted hair. My study hair ate it.

  “Lily Ames!” Shayla, our student council president, shouts my name into the mic. My tingling fingers feel as if their ends might explode.

  “That’s you, superstar,” Nicki says, palming my shoulders from behind and giving me slight shake and then a push to send me on my way. I step forward and glance at her over my shoulder, shooting daggers from my eyes as best I can. Henry gives me a thumbs up then begins to move to the right, toward whatever has had his attention for the last ten minutes. I look back to my path through the dozens of students that are watching me walk up to the rounded steps. I climb them one at a time, paying close attention to where my foot lands on every step. At the very least, I am not going to fall on my ass up here. I will stay standing.

  By the time Shayla passes the mic to me, my hand is quivering. Maybe it will create vibrato.

  “Thank you,” I say to her. She smiles, scooting back to her seat on top of the large speaker. She almost looks excited to hear me. It’s the song. Which I don’t know very well, but I know enough about Aretha to know that this song comes with expectations.

  The music kicks in and I feel the base shake the stage. My lip is vibrating, and it would be so easy for me to give in to the urge to cry right now. This is terrifying. The title pops up on the screen in purple letters – “I NEVER LOVED A MAN.”

  I clear my throat, the mic picking up some of the sound. A few people near me chuckle. I need to keep my eyes on the screen for the lyrics and so I don’t look at anybody else. If I see there are people out there, this little bit of poise I’ve somehow scraped up will fall apart.

  My eyes are glued to the bouncing ball, catching on to the rhythm and readying my chest to push air through my vocal cords. Please, dear God, let a slightly pleasant sound leave my lips.

  With the mic barely an inch from my mouth, I follow along and utter the first pass of words. I do the humming equivalent of singing. It doesn’t sound awful, but it’s barely audible, and I hear a few people near the stage scream “louder!” I shake the nerves from my right hand, the mic gripped in my left, and I push harder for the next line. Someone whistles, and I laugh nervously, giggling a little through the next line of the song.

  I’m not sure when I started to sway, but that little movement keeps me grounded for the first thirty seconds and slowly, my body starts to warm and the tingling turns into a tiny dose of confidence.

  The chorus is coming up. I recognize this part. My mom loved Aretha, and while this wasn’t the song we played often, it is the one that made her stand a little taller while doing whatever she was doing when it was on. I’m not sure if the memory is real or not, but I have a flash in my mind of my mom stirring cake batter and pausing to belt this next part into the spoon. I copy her spirit now, and when the notes come out loud enough for me to hear them through the mic, I’m astounded by the sound of my own voice.

  The whistle from the crowd comes louder this time, drawing my eyes toward it, and my roommate is clapping her hands above her head and smiling wide with her black-painted lips. Anya is clapping with her, my backup dancers that nobody can see. I didn’t know I could do this.

  With each passing verse, I get bolder, and the crowd gets thicker, the cheering louder. There are more people watching me right now than were here for Anya, and she was amazing. I’m nowhere near her talent, but I think maybe there’s something to be said about surprise. I’m…surprising.

  During the last music break, I scan the room trying to estimate how many people are in here. It’s really no more than a hundred, but it feels like thousands. Even with all of those bodies, though, it only takes me a breath to spot him.

  Henry’s eyes aren’t up here. He’s talking to two girls and another guy, students I don’t recognize because my social circle consists of my two friends and Henry. He has several circles, though. He always has, and I’ve seen him with other people here at Satis. But I’m singing my heart out, doing something scary, and he’s swaying his elbow into a girl who isn’t me, but is just as stupid under his trance.

  I’m late to the verse, so I look away from him to the screen to get caught up. The fire is gone from my voice. The magic has worn away, like Cinderella’s pumpkins at midnight. I’m not off key or anything, but I’m no longer bold. I’m quiet…meek. Diminished.

  And Henry is walking the girl who isn’t me through the door, into the study hall of his dorm, and drawing the blinds. My mom’s power ballad fades off, and I don’t finish the last few words, giving the mic back to our hostess and sinking down the steps to get lost in a crowd of mostly strangers.

  CHAPTER 6

  This time, I’m the one sprinting across the main courtyard of Satis—late for my first meeting with my advisor.

  Three weeks left in my first semester, and a tenuous three-point-seven grade-point average have me out of sorts. I had no idea how easy public school was, no clue all of the things I wasn’t learning. The curve from there to here has been brutal. But I woke up this morning feeling an odd sort of confidence in my gut. Henry has been dating Ava for two months, ever since they got to know each other at karaoke night. At first, it kept me awake at night with a singed sensation in my chest, as if someone was holding a branding iron to my insides. But for the last few weeks, I’ve gradually set myself free from worrying about it.

  Free from Henry.

  We’ve hardly talked, except in passing. And lately, I haven’t even bothered to be in my room at three in the afternoon to watch him race to practice. He wasn’t late as often anyhow, so nothing there to see.

  My morning confidence is fading fast now, though. Every step I stretch into the icy wet grass on my way to the administration building carves away a little bit of my poise and replaces it with panic and a looming sense of failure. That was the only main takeaway from the email the office sent out for our meeting times: DO NOT BE LATE.

  I’m late.

  I’m exactly eleven minutes late, twelve if I don’t pick up the pace for the final two hundred or so yards I’m sprinting. I’m wearing two different socks and a sweater I wore yesterday and put in the “needs to be washed pile” because it so desperately needs to be washed. In my freak-out mode, though, eyes popping open to see the realization that my alarm never went off on my phone, the iffy sweater had to do. It went on easy and required zero thought.

  My steps slow at the main set of doors. I work my fingers through my messy hair, pulling the band around tightly and twisting a few times to pull off the messy bun look. I try to catch my reflection in a few of the office windows as I walk down the long hallway to the arts division, and before I rap on the window, I suck in a breath so deep it fills my belly.

  “Come in.” I allow myself a second to try to decipher the tone on the opposite side of the door. I can’t tell if it’s disappointed or indifferent. I decide to prepare myself for a lecture, or at the very least a scowl, and I push the latch down and open the door.

  My advisor’s name is Rebecca Manning, and she doesn’t greet me with a scowl. Instead, her back is to me and her fingers are pounding out a message on her keyboard. I slip into the seat on the opposite side of her desk while she works—as if somehow, when she turns around, I can convince her that I’ve been here all along.

  “There,” she says, punching the final return on her keyboard and spinning around to face me. She folds her hands on her desktop calendar and smiles with perfect bronzed lips and hair that has probably never seen a messy bun. She doesn’t look mad, though. That’s what I hold onto.

  “Lily.” She says my name in a way that someone familiar with me would, her head falling slightly to one side while her eyes smile as her cheeks push them up. I force myself to look her in the eyes for a few seconds, but unable to take the mystery of why she’s being so quiet, I look to my lap and tuck my hands under my thighs.

  “I know I’m late. There was a…well…a technical glitch, I suppose. I’ve never messed up my phone alarm before, but maybe because I made a new alarm entry, or maybe…” I’m yammering on like Collin does, and the moment I recognize it, I snap my lips closed and breathe in and out quickly through my nose to clear my thoughts and quiet my heart. I need to stop panting.

  I lift my gaze to Ms. Manning’s again, and her smile is unchanged. It’s unsettling.

  “It’s fine, Lily. We book a whole hour for these things. And I have something I’ve been meaning to give you…” She leans to her left and pulls open a file drawer, taking an envelope out then sliding it across her desk toward me. It looks like a greeting card.

  “Thanks.” My breath holds, not sure if this is going to lead to a joke or some sort of probation letter for my scholarship. Maybe it does matter that I was late.

  Ms. Manning nods toward me to open the envelope; I bring it into my hands and unfold the edge to pull out a floral note card with gold lettering in the middle.

  THANK YOU

  I search my memories for some sort of reason she’s giving me this, and I’m coming up empty as I slowly open the card and a ten-dollar bill slides into my lap. I pick it up with my right hand and hold it between two fingers, looking at it in front of the card. I refocus on the words scribbled inside, and suddenly everything is clear.

  Thank you for loaning me this money when I was so very desperate. You are so very kind.

  Sincerely,

  Rebecca

  The woman in the rain!

  My mouth falls open wide, lifting at the sides with a relieved smile plastered over the shock.

  “I hope it’s okay that I’m just paying you back now. When I saw you got accepted at Satis House, I thought I would give you a card here rather than some sort of impersonal money transfer or check in the mail.” Her smile broadens as she leans back, her palms holding onto the edge of her desk while she takes me in.

  “It’s fine. Of course,” I say, folding the card back with the money inside. I tuck it in the zipper of my bag. “You really didn’t need to pay me back. I’m glad I was able to help you.”

  “Well, now…maybe I can help you in return. Let’s see this schedule you have planned out and maybe talk about your goals, shall we?” She pushes her chair forward and stretches toward me, taking my folder to review my selection sheets.

  She separates every list into individual years and semesters and quickly goes to work highlighting things. She highlights more than she leaves, and I push my hands back under my thighs unsure if highlighting is a good or a bad thing.

  “How did you know it was me?” I ask while she finishes up, pushing the cap on the bright yellow marker. She pulls out a new set of sheets.

  “I recognized your name when we got the list of applicants, and I compared your phone number just to be sure it was the same Lily Ames. It’s not a very common name.” She smiles at me for a beat then returns her attention to her desk, matching up new forms with my rough drafts.

  “I’m glad it was me,” I say, my heart rate just now slowing from my rushed morning.

  “Me too,” she says, pulling her course binder out and flipping to a section she has marked ARTS.

  “You need more humanities…” she runs her thumb down a long list and stops at a number, writing it on a Post-it and sticking it to one of my sophomore-year forms. She repeats this about a dozen times, adding something on art history, more musical composition, and then my senior year—all performance. Well, and lit and calculus.

  “There,” she says, pushing her new sheets together into a line and admiring as if she’s created a masterpiece rather than an impossible mountain for me to scale. I’m too thankful for her time, and maybe for her not being upset at me being late, to ask for any changes. Instead, I swallow down the fear and pull the pages together and sign the acceptance line for my future to be set in digital stone for the next three and a half years.