Vi is at the front door like an eager puppy. She springs on me the moment I get home, plying me with questions about Dutch and the speedo incident and moaning over the fact that she didn’t get to see ‘such physical perfection’ in person.
I barely manage to shake her off and retreat to my room where I can decompress. It’s been a hell of a day and I’d much rather deal with my own unwanted Dutch-ab-fangirling in the privacy of my bedroom.
As I’m about to prepare for a shower, my phone rings.
Unknown Number.
I stiffen and debate whether I should answer.
The phone keeps ringing.
With a deep breath, I pick up. “Hello?”
“Cadence.”
I bounce out of my bed. “Oh my gosh! Mr. Mulliez!”
Happiness surges through my chest when I hear my beloved teacher’s voice.
It was Mr. Mulliez who gave me the chance to attend Redwood.
It was Mr. Mulliez who lost his job because he refused to out my secret identity
It was also Mr. Mulliez who put me in touch with Jarod Cross and got me back into school.
We chat for a bit and then he gets to the heart of his call. “Have you been working on your stage fright?”
There’s no way I’m telling him that I nearly fainted when I tried playing for an audience of one today.
“Uh… I played the triangle a while back.”
“The triangle? Nice. Any more progress?”
“Not really. I’ve been busy with…”
“With what?”
Getting revenge on Dutch.
Trying not to think about Dutch.
Doing everything I possibly can to stay out of Dutch’s way.
“Life,” I say.
“I’m calling because a student’s been begging me for weeks to get your—well, the other you’s number. Not sure if you’d be interested, but I can put you in touch with them. They’re having an event soon. The gig pays well.”
“How well?”
He mutters a number that has my mind lighting up. I do some mental calculations. The rent is due soon and since I gave up my job at the lounge, things have been really tight.
I agree to the gig but, when I get to the address Mr. Mulliez sent me, I instantly regret my choice.
The party is being thrown by none other than… Paris.
“You came!” She waddles down a lavish staircase.
Her slender body is practically popping out of a mermaid dress that hugs her like saran wrap. Her hair dangles down to her shoulders.
She launches her arms around me. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, but you’re not online. Why the hell aren’t you online?”
“Well…”
“I just loved everything about your performance at the end-of-summer showcase.” She barrels right over my words. “Christa never let us admit it, but you were great. I am such a huge fan.”
It’s awkward to receive praise of any kind, but especially from someone who called me ‘Trash Girl’ and spent all of her lunch hour ordering me to ‘pick that up’ and ‘clean there’.
You already took her money, Cadence. You gotta do the job.
“Can I see your piano?” I ask in a low voice.
“It’s right up there.” She points. “I’d like you to play as people come in. This is a classy event.” She gestures to her shimmery dress. “I want that underground, ‘smoky jazz bar during the prohibition’ finish, you know?”
I pin my lips together.
“Paris!” One of her fellow cheerleaders flounces through the door.
“Just a sec!” Paris gives me the rest of the instructions in a rush. “You’re gonna play for about an hour and a half and then we’re gonna crank this party up. Feel free to stick around if you want.”
I nod again.
Paris stalks away to greet her guests.
I mount the stairs to the dazzling ‘stage’ made up of shimmery curtains and fancy tapestries.
It’s all so… excessive.
I scrunch my nose.
Redwood Prep parties are nothing like the raves in the southside. In my neighborhood, there’s lots of beer, chaos and wild revelry. Forget live music. You’re lucky if there’s even a DJ.
Every party I’ve attended at Redwood Prep—which admittedly is only two—has a certain class. Sure, there’s alcohol, beer pong, and pairing up in the bedrooms, but the snacks are premium, the wine is expensive and there’s always a pretentious theme.
Even their parties are on another level.
My heart burns with jealousy. I’ve never wanted their world, but I’ve always envied the ease in which they move around in it. Since my first day at Redwood, I’ve always been reminded of my place on the totem pole.
The only time I feel like I have any sort of control is when I’m playing piano.
A soft light glows atop the instrument. I hover my fingers above the keys, hesitating.
The last time I tried to touch a piano, it didn’t work out so well.
Panic bubbles under my skin. What if I have a meltdown again? What if I can’t play… even in disguise?
Closing my eyes, I try to find my center.
Inhale. Exhale.
New memories whisper through my brain. The tightness of Dutch’s jaw. The sharp flare of his nostrils as he leaned in for a kiss. The moistness of his lips. The heat of his palm. The taste of his tongue…
It pulls me away from the darkness, just as he did that day in the theatre.
I fight to shake the memory. When did thoughts of Dutch become my safe place?
Dutch isn’t the prince of a fairytale. He’s the evil king out to destroy all of my happy endings.
I despise him, but the imprint of him won’t go away. It’s like he’s sitting at the piano with me.
Breathe, Cadence.
I tuck my skirt under me, exhale, and place my hands on the keys. It’s with a sort of reverence that I begin to play. Hesitantly at first. And then more confidently as the music inside me comes pouring out.
The room falls quiet. All the waiters and the caterers are watching me, but I’m not looking at them.
The music moves through me, a powerful force. The energy I feel inside fuels the rhythm.
Faster.
Faster.
The crescendo I’ve been craving.
I close my eyes and give myself to the moment.
Time is a foreign concept. Transient. It flows without touching me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been playing when I finally feel something other than rapture. It’s a tug on my soul. A fire that blazes over my skin. Someone is looking at me.
I glance up.
The Cross brothers.
They’re standing at the back of the party, but Zane and Finn have their backs to me and are talking to a pack of girls who surround them. It’s not them who made me feel like I’d set aflame.
It’s Dutch.
Oh crap. He came.
Not only that, he’s standing with Paris. Her hand is on his arm and she’s bobbing her head to the music, using the slow, sultry rhythm of the song to rub herself all over Dutch.
A sharp pain knifes my stomach. I rip my gaze away and focus on playing.
Unfortunately, I can’t un-see him and Paris together.
Are they a thing now? Did he sic Paris on me because she’s his new queen and I’m supposed to serve them both?
My throat locks up the more I think about it.
It hurts.
And that pisses me off.
Why should it bother me if Dutch is with Paris? They should both jump off a bridge together.
As I play angrily, a new thought hits. What will I do if Dutch storms the stage and rips my wig off in front of everyone? It’ll be game over. I’ll be scarred for life.
I keep an eye on him as I play, but he doesn’t approach me. He just stays in the back, glaring a hole through my face and letting Paris grind on him—as much as she can in that tight mermaid dress.
The minutes now feel like hours. Each tick of the clock claws at my skin and bones. I can barely work through the rest of the set.
My hands are shaking so badly I fumble on the keys.
It’s embarrassing.
And the shame makes me even more tense.
Dutch leans down to whisper something in Paris’s ear, his eyes still on me. I feel stretched out and exposed. It’s like I’m standing naked behind the piano, the parts of me that are private and precious exposed to the world and labeled worthless.
I retreat into myself.
Finally, Paris releases Dutch and climbs up on stage to relieve me of my duties. While she’s up there, she gives a short little speech. The crowd applauds for me, but I barely hear them. With a small and nervous smile, I dip my head and hurry to the exits.
That’s when I see Christa. She’s drunkenly stumbling into Paris’s lavish house.
Her eyes lock on mine. Her stare is heinously dark.
“You!” She points in my direction.
Did she recognize me?
Alarmed, I cover my face with my hand and hurry in the opposite direction, looking for another way out.
I spot an open balcony, scramble through the door and jump under the stairs to hide in the shadows.
Someone’s footsteps thump above my head. I hold my breath like I’m the star of a horror movie.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The retreating footsteps make my shoulders slump in relief. I’m safe. For now.
But how do I get out of here without Christa spotting me?
There’s a fence all around the property. The side gate leads to the front of the house. I can use that exit, but there’s no way I can escape anyone’s notice if I walk into view wearing this blinding red wig.
I rip off the wig in the darkness, shrug out of my jacket and then ball it together to form a sort of purse.
Unravelling my hair, I let the brown strands fall across my tank top. Taking out my contacts without a mirror requires skill, but I manage it and clean my face with a makeup wipe.
Perfect.
Now that I’m my wallflower-self, I can blend into the crowd and escape before Christa can find me.
Bending my head so I don’t hit it on the deck, I start tiptoeing toward the side gate when I see a shadow move.
“I thought I heard someone down there,” a voice says. “Hi, Cadence.”
Crap.
I snap my head up and a silent gasp pulses through my throat.
Sol.
My fingers tighten over the jacket that’s holding my red wig. I’m hoping like crazy that Sol can’t see the hair strands through the folds of my makeshift purse.
“What are you doing here?” I stammer.
“I came to get some air. It’s too stuffy in there.” He gestures to me. “What’s in the jacket?”
“Nothing.” I hide it behind my back.
He smiles softly. Rolling his shoulders, he studies me in the moonlight. “So you’re the famous Redhead.”
Shaken, I stare at him with rising horror.
He knows.
Sol pats his hand on the step. Eyes so deep and brown they could mirror the black velvet of the sky, he rumbles, “Sit down, Cadence. Let’s talk.”
