Read My Lips(61)

He finishes his sandwich and I finish my drink in silence. He smiles at me twice and I return them with a small one of my own, studying my phone and trying to think about the routine I need to have prepared for my voice class in an hour. Something to do with vowels and combining them with different poses and odd stretches. Ugh, I’m going to fail.

When we leave the food court a moment later, he stops me at the door, the blinding sun silhouetting his face in an otherworldly, beautiful way.

Away from the noise of the building and entirely unable to see his face or lips, I only hear him as his voice brushes against my ears. “Do you want to hang out tonight?”

In contrast, he likely sees my face perfectly lit, the sun painting me in the brightest shade of every color it has to offer. “I have rehearsal.”

“After rehearsal,” the shadow murmurs.

“Well …” Squinting against the glaring light, I shrug. “I was invited to the Throng to sing, but …”

“Sing? They want you to sing again?”

“I went last night and … the musicians basically invited me back tonight,” I explain. “They want me to sing again, but I don’t think I’m going to go,” I finish with a frown and a shake of my head.

“Why not? You’re amazing.”

“You don’t know what I sound like! How do you know?” I spit back playfully, peering into the shadow that’s Clayton. “I don’t think—”

“I’ll bring the guys,” he says, and I hear a smile in his voice. “We can hang out afterwards if you’re up for it. Everyone should hear you.”

I smile, despite myself. Clayton at the Throng again so I can sing my song to him, my muse who sets my insides aflame? How can I say no to all of that?

“Sounds good,” I murmur with a nod.

Clayton leans a bit to my right, eclipsing the sun and giving me the gift of his beautiful face for one fleeting moment.

“See you then, Dessie,” he murmurs, the sound of my name through his velvety voice sending a tremor of excitement down my body, before we part ways.

I fly through the vocal performance as if it wasn’t ever a vex on my mind. The class even seems to smile back at me, and the whole world spins as if it were the basketball on the end of some guy’s finger. Clayton’s finger. He’s got my whole world and he’s spinning it.

I don’t even dread going into rehearsal as much, despite how horrible my first day was. I sit next to Eric and pay attention the whole time, no “sickly waiting for Clayton to answer my text” distracting me the whole four hours.

And I take Eric’s advice and suck. I suck so hard when I recite my lines. I even chuckle at the irony that, despite our requirement of being off-book for act one, we still have to hold our scripts so that we can write down the blocking and directions we’re given. Really, each time I look at the script to jot down a note, I take the chance to suck up my next line with my eyes, then suck as I recite it.

Suck Town.

When we break after two hours for a fifteen, Eric puts an arm around me and says, “You’re sucking really well today.”

“You too,” I note, since Eric got to finally do his first Simon scene. “Your ‘drunk’ is spot-on. I should know; I’ve seen you at the Throng.”

“Speaking of, are we still on?”

“Yep. And,” I add, giving him my playful eyes, “a special someone and his two roommates are coming.”

That stops Eric dead in his green Converse. “No way.”

“Way,” I state with a grin. “Very, very way.”

Eric dances into the men’s bathroom with a howl of excitement as I saunter off to the quiet, unoccupied lobby which, at 8:08pm, is somewhat like a very long, dark dorm room, feeling strangely intimate and safe. I stare out of the tall glass windows at the courtyard, watching students pass under streetlamps as the chill of the AC touches my skin, and I pull out my phone.

I need to make a call and I’m not sure I really want to make it. Yes, of course I could wait until tomorrow, but I also need to get some answers to my questions. I’m walking on uneven ground until I do.

I press the phone to my ear, my eyes centering on the back of a bench outside where a pair of lovers are holding each other, the tops of their heads glowing under the pale white streetlamp.

“Dad?”

“Dessie, sweetie,” he says, his voice nearly singing with happiness. “How’s your life down there, sweetie? Isn’t Klangburg just charming?”

“It’s really great, Dad. Thanks so much. I’m really having … I’m really having a time down here,” I finish with a doleful sigh.