If I'd known what a fucking prima donna Cass was, I would've said hell no to a duet, but the jackass decided to show his true colors after we started rehearsals, and now it's too late to back out. I've invested too much time in this duet, and honestly, I truly do love the song. Mary Jane wrote an incredible piece, and a part of me really doesn't want to let her down. Besides, I know for a fact that the faculty prefers duets to solos, because the last four scholarship-winning performances have been duets. The judges go cuckoo-bananas for complex harmonies, and this composition has them in spades.
"MJ?" Cass prompts.
"Um … "
I can see the petite blonde melting under his magnetic stare. Cass has that effect on women. He's infuriatingly handsome, and his voice happens to be phenomenal. Unfortunately, he's fully aware of both these assets and has no qualms using them to his advantage.
"Maybe Cass is right," MJ murmurs, avoiding my eyes as she betrays me. "Why don't we try the E Major, Hannah? Let's just do it once and see which one works better."
Benedict Arnold! I want to shout, but I bite my tongue. Like me, MJ has been forced to deal with Cass's outrageous demands and "brilliant" ideas for weeks now, and I can't blame her for trying to strike a compromise.
"Fine," I grumble. "Let's try it."
Triumph lights Cass's eyes, but it doesn't stay there long, because after we sing the song again, it's clear that his suggestion stinks. The note is far too low for me, and instead of causing Cass's gorgeous baritone to stand out, my part sounds so clumsily off that it draws attention away from his.
"I think Hannah should stick to the original key." Mary Jane looks at Cass and bites her lip, as if she's afraid of his reaction.
But although the guy is arrogant, he's not stupid. "Fine," he snaps. "We'll do it your way, Hannah."
I grit my teeth. "Thank you."
Fortunately, our hour is up, which means the rehearsal space is about to belong to one of the first-year classes. Eager to get out of there, I quickly gather my sheet music and slip into my pea coat. The less time I have to spend with Cass, the better.
God, I can't stand him.
Ironically, we're singing a deeply emotional love song.
"Same time tomorrow?" He eyes me expectantly.
"No, tomorrow is our four o'clock day, remember? I work Tuesday nights."
Displeasure hardens his face. "You know, we could've mastered this song a long time ago if your schedule wasn't so … inconvenient."
I arch a brow. "Says the guy who refuses to rehearse on weekends. Because I happen to be free both Saturday and Sunday nights."
His lips tighten, and then he saunters off without another word.
Dick.
A heavy sigh echoes behind me. I turn around and realize MJ is still at the piano, still biting her lip.
"I'm sorry, Hannah," she says softly. "When I asked you guys to sing my song, I didn't realize Cass would be so difficult."
My annoyance thaws when I notice how upset she is. "Hey, it's not your fault," I assure her. "I wasn't expecting him to be this much of a jerk either, but he's an amazing singer, so let's just try to focus on that, okay?"
"You're an amazing singer, too. That's why I chose the two of you. I couldn't imagine anyone else bringing the song to life, you know?"
I smile at her. She really is a sweet girl, not to mention one of the most talented songwriters I've ever met. Every piece that's performed in the showcase has to be composed by a songwriting major, and even before MJ approached me, I had already planned on asking to use one of her songs.
"I promise you, we're going to sing the shit out of your song, MJ. Ignore Cass's bullshit tantrums. I think he just likes arguing for the sake of arguing."
She laughs. "Yeah, probably. See you tomorrow?"
"Yep. Four o'clock sharp."
I give her a little wave, then leave the choir room and head outside.
One of my favorite things about Briar is the campus. The buildings, ancient and covered with strands of ivy, are connected to each other by cobblestone paths lined with sweeping elms and wrought-iron benches. The university is one of the oldest in the country, and its alumni roster contains dozens of influential people, including more than one president.
But the best thing about Briar is how safe it is. Seriously, our crime rate is next to zero, which probably has a lot to do with Dean Farrow's dedication to the safety of his students. The school invests a ton of money in security in the form of strategically placed cameras and guards that patrol the grounds twenty-four hours a day. Not that it's a prison or anything. The security guys are friendly and unobtrusive. In all honesty, I barely notice them when I'm wandering around campus.
My dorm is a five-minute walk from the music building, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I walk through Bristol House's massive oak doors. It's been a long day, and all I want to do is take a hot shower and crawl into bed.
The space I share with Allie is more of a suite than a regular dorm room, which is one of the perks of being upperclassmen. We have two bedrooms, a small common area, and an even smaller kitchen. The only downside is the communal bathroom we share with the four other girls on our floor, but luckily none of us are slobs, so the toilets and showers usually stay squeaky clean.
"Hey. You're back late." My roommate pokes her head into my bedroom, sucking on the straw poking out of her glass. She's drinking something green and chunky and absolutely gross looking, but it's a sight I've grown accustomed to. Allie has been "juicing" for the past two weeks, which means that every morning I wake up to the deafening whir of her blender as she prepares her icky liquid meals for the day.
"I had rehearsal." I kick off my shoes and toss my coat on the bed, then proceed to strip down to my underwear despite the fact that Allie is still in the doorway.
Once upon a time, I had been too shy to get naked in front of her. When we shared a double in freshman year, I spent the first few weeks changing under my blanket or waiting until Allie left the room. But the thing about college is, there's no such thing as privacy, and sooner or later you just have to accept that. I still remember how embarrassed I was the first time I saw Allie's bare breasts, but the girl has zero modesty, and when she'd caught me staring, she just winked and said, "I've got it going on, huh?"
After that, I didn't bother with the under-the-blanket routine anymore.
"So listen … "
Her casual opening raises my guard. I've lived with Allie for two years. Long enough to know that when she starts a sentence with "So listen," it's usually followed by something I don't want to hear.
"Hmmm?" I say as I grab my bathrobe from the hook on the door.
"There's a party at Sigma house on Wednesday night." Her blue eyes take on a stern glint. "You're coming with me."
I groan. "A frat party? No way."
"Yes way." She folds her arms over her chest. "Midterms are over, so you don't get to use that as an excuse. And you promised you'd make an effort to be more social this year."
I had promised that, but … here's the thing. I don't like parties.
I was raped at a party.
God, I hate that word. Rape. It's one of the few words in the English language that has a visceral effect when you hear it. Like a bone-jarring slap to the face or the chill of ice water being dumped over your head. It's ugly and demoralizing, and I try so hard not to let it control my life. I've worked through what happened to me. Believe me, I have.
I know it wasn't my fault. I know I didn't ask for it or do something to invite it. It didn't steal my ability to trust people or cause me to fear every man that crosses my path. Years of therapy helped me see that the burden of blame lies solely on him. There was something wrong with him. Not me. Never me. And the most important lesson I learned is that I'm not a victim-I'm a survivor.
But that's not to say the assault didn't change me. It absolutely did. There's a reason I carry pepper spray in my purse and have 911 ready to dial on my phone if I'm walking alone at night. There's a reason I don't drink in public or accept beverages from anyone, not even Allie, because there's always a chance she might unwittingly be handing me a cup that's been tampered with.
And there's a reason I don't go to many parties. I guess it's my version of PTSD. A sound or a smell or a glimpse of something harmless makes the memories spiral to the surface. I hear music blaring and loud chatter and raucous laughter. I smell stale beer and sweat. I'm in a crowd of people. And suddenly I'm fifteen years old again and right back at Melissa Mayer's party, trapped in my own personal nightmare.
Allie softens her tone when she sees my distressed face. "We've done this before, Han-Han. It'll be like all those other times. You'll never be out of my sight, and neither of us will drink a single drop. I promise."