Copyright © 2024 by Whitney Amazeen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CHAPTER ONE

My heart thunders in my chest as I stare at the door to the audition room. It feels like I stood up too fast or maybe ate something bad. The last thing I want to do right now is walk through that door and read cheesy lines to a drama teacher who will probably laugh at me. “Remind me again why I’m doing this.”

Carlton chuckles. He places his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “You tell me.” His voice tickles my neck as he speaks against the collar of my uniform shirt, the sweet, minty scent sending pleasant shivers down my spine. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

His presence is the only reminder I need. He’s the reason you’re doing this, Dot. You need to impress him so he’ll finally ask you to be his girlfriend.

I paste a smile on and face him, my eyes fluttering as his gaze meets mine. “I’m just kidding. I’m interested, remember? The way you talk about how much you love this stuff has me curious is all. And I have no other extracurriculars at the moment. This should help my college applications a lot.”

When he grins again, the sight of his bright smile and endearing, golden-brown eyes taking me in practically makes me melt. He taps my nose with his thumb. “You’re adorable.”

And just like that, my heart restarts.

Carlton is the whole package—smart, sweet, Black, and even more boujee than I am. So I lead us through the doors of the classroom.

The brightly-lit room is set up with a heavy, oak podium at the head and groups of seating sprinkled throughout the space. The hum of conversation dims a little when we enter, and I notice several inquisitive gazes on my face, noting me and Carlton standing so close together. I feel a swell of pride at the idea that they might assume we’re together. Carlton cocks his head at an empty cluster of seats, and we sit. Our wood desks creak beneath our weight, and I wonder if they, like the rest of this prep school, are old enough to belong in a history book.

More students enter the room one by one, filling the remaining empty seats. When the rest of Carlton’s friends arrive—the offensively pretty Evans twins and Rue Sullivan, they have to lean against the wall because there are no more seats available.

“There are so many people here,” I whisper to Carlton. “Do they all want to audition?”

He nods. “The drama club here is fire. Everyone and their mom wants to be part of the play.”

I frown, struggling to remember some of the details he shared with me this summer before term began. “Because of that gossip columnist, right? Everyone wants to be featured by her?”

He nods, holding my gaze like it’s a shared secret between us. “Yeah. And Little Birdie only talks about the drama students for some reason. It’s wild.”

I’m about to ask more questions, but I’m interrupted by the appearance of the drama teacher, a tall, balding gentleman with pink cheeks who looks fifty-something. When he makes his way to the blackboard, some of the chatter in the room dies down. He writes his name, Mr. Saltzman, at the top of the board and turns to stand at the podium, straightening his stack of papers on the surface.

“Hi there, everyone. My name is Mr. Saltzman, and I’m thrilled to be leading this year’s auditions for Fallbrook Christian Prep’s winter performance of the beloved Wuthering Heights.”

There’s a smattering of claps.

“Before we begin,” he continues, straightening the square glasses on his nose, “I just want to stress something. There is no small part in any production. Every role in this play is as important as the lead, and I mean that. With that being said, if you don’t receive a callback, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. That could mean that I know exactly what role will best suit you and that’s that.”

A few people snort.

“Callbacks are almost always a good thing,” Carlton whispers. “At least, if you want a main part.”

I shrug. “And I don’t want that, obviously. I’m just wetting my feet here.”

“Our first audition today will be Meredith Evans and Nicolas Saffron,” Mr. Saltzman continues. “Please follow me to the adjoining room next door.”

Meredith, the green-eyed Evans twin, blinks in surprise. Her sister, Mabel gently nudges her forward, and Meredith follows another classmate to the door where the teacher is waiting.

The three of them disappear, and the chatter resumes full force. A few students crowd around Carlton, firing off questions for him about last year’s play and asking if he thinks he’ll get the lead this year.

“I really, really hope so,” he says. As he describes his role in last year’s production, he idly traces shapes on my panty-hosed knee with his pinkie, making heat travel through my body.

“It will either be you or Zayne,” someone tells Carlton. “That’s my guess.”

His finger briefly stills on my tights, and then resumes. “I guess we’ll find out,” he murmurs.

After what seems like fifteen minutes, the door opens at the front of the classroom, and Meredith and Nicolas exit, followed by the instructor. Meredith is grinning, practically oozing confidence, but Nicolas is wearing a grim, sullen expression.

Without preamble, Mr. Saltzman returns to the podium and picks up his list. “Up next is Zayne Silverman.” He scans the page with intensity. “Zayne, let’s have you read with Bardot Bennett.”

Oh, crap. My heart beats like a drum as I stand from my desk, painfully aware of all the curious eyes watching me. As the new girl at Fallbrook Christian Prep, it’s only expected I’ll stand out. I’ve been mentally preparing for random glances and questioning gazes all month. But with the classroom full of attentive stares currently on my face, I feel like a giant spotlight is permanently fixed above me. “It’s Dot, actually,” I tell Mr. Saltzman, and clear my throat when my voice comes out too quiet. “I just go by Dot.”

“Dot,” he repeats, making note of it on the paper.

A boy—Zayne, I presume—stands. All I can see is the back of his head, his undercut topped with short dreads as he makes his way toward Mr. Saltzman.

Carlton offers my knee a final comforting squeeze like a sendoff, and I make my way forward, following Zayne. We stop in front of the door that leads to the classroom adjoining ours. The audition room.

Mr. Saltzman smiles warmly at me. “You must be new here, Dot. Welcome.” He extends his hand and I shake it. His friendly gray eyes, framed by those stylish square glasses, do little to ease my nerves.

“Hi.” I try not to glance behind me at the classroom full of theater students still waiting their turn to audition. I can practically feel the heat of Carlton’s gaze on my back. After the summer we had together before school began, the feeling of it has become somewhat familiar.

Unable to resist, I look over my shoulder.

Just as I expect, he meets my stare. The corner of his full mouth lifts, and I can’t help but smile in return.

“If you’ll both follow me next door, we can begin the audition,” says Mr. Saltzman, holding the door open for us. The boy standing next to me nods. I take a peek at him, and my eyes almost fall out of my face. He’s tall, with velvety brown skin and strong cheekbones. Lean muscle stretches the arms of his grey v-neck sweater. Long lashes frame his warm, deep eyes, and there’s a hint of sweetness in the air surrounding him. I look away before he can notice me ogling him and follow Mr. Saltzman to the classroom next door.

The room is empty, save for the three of us. As we walk in, dust particles stir in the air, catching the light filtering in through the tall, narrow windows. Mr. Saltzman leans against one of the heavy, wooden desks, crosses his ankles, and hands each of us a script. “We’ll be reading a scene from the middle of the play,” he says. “Dot, I’ll have you read for the character Catherine at the top of page twenty-six. Zayne, you read for Heathcliff.”

Zayne walks to the front of the classroom, so I follow him. We stand before the whiteboard, which is covered in a half-erased chemistry formula. I flip through the Wuthering Heights script to the correct page, my stomach a bundle of nerves. Why am I even doing this, again? I’m not an actor. I’ve never acted in anything before. Yet, here I am, standing in front of the acting teacher, auditioning for a play at a new school where I hardly know anyone.

Just get through this audition, I tell myself, and you’ll fit right in with Carlton and his theater friends. Besides, you’ll probably get cast as a tree or something. No biggie.   

When my family first moved to Cambridge from our small, rural Massachusetts town, I’d been worried about starting over at a completely new school and having no friends. So, when the cute guy in my new neighborhood told me we’d be going to the same school, I latched onto him immediately. Anything to avoid being a loner, which is why I couldn’t resist when he invited me to check out the drama club to see what he and his friends were all about.   

But now that I’m actually here, it’s more nerve-wracking than I was prepared for. I take a deep breath.

The boy—Zayne—reads his lines with concentration, sounding dark and broody. I want to laugh for some reason, even though I’m kinda impressed.

When it’s my turn, I blink myself back to attention and fumble with my script. “Don’t you know…uh.” I clear my throat, scanning the words on the paper for where I’m supposed to speak. “Don’t you know I’ll always come back?”

Zayne stares at me with narrowed brows, and I feel my cheeks get hot. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m new at this.”

He ignores me, reading the rest of his lines. Shoot. Wasn’t supposed to break character yet.

Zayne takes my hand, and I jolt in surprise. Is this part of the scene? “Come away with me then, as we planned,” he murmurs, staring deep into my eyes. His expression is entirely focused on my next words.

My heart pounds in my chest. Wow, this guy is good. I glance at my lines on the paper in my other hand. Something about how seriously he’s taking this makes me want to try a little harder. “I can’t,” I read. “I’m frightened.”

“Of what?” Zayne’s frown deepens and he leans in so our faces are almost touching. Oh, wow… “Of poverty?”

I blank again because he makes the question sound like he’s asking it, not his character. But then I remember all my lines are written down, so I check what my character says next. “You’re asking me to risk my reputation.” I crack a smile when Zayne’s lips turn down at my response because this is actually kinda…fun. “Once a woman loses her reputation, she has nothing.”

He scowls. “The old Cathy would never have said such a thing.” He forms a fake grip around my arms and pretends to shake them. I swallow down a giggle. From Mr. Saltzman’s view, it probably looks like Zayne has an iron grip on my arms, when really he’s barely touching me.

“The old Cathy didn’t know any better.” I turn my nose up in the air.

Zayne searches my face. “If you’ve become indifferent to me, at least do me the favor of releasing me.” The words are anguished. Tortured. I almost believe him.

Line…what was my next line? I scan the page and meet his stare again. “I’m as trapped as you are.”

As we continue going back and forth, the weirdest thing happens. I stop bumbling my lines and let myself really fall into the whole thing. It’s like everything else melts away and I can’t deny how good it feels to stop being Dot, just for a moment.

This is the most at ease I’ve felt in ages, going back and forth with Zayne like this, throwing myself into the dialogue, the face expressions, the hand gestures.

And when we’re finished, Mr. Saltzman looks…impressed. He claps for us. “Outstanding, you two.”

It’s because of Zayne. Not you, Dot. He carried that entire audition.

But it feels good to pretend anyway—just for the moment—that Mr. Saltzman is also impressed by me, too.

* * *

I drive home after my audition. As much as I wish I could have waited with Carlton till his turn was over, Dad wouldn’t like me missing dinner.

Or tonight’s phone call.

Still, I’m excited to hear Carlton tell me how his audition went when I call him tonight.

The weather is warm, the last remnants of summer barely in the air, so I roll down the windows of my yellow sedan and let my long braids whip out behind me. There’s so much traffic here, it almost makes more sense not to own a car. But, coming from a town like Stockbridge, which is full of vast expanses of nothing, I’m used to driving. It’s not a bad thing either; being stuck in New England traffic. The trees have already begun to shift from lush green to orange and maple. The stunning scenery of Boston passes me by as I arrive in East Cambridge, my new neighborhood. Tour boats float along the twinkling Charles River that separates Boston from Cambridge. The bulbs in the green iron streetlights lining the road illuminate as the day starts to dim, and the brownstone I now call home comes into view.

This is the life.

Or, it will be once I impress Carlton with my ability to fit in. Then his impression of me might finally shift from “that cute, new girl who doesn’t have anything in common with me and my friends” to “girlfriend material.” After today’s audition, though, I’m a little doubtful. Zayne’s performance definitely put mine to shame. I’ll be amazed if I get a part at all.

I park on the street and grab my leather backpack from the passenger seat. From the outside, the average person walking by would take one look at our elegant home right on the Charles River and think we’re living a dream.

But from the outside, my life is a lie.

When I open the front door, Dad’s favorite jazz station greets my ears, floating down the hall from the TV. I plop my bag on the entryway table and make my way down the hall. I stop in front of the first door, knocking. “Beau?”

The door opens and my younger brother peeps his head out. “When did you get here?”

“Just now.” I ruffle his curly hair. “What do you want for dinner?”

He shrugs. “I don’t really care.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not. Because you’re a middle schooler now, and everyone knows middle schoolers don’t care about anything.”

“Whatever.”

I know he’s annoyed by my teasing, but I can’t resist. Ever since we moved to the city, Beau has been on a mission to reinvent himself, meaning he’s now too cool for everyone. If I can get away with making fun of him while Dad is working, I’m obviously going to.

I turn on the stove and make us some mac and cheese, covering the pot with a lid so it stays warm until Beau will inevitably creep from his room to the kitchen to secretly eat. I take my bowl to my room when I’m done so I can call Carlton.

I have to admit, my new bedroom is amazing. The walls are painted a soft, buttery yellow, and my bed is adorned with plush pillows and a cozy comforter in shades of sunny gold and pale lemon. Near the window, gauzy yellow curtains allow sunlight to stream in, illuminating the space. I sit on my bed and take a few bites before tapping Carlton’s contact photo on my phone. The phone rings a few times, but he doesn’t answer.

I frown. Try again. Still no answer.

I can’t help the pang of disappointment that shoots through me. I go on Instagram and find his page. He posted a photo this morning before school. In it, he’s got his back to the camera, hands in the pockets of his beige uniform pants, his shoulders relaxed. He’s standing in front of the drama room, and the caption reads, “Happy to be back home.”

I scroll through the comments. There are over fifty of them. Some are from random people complimenting him, and others are from profiles I recognize—his friends, talking about how excited they are for the next play. But one comment makes me pause.

lilo_thestagegirl: Wonder what Little Birdie will have to say. Either way, this better be the year that gets you into Underwood.

I try to remember more of what Carlton told me over the summer about Little Birdie, the anonymous gossiper from Fallbrook. We were at the beach when he first brought it up, waiting in line for cotton candy. “You won’t have to worry about her posting about you,” he told me. “Not unless you join the drama club. We’re the only students who get talked about for some reason.” He snaked his hand around my waist. “And even if you do join, I bet there will be nothing but nice things to say about you.”

I laughed, not really caring about the chance I might get posted about on some random app that only the kids at my new school cared about. It was probably some loner who didn’t have any friends, with nothing better to do than talk about other people.

I look at the Instagram comment again, focusing on the second part of it.

Either way, this better be the year that gets you into Underwood.

I expand the comment and see that Carlton replied.

carlton_peters: Oh, it will be.

My heart sinks at his response. Since the day I met Carlton, he’s gone on and on about getting into Underwood Academy, Boston’s most prestigious acting school for high school and college students. Probably in the same way that I’ve incessantly talked about getting into Harvard or Yale. But if Carlton gets into Underwood, he’ll spend the rest of high school there, leaving me behind senior year.

With a sigh, I navigate away from his page and allow myself a few moments of stalking my favorite fashion influencers. I screenshot a few outfits I’d love to put my own spin on.

“Dot?” Beau says from my bedroom doorway.

I shut off my phone screen. “What?”

“Some of your new friends were at the door, so I let them in.”

“What?” I screech. I’m about to get out of bed when I hear their footsteps coming down the hall. My hopes lift momentarily. Maybe Carlton is with them. But I’m disappointed when Carlton isn’t with his friends, who are now my friends, too. Kind of.

“Hey, Dot,” says Rue. She smiles at me and sits on my bed. The twins, Mabel and Meredith linger in the doorway. They’re wearing matching white sweat-suits, but their hair is different. Mabel’s is out and curly, and Meredith’s is in a straightened ponytail. I recently discovered that they used to be baby models for a kids’ clothing company, and I can see why. They’re both not only beautiful, but also interesting to look at, especially since they would be identical if it weren’t for Mabel having two different colored eyes, one brown and the other green.

“How was your audition?” Meredith asks. “Who did you read with besides Zayne?”

I frown. “Uh, no one. Was I supposed to?”

“Usually you read with a few people,” shrugs Mabel.

“Well, that makes sense.” I blush. “I did horrible. I bet Mr. Saltzman didn’t want to put anyone else through my acting. It was cringe.”

Rue laughs. “Stop it.”

“Yeah,” Mabel says. “I bet you weren’t that bad.”

“Whatever you’re imagining,” I tell them, “I promise you it’s worse.”

“I did pretty great,” states Meredith. “Mabel and I will probably get the lead roles this year. Again.”

Mabel offers a shy, dimpled smile.

“I don’t care about getting a big part. As long as I have some lines this time,” says Rue.

I’m about to tell them I don’t even care about getting lines at all, when all three of their phones go off at the exact same time. The notification is a seductive whistle in a distinct tune.

Meredith rips her phone from her pocket. “Little Birdie.”

I’m left staring as they check their phones, my expression hopefully not as confused as I feel. “Little Birdie posted something? How can you tell?”

“The app alerted us,” says Meredith, as if it should be obvious.

Mabel’s mouth rounds into a giant O. “You haven’t downloaded it, yet?”

“I’ll send you the link, Dot,” says Rue, eyes still glued to her cell. “Guys, look at this. It says that Zayne and Carlton had to read together for the audition.”

“How does Little Birdie even know?” I ask, feeling like a complete moron. “And so what? Why is that newsworthy?”

“Um, anyone can send information to Little Birdie through the app.” Meredith’s eyes narrow. “And I thought you knew…Zayne and Carlton hate each other.”

Before I can ask why, Mabel says, “Ask Carlton about it. I’m sure he’ll tell you.”

I try to keep up with the conversation as best I can, but I have to admit that I’m lost. I’ve only been at this school for a week, and all the names I’m still learning are starting to blend together.

Just when I’m about to give up trying to follow along, my brother knocks on the door. “Hey, Dot?”

“What is it, Beau?”

His expression is solemn. He’s silent for a beat, like he wants me to guess what he’s thinking so he doesn’t have to say it. The climate in my room shifts, the laughter and chatter of Mabel, Meredith, and Rue dying down and sizzling into nothing. Beau holds up his phone. “It’s Mom.”

My lips part. How could I have forgotten? Mom only calls one night a week, and tonight is that night. I glance at my friends. I’m not sure what the proper etiquette is for this type of situation. Do I ask everyone to wait here while I talk on the phone? Do I skip the call altogether because there’s company over? It’s been a while since I was last in school, which means it’s been a while since I’ve had any friends. And it’s starting to show.

But I’m saved from having to do anything because Mabel stretches her arms. “It’s probably time to get going, Mere,” she says softly.

“Me, too.” Rue stands up. “See you tomorrow, D.”

I wave to their backs as they leave, grateful they took the hint. When it’s only me and my brother left, he puts the call on speaker. “Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Is that my Bardot?” Her voice sounds so sweet. So loving. “How are you, baby?”

“Good, and you? How’s Aunt Lucille?”

“She’s good.” She hesitates. “And I’m about the same.”

I nod, though she can’t see me.

“Dot had friends over today,” Beau blurts.

“Yeah, I heard their voices. I’m real happy for you, baby.” A pause. “But you’re still studying real hard, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” I tell her. “I’m practically a model student for Harvard.” The familiar twinge of dread trickles down my spine the same way it always does when I talk about my future to Mom or Dad. The weight of the lie I’ve been living for years feels heavy enough to crush me.

“That’s good, sweetie.”

I close my eyes, reveling in the sound of her voice. I don’t think about the textbooks I’ve been dreading cracking open, or the list of assignments that never seems to end. I forget about the fact that if I disappoint my parents, all their hard work to help me succeed will be for nothing. Just for the moment, I forget the fact that I might be smart enough to go Ivy, but I don’t even want to.

If I could go back in time to when naive, ten-year-old Dot announced her ambitions, I’d shake her and tell her to shut up. I’d tell her that being jealous of Beau for learning his third language, and the attention he was rewarded from our parents as a result, isn’t worth this. All the studying, the feeling dead inside with no time for hobbies. The boredom.

Going to an Ivy League college will only make make things worse because the endless loop of academics will only get more intense.

I wish I could just hug my mom, cry into her shirt and tell her how much I hate reading textbooks, or stuffing precious corners of my spare time with researching the extracurriculars I should be participating in, but simply don’t have the drive to.

“Is it helping, Mom? You being there?” I have to know. It’s the question I’m always desperate to ask, but also afraid of the answer. Because if she can’t be here, it better at least be worth it.

She’s silent, pondering. Beau and I wait patiently, holding the phone between us.

“It’s hard to tell so soon,” she finally says. “But I think so. I hope so.”

“Can I tell you about my day?” Beau asks, taking the phone from me to clutch it in both hands.

“Sure, baby.”

“Bring the phone back to me when you’re done,” I tell him.” When he leaves my room, I fall back onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, swallowing back the knot in my throat. I try to think back to the moments I used to stare at my mother with admiration, noting the differences between us, admiring her ability to march into a burning building with the full expectation of reemerging. But it’s hard to remember what life used to be like when she was home and still working. When she was still a firefighter, out there saving lives every day.

Now she can hardly manage to save her own.