In Harmony(32)

“There she is.” The woman who played Jocasta in Oedipus waved at me. “Our ingénue. Welcome. I’m Lorraine Embry, but you can call me Queen Gertrude.” She wore bulky jewelry and flowing, silky clothes. I got the impression she enjoyed being dramatic on and off the stage.

“Hi, I’m Willow Holloway,” I said. “Or…Ophelia? I guess?”

The man who’d played Creon strode forward—tall with freckles, rust-colored hair and a wide smile. Dressed in an athletic suit, I pegged him for a university basketball coach, or the owner of a sporting goods store.

“Len Hostetler.” He engulfed my hand in his and gave it a shake. “My dear, your audition was really something. Really something.”

“Agreed,” Lorraine said. “Marvelous performance. So much heart and pure, organic talent.”

“Thanks.”

They stood beaming over me like proud parents. Since my own parents neither saw my audition, nor had any reason to be proud of me lately, their pride was like a shaft of sunlight on a cold day. But the silence stretched to breaking while they waited for me to say something.

“Um…do we sit anywhere?”

“Sure, sure,” Len said. “Herr Direktor will be in shortly.” He rubbed his enormous hands together. “Isn’t this exciting? Nothing like the first rehearsal for a new show, is there? Or is this the first of your first?”

“No, but it’s been a while,” I said.

“How long’s a while?” Len asked.

I’m so fucked. “Kindergarten.”

“Well…” Lorraine laughed. “If your audition was any indicator, you’re a natural. I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do with poor, sweet Ophelia.”

You and me both, I thought.

As I shed my jacket and took a seat in the circle, I tried to keep the warm welcome and the unexpected praise around me. The energy in the room revved my stomach with a little thrum of anticipation. Despite a dire case of Imposter-itis, I felt good here. At least, it was better than being huddled alone on my bedroom floor wrapped in blankets, with only a book, a Sharpie, and the dark for company.

Isaac Pearce stood in the corner where the mirror met the wall, staring through and beyond the room to some private place. The angle duplicated him—two handsome, contemplative profiles and four arms crossed over a red, three-ring binder.

He looked at me then, blinking as if he were waking up. I gave a small wave and a smile. The corners of his lips started to turn up in return, then his gaze cut away again and his aloof mask dropped down.

Well, nice to see you, too.

“Hey.” Justin Baker now stood over me, slicing Isaac off from view. He indicated the empty chair next to mine. “You mind?”

“Uh…sure. Go for it.”

As Justin sat, a tiny whiff of cologne wafted from his clothes. He wore jeans, Timberlands, and a blue T-shirt under a blue North Face jacket. He looked sleek, expensive and relaxed. Like he owned whatever room he stepped in, or would, eventually.

Old Me would’ve been thrilled to sit beside Justin. New Me felt more drawn to worn out jeans, black leather, and stormy gray-green eyes.

But both guys were inaccessible. Walled off by the ice coffin Xavier had left me in. I clicked my ballpoint and drew an X under the heel of my hand.

“You’re Willow, right?” Justin said. “I’m Justin. We’re in Paulson’s class.”

“I’m aware.” It came out bitchier than I intended.

Justin chuckled. “Of course. Dumb opener, right? You ever acted before?”

“Once. Long time ago. You?”

“I’ve done a few shows. I blew out my knee a couple of years back, so instead of playing second base, I ended up in Death of a Salesman.”

“Cool.” I managed a smile.

“Your audition was really good.”

“Thanks. I…didn’t see yours.”

He shrugged. “I did okay. I think I got the part because of my hair.”

“What?”

He grinned and tugged a bit of his blond hair. “Same color as yours, so boom—I get to be your brother.”

I laughed a little. “I’m sure that’s not why you got it.”

He held up his hands and wore an easy smile. “I’ll take it.”

I smiled too while I drew a line of X’s down the side of my notebook. His friendliness almost scared me more than if he were a dick.

My gaze flickered to Isaac.

He hadn’t moved from the corner to take a seat, and the chair on the other side of me was unoccupied. I wished it were filled with Isaac’s faint scent of cigarette smoke and soap, rather than Justin’s expensive cologne. But Isaac was X’d out in other ways: my father signed HCT’s release form, only under the condition I had nothing to do with Isaac beyond the stage. Dad would yank me out of the show if he found out I was socializing with “that troubled dropout who lives in a junkyard.”

That had hurt, as if it were directed right at me. Isaac helped me at the auditions when I was ready to puke from nerves. He’d been kind of a jerk, but it was on the surface. Like a suit of armor with a million cracks in it that you couldn’t see from afar, but up close …

You have a flame too, don’t you? I silently asked him. You guard it with your life. Mine gets blown around in the slightest breeze. You don’t let anything near you. You’re not a criminal, you’re on duty. All the time. Why?