Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(20)
I’d always laugh dismissively at them. Max was just some sullen rich boy who hated me. What did I care what he had to say?
But I remembered each and every word he spoke with the precision of a near-death experience. Sometimes I’d lie in bed staring up at my autographed Mamma Mia! poster and dissect his words, turning them over and over, painful artifacts.
I pull out my phone. Rollins is five minutes away. I punch in my location, hit send, then sit in the shadowy doorway, feeling small and cold. I need to compose myself.
Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t. I enunciate the word with the tip of my tongue at the just-right spot behind my teeth.
How can I let him do that to me still? Why did I ever think this would work?
I rip the blinged-out cat-ears headband from my head and scrape off the sequins, ripping them off with my fingernails. This whole thing was a mistake! The threads break and sequins go all over the sidewalk.
Didn’t didn’t didn’t, I say. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
I’ll never be enough.
I hate how tuned into him I still am. I always was. Though really, everybody back at the Shiz was fascinated with Max.
It wasn’t just that he came from old money and famous parents. He had this quiet, brooding awkwardness. And then there was his legendary talent. He knew music theory inside out, and he could sight-read wildly difficult piano scores. He’d had lessons practically from birth, but still, it was impressive.
All the cool kids wanted to be his friend. The teachers deferred to him.
Max and I were polar opposites in every way—he was in the classical music track and the rich kid group; I was dirt poor and in theater, and on a full housing scholarship. And I’d never even ridden on a plane or slept overnight in a hotel, and he’d lived in every glamorous international capital you could name with his fabulous parents.
And beyond that, the musician kids didn’t like the theater kids and vice versa.
Unfortunately for the musician kids, they were musician kids, a socially awkward if not downright nerdy bunch, and we were theater kids, all outgoing and fabulous and way better prepared to make fun of the musicians. We had nicknames for a lot of them, and we did impressions of the way they walked and talked. I actually did a great Max-the-robot impression where I mimicked his way of playing piano. We put it up on YouTube, and it got a ton of views.
Sophomore year, he composed a song making fun of my laugh. It had a dance move that went with it—the Donkey Honk. Even the name was catchy, and it spread through the Shiz like wildfire. Performing arts kids are hungry for that kind of thing.
I acted like I didn’t care, and I even sometimes laughed and danced along, but I hated it—I’d changed my laugh to sound prettier and more bell-like. I’d worked on it really hard, and Max’s song made it so nobody could forget.
If you would’ve told me then that years later I’d be delivering sandwiches to Max as he sat behind a desk in a grand office tower that he personally owned, I would’ve asked you to put a bullet through my head.
I wait for Rollins, keeping the breath going though the words. Didn’t. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Mightn’t.
Why do I still care? Why do I care if I’m not good enough for him? He’s a cynical robot with no heart.
Then I remember my friends. That’s why I care.
I get on my hands and knees to pick up the sequins now. It would be easier to sew on new ones, but I’m imagining pigeons trying to eat them and getting sick.
Whatever. I may be the world’s most loserish Broadway hopeful, but that’s not a reason to go hurting birds.
The most painful critique of his came down after my senior project, a solo monologue and song-and-dance number from a musical adaptation of Age of Innocence, all upscale NY society women. The perfect part for a well-mannered girl. I felt like I’d internalized the character of May, and I had that polished GA accent so deep in me, I felt like I was even dreaming in it.
And then word came back that he’d seen it—maybe on YouTube, or on a fellow student’s phone—and passed his judgment. Two words. All wrong.
It was as if he alone knew. As if he alone saw the poor girl burning through.
Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t, I emote silently to all of Manhattan. I didn’t think.
Maybe they can all hear it.
6
A cool smile is never out of style.
~The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room
* * *
Mia
Kelsey has her dance stuff on when I get home. “Petra canceled her jazz dance class—we have the studio for two hours. The one with the piano. Hurry!”
“Oh my god, I’m there.” I hand her a bag—a double-order mistake. “Korean fried chicken with spicy dressing. You’re gonna die.”
“Smells...mmm. I’m eating half now. But only half.” She digs into the bag while I rush into my room to get ready. Kelsey teaches at the dance studio just up 45th Street.
I scrounge up my dance workout clothes. Kelsey’s helping me with my dance moves for the audition, and I’m helping her nail her song. Usually we practice with recorded piano, but it’ll be good for her to do it live.