Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(39)

Layla’s eyes dart to David, then back to me. “Will you be able to hear me if I’m facing the other way?”

“That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re able to stand up there and get through it. One step at a time. Will you try that for me, Layla?”

She runs her teeth over her bottom lip. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll try.”

“Good.”

Layla turns around and I nod to James, who starts to play again.

Then, after a few moments, Layla begins to sing. Holy shit, does she sing. She’s hesitant, scratchy at first, but then her voice smooths out and rises. Her pitch is perfect, her voice smoky and smooth, like thick, fresh honey. She’s got range, reach, hidden power in those pipes—it’s so clear, even in just the few simple notes of the song. But more than that, every word is filled with emotion, the kind of singing that tells its own story, the kind of voice that can break hearts, and lift souls.

“Wow,” I whisper.

David smiles up at me, his whole face lighter, younger looking. “I told you.”

When Layla finishes, I applaud—everyone does—even the kids in the back who weren’t paying attention before she started to sing.

Layla’s tight curly hair flies as she turns around, laughing. “I did it!”

“Audrey,” I tell her, excitement bursting like crazed Pop Rocks in my stomach. “You’re our Audrey.”

And just like that, the hurling look is slapped back on Layla’s face.

“I . . . can’t do this in front of people, Miss Carpenter.”

“Not yet.” I agree. “But by the time I’m done working with you, you will.”

This kind of talent deserves to be heard.

“I want to be Seymour.”

I turn towards David—not really surprised. Garrett and I talked about him the other night. We both agreed he has potential, that he could do amazing things if only he had the motivation . . . if only he cared.

David doesn’t care about theater or the play or school. He cares about Layla.

He asks to borrow Michael’s glasses, and my dark-haired assistant hands them over, curiosity pinching his features.

David Burke slips them on his face, then flinches. “Damn, man, you’re blind.”

Then he leaps up on the stage, his gray trench coat flying out like a superhero’s cape. He musses his dirty-blond hair . . . and then he starts to sing “Grow For Me,” one of Seymour’s songs. I don’t know if he remembers the lyrics from when I showed the movie in class or if he looked them up and practiced, but he knows every word. His voice isn’t the miracle Layla’s is, but it’s pleasant. More importantly, David possesses that unteachable but essential characteristic of any star. Charisma. Stage presence. Personality.

I glance around the room—every eye in the auditorium is on him as he sings a capella and . . . makes Layla smile beside him.

And hot-diggity-dog, I’ve got my cast.



~



In the days that follow, something incredible starts to happen. It’s a genuine Christmas miracle at the end of September. My students start to have fun. They get interested, invested—in the sets, the costumes, the music . . . the whole idea of the show. They begin to want it to be good—and that’s the first step towards greatness.

It makes me feel like David Copperfield and Khaleesi all rolled into one.

It makes me feel . . . like a teacher.

“Bigger!” I yell, climbing onto the stage and pointing towards the back row. “Everything on the stage has to be exaggerated, brighter—the makeup, your movements. They have to see you from all the way back there.”

We’re doing our first script read-through and will begin blocking on the same day. Normally, these would be separate—but since my after-school availability is limited, I have to double-time it during class.

“And louder!” I raise my voice and stamp my foot, shaking dust bunnies down from the rafters. “I told you guys, projection is key. If you’re speaking in your normal voices, no one in the audience will hear you.” I look at Layla, “Don’t be afraid to be loud. Ever. On stage or off.”

“That’s good advice,” Garrett says, walking down the main aisle with a few of his players behind him. “Louder is always better.”

And I have to make a conscious effort to keep my tongue from falling out of my mouth. He’s doing the preppy look today—a collared button-down beneath a sky-blue sweater. My heart flies and my skin tingles remembering the feel of his weight on top of me, on that new mattress, the sound of his groans, those powerful arms surrounding me, the hard relentless swell of his cock between my legs.

Was it really just a few days ago? It feels like months, years. The janitor’s closet has been a no-go zone since McCarthy busted us. I’ve taken my parents to physical therapy appointments every night this week, so the only time Garrett and I have had together is on the phone, by text, and a few hot and heavy kisses against his Jeep when he swung by my parents’ house late Monday night just to be able to see me alone for a few minutes.

It’s so weird how life can change, how fast. You’ve got your five-or ten-year plan all laid out and then, overnight, everything you thought you wanted shifts, and all the places you’d planned on going don’t seem so important anymore.