Little Do We Know(14)

Aaron took his cap off and combed his fingers through his hair. “I like it. That could have real viral reach, too. People love personal stories.”

“Exactly.”

“Would you help me?” Aaron asked.

“Me?” No, I thought, wishing I’d left the room when I had a chance and wondering why I’d brought up the testimonial thing in the first place.

“Sure. Maybe you could ask them. You could even do the interviews, if you wanted to. Everyone knows you. They’d do anything for you.”

“Hardly,” I huffed. “They’d do anything for my dad.”

“Same thing.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “We’re not the same person.”

His expression changed. “I’m sorry. I meant it as a compliment.” He rested his hands on his knees and leaned toward me. “What do you think? Do you want to work on it together?”

I stared at him, reminding myself that none of this was his fault. Aaron probably had no idea where Dad found the money to hire him. But that didn’t make me want to help him.

Still, the money was gone. What was done was done. Now I needed to get away from this place more than ever, and the only way I could get to BU was to make sure that sanctuary was standing-room-only on Admissions Night.

Anything I could do to help him would help me, too.

“Okay.” It came out more like a reluctant sigh than a two-syllable word, but Aaron’s face lit up anyway.

“Awesome.” He bumped my shoulder with his. “This will be fun, I promise.”





“Now, remember, this is the first time we see George and Emily interact,” Ms. Martin said from her spot in the first row of the theater.

I tightened my grip on the script rolled up in my hand.

“This scene is important because it sets up their friendship. We, the audience, need to feel the two of you connect on that stage in the same way you do in real life, right?” She gave each of us an encouraging nod. “Emory, tell Tyler something you think he and his character, George, have in common in this scene.”

I didn’t hesitate. “They both suck at math.”

“Fact,” Tyler said. The rest of the cast chuckled from their spots offstage.

“How about you, Tyler?” Ms. Martin said. “Name a trait of Emily Webb’s that you also see in Emory in this scene.”

I couldn’t imagine what he’d say. Aside from the fact that our names were almost identical, I didn’t feel like I had anything in common with the character I was portraying.

Tyler locked his eyes on mine. “Emily Webb is sweet and pure and everything—”

“Yep, that’s me,” I interjected. Everyone laughed.

“But she’s also a straight shooter,” Tyler continued. “She says what she thinks. You know where you stand with her. She’s not just being nice to George in this scene because he compliments her. She genuinely likes him. He makes her laugh. And she probably also finds him ridiculously good-looking.” Tyler waggled his eyebrows and I laughed.

“Man, that was deep. Now I feel bad that I only said you sucked at math.”

Ms. Martin took her seat and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “Okay, good. Let’s go.”

Tyler shook out his hands and cleared his throat, and I tipped my head to my chest, feeling the stretch all the way down my back.

We looked at each other.

“Hello, Emily,” Tyler said.

“Hello, George.” I rocked back on my heels.

“You made a fine speech in class.”

I cocked my head to one side as I delivered my next line. And then Tyler gestured toward one of the two tall wooden platforms behind us and told me he could see me from his bedroom window, doing homework at my desk each night.

“Do you think we could set up some kind of…telegraph thing, from your window to mine?” he asked. “And whenever I get stuck on an algebra problem or something I could look over to you for, like, hints.”

I furrowed my brow, like I was about to object, so he jumped back in. “I don’t mean the answers, Emily, of course not…just some little hints.”

Suddenly, I heard my phone chirp. I ignored it and kept going.

“Oh, I think hints are allowed,” I said.

Chirp.

“So, yeah…um…if you get stuck, George, you whistle to me. And I’ll give you some hints.”

Chirp.

“Shit,” I said under my breath as I slapped my script against my leg.

“Okay, this is ridiculous. Whose phone is that?” Ms. Martin was on her feet with her hands on her hips.

“Mine,” I mumbled. “Sorry. I forgot to turn it off.”

Chirp.

“Well, go do that, please. We’ll wait.”

I dropped my script on my chair and hurried over to my backpack. I dug around inside, pushing wrappers and pens and scraps of paper out of the way, searching for the phone before it chirped again. When I finally found it, I silenced the ringer and read the screen:

Mom: CHECK YOUR EMAIL!!!

I tapped the envelope icon. The message was right on top:

FROM: UCLA Drama Department

SUBJECT: Invitation to Audition

I read the message quickly, trying not to burst, and then read it again, taking in the information that time. I was typing out a quick text to my mom when Ms. Martin yelled, “Whatever’s happening over there isn’t as important as this scene, Ms. Kern!”