CHAPTER 23

After the assembly, I head to my room to grab my bag for class. But as I get to the top of the stairs and glance down the hall, I realize my door is ajar. What the…? I push it wide. Inside is a girl with long, dark hair up in a giant topknot. She has on Beats headphones, and she’s brought a backpack and a single trunk that’s wedged at the end of the second bed that’s been untouched since I moved in yesterday. “Hey,” I volunteer. “I’m Emily. I guess we’re roommates.” The girl doesn’t answer or take off her headphones but reaches for an earpiece to touch a button. “Are you Erica Millers?” I try again. This time, she cuts a glance over her shoulder. “Rica.” According to the scant roommate info form that included names, contact emails, and majors, she’s in contemporary music like me. Rica opens her backpack, takes out a bunch of tiny figures, and sets them on the top of her headboard. They’re little knitted dolls with yarn hair. Before I can ask, Rica pulls something else out of her bag. “In or out?” she asks. When I don’t respond, she grabs a clean shirt, twists it into a roll, and lays it along the bottom of the door. My eyes widen as she lights the joint. “I’ve heard stories of students getting expelled for less. It would be awesome if you could do that outside.” Rica heaves out a sigh. “Whatever.” She grabs her keys off her desk and brushes past me. Shit. I’m not here to make friends, but I don’t want to commit social suicide on day one either. From the look Rica tosses me as she heads down the hall, my new roomie might as soon push me in front of a subway as ride it with me. “Nice meeting you!” I call as I grab my things, then lock up. With the help of the map on my phone, I find my way on the subway over to the Columbia campus for my first class. The excitement that’s been missing since running into Timothy this morning slowly returns, giving my step extra bounce. “I haven’t seen you since the weekend!” Avery wraps me in her arms when we spot one another outside our lecture hall, and I hug her back. “It sucked we came in on the same flight only to go different directions at the airport,” she accuses. “Yah, I know. I’m sorry.” “Whatever. Gotta pursue your dreams, right? Anyway, glad you made it early so we can grab coffee. There’s a café in the same building as our lecture.” We head into the building, and she steers me toward a line of students in front of a counter. Avery and I scored the same sociology section. I have that, plus English, at Columbia on Tuesday and Thursday. Their campus is only a quick subway ride away, and Vanier has some deal with them so Vanier can focus on arts education while still producing well-rounded grads. “My clothes don’t fit in my room,” she goes on. “I might have gone overboard now that we don’t have uniforms.” “At least you have a single,” I tell her as we order Americano. “My roommate showed this morning, and I managed to piss her off by telling her to smoke her joint outside.” Avery waves me off. “Etiquette 101. Thou shalt not smoke up in thine dorm room without roommate consent. Or before eleven in the morning because it’s tacky.” I sigh. “I missed you.” “Have you talked to your Dad and Haley?” she asks as we grab our coffees and head and toward the lecture hall. “I called them when I got in and texted Dad this morning. Which means I’ve gone nearly forty-eight hours without blowing cover.” Avery shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell him about Vanier.” “He wouldn’t have let me come. I pitched it to him five times last year. He said if I wanted his support, I would get a real undergraduate degree before deciding whether to, and I quote, ‘piss it all away.’” She drops her bag, settling into a seat. “Daddy E is not the best recruiter for the industry.” “I know he’s had issues, but they can’t be that bad. Even if they were, he never talks to me about them, so how am I supposed to decide for myself?” I take the chair next to her. “There’s something else,” I say under my breath. “I ran into Timothy Adams this morning.” Avery’s nails dig into my arm. “What the hell?” Heads swivel toward us. “I told you about at auditions, but I never thought I’d see him on day one.” Before she can respond, the professor at the front clears his throat. “Welcome to Sociology 101. If you’ll take your seats, we can begin.” After a moment of looking torn as the prof talks us through the course outline, my friend pulls her phone from her pocket. Mine buzzes in my bag a moment later. Avery: AND HOW WAS SEEING HIM??? So many emotions flood me I don’t know how to respond. Annie: Weird. Horrifying. Exciting. Scary. The third word slips out without me meaning to type it. Avery: Tell me he grew out of the hot badass look. I bite my cheek. Avery’s brows rise up her forehead, and she kicks my calf lightly. Annie: He grew into it. Maybe you’ll see his girlfriend. I flash back to the girl I saw in his lap the day of auditions, and my gut twists sharply. She must be a student, too, but she wasn’t with him at assembly. They could’ve broken up. Or they could be married. It can’t matter. Timothy Adams can date whomever he wants. He left because other things mattered more than me. I should be grateful for the lesson—it taught me to focus on my dreams and not my heart. This year, I won’t fall for anyone. Especially not him. When class finishes, we pack up and I check my phone. “I have English at one thirty, and you have history. Want to get lunch?” She lifts a shoulder. “Absolutely. I’m thinking of running for student government, and I need your opinion on my platform. But first, I got you a present.” We head to her dorm, and she opens the door to her single with a flourish. “Behold!” My gaze lands on the twin goldfish bowls on her desk. “You got us twin fish?” “Because we might not be at the same school but we’ll always be friends.” Gratitude washes over me. “The best.” She grabs me in a hug, then we both turn to study the fish. “What should we call them?” I cock my head. “Something that speaks to our enduring love. Like… the world may change around us, and we might grow old and die, but we’ll always have these fish.” “To be clear, they live five years.” A lightbulb goes on. “I’ve got it. You want Heath cliff or Cathy?” Avery snorts with laughter. “Oh my God. You take Heath.” “Deal.” I grab one of the fishbowls in my arms, and we head toward the dining hall. “So, are you going to at least talk to Timothy?” Avery asks once we’re outside. “You don’t think he’d tell your Dad you’re here…” I suck in a shallow breath, adjusting my new pet in my arms. “When Timothy left, he left all of us. Dad would’ve said something the last year if they’d kept in touch.” “You have to tell your Dad eventually.” “I will. But not yet. I need a chance to show him he was wrong about me, and Vanier.” By the next morning, I’m learning a few things about my new environment. One, my roommate appears and disappears at all hours of the night. When I went to bed after hanging out with Avery for most of the day, doing homework in the library at Vanier, and finally meeting Andie and some other girls from our floor for a late dinner, there was no sign of her except for her trunk and dolls in our room. When I got up to use the bathroom at 4 a.m., Rica was sprawled across her bed, fully clothed down to her white sneakers, and snoring. By eight, when I get up to shower and dress, she’s under the covers. I catch a glimpse of her schedule printed and lying on her desk and frown. Apparently, she has Entertainment Management Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays with me and Andie. I cross to her bed and prod her shoulder. “You getting up?” Nothing. I shrug and head outside to grab Andie for class. The professor is a young woman who reminds me of Miss Norma from Oakwood except she’s wearing a black blazer over dark jeans. “In this class, we’ll be talking about how to manage a career. The arts aren’t only about talent. Plenty of talented people will never pay their bills using those abilities.” “So, once I pull down these silver jeans,” Andie says, mimicking the prof’s friendly tone from the seat next to mine, “you can practice kissing my ass. A skill that will serve you well in the years to come.” I swallow the laugh and return to taking notes. I’m most excited for the remaining two classes—my private music lessons, scheduled with my faculty supervisor on Fridays, and my elective. I chose a studio acting class, which is Wednesdays. I go to class with Andie, where maybe fifteen students are sitting in desks arranged in a semicircle. The woman at the front has me lifting my brows. She looks like a librarian, with pale hair twisted up in a knot on her head and a printed floral dress. Her face is wrinkled, but her eyes are sharp beneath her reading glasses. “Good afternoon, I’m Ms. MirandaTamayo. Welcome to my studio intensive. You’re all acting students, which means this is what you—yes?” she asks, irritated by my raised hand as I look around. “I’m in contemporary music, not theater. This is my elective.” Her gaze narrows. “Is anyone else here in contemporary music?” Two other hands go up—a guy named Jorge I met in Entertainment Management and another girl. “Wonderful. Dilettantes in our midst.” Andie snorts next to me, and she shoots me a “WTF” look as Ms. Tamayo turns away. “Today’s challenge is as follows,” the professor continues. “I will hand you a sheet of paper with a scene on one side and the character’s bio on the other. Read the scene without looking at the bio. Your task is to get into your character’s head quickly and understand them from their words alone.” She points at me. “You want to be here so badly, let’s find out why.” I head to the front of the room, squaring my shoulders. I can do this. I’ve been in front of far larger crowds. But this feels like my first sort-of performance at Vanier, and it matters. “I wish you’d listen to me,” I read off the sheet she hands me. “I know you think I stand in your way, but I’m not trying to stop you. I’m trying to save you.” A few snickers sound from my classmates looking at the back of my card. I ignore them and go deeper. I feel the pain in the words. Burrow into it as I read. When I finish the scene, I draw a long breath. Ms. Tamayo gestures at my card, and I flip it over. “Wait—I’m a crossing guard?” The class bursts into laughter, and my cheeks flame as I go back to my seat. And it’s Andie’s turn. She gives a more subtle performance, and I realize this is harder than I figured. For the last year, all I could think about was coming here, how everything would be solved. Now, as I look at my talented classmates, I realize how far from the truth that is. “That was brutal,” I blurt as we head back upstairs after class, passing a dozen practice rooms, all occupied. “I’ve been booed off stage before, so I’m not going to lie to you. It was pretty bad,” Andie replies. “I need to get out of here,” I decide as we emerge from the stairwell and head down the hall toward our rooms. The door to my room is open, and Rica’s inside, at her desk on her computer with headphones covering her ears. “Then let’s go out tonight,” Andie says, dropping onto my bed as I set my books on my desk. “I saw this place called Leo’s that looks cool. They have an open mic night Wednesdays.” “You’re gonna need ID.” We both look over in surprise at Rica’s voice. She turns toward us, tugging off the headphones. “My cousin gave me her old license,” Andie says. Rica crooks a finger, and Andie digs out a driver’s license. Rica scoffs. “She’s got four inches and thirty pounds on you.” “I’m an actor. It’s all about posture.” Andie snatches the card back and shoves it in her pocket. “I don’t have ID.” I’m sure I could’ve figured out how to get one, but back home, there weren’t clubs close by. An idea strikes me. Jacob. I fire off a text. The response comes almost immediately. Beck: Two hours. Fifty bucks. I got you, Manatee. After dinner, someone drops off an ID at my door and waits while I get her cash. I try not to overthink my outfit, deciding on tight black jeans and a matching tank top with my black suede boots. In case it’s cold, I throw on a denim shirt overtop. I twist my hair up in a high bun, then add a hint of mascara, plus some matte red lipstick. By ten, Andie and I find ourselves outside Leo’s. It’s beautiful, industrial, like nothing I’ve seen back home. Like an old factory with stories to tell. It’s also packed. “Who is Leo?” I wonder aloud as we wait in line. “Owner’s dead dog,” Rica answers. “Really?” I ask. I’m still surprised she came, but maybe this is a spot of hope. “No fucking clue.” She ducks out of line, and we stare before trailing after her. Rica stomps up to the door. The bouncer ignores the line of people waiting to glance at our IDs and let us inside. “How did you do that?” Andie demands of Rica but doesn’t get a response. The inside of the venue is exposed brick, long and skinny, and one story with high ceilings and a stage at one end. The bar’s in the center of the room, two thirds of the way from the stage. It’s round with a number of bartenders working different sections. The lights behind the bar are old-school theater style, and they spell out “LEO’S” in a burnt-orange glow. A guy’s on stage playing piano, crooning into a microphone. He’s good, and I let myself fall into the spell he’s weaving. “You came all the way down here to watch?” Rica tosses at me before disappearing through the crowd. “You know what?” I call to Andie. “She’s right.” I head toward the stage doors, Andie on my heels, and find the woman in charge of the open mic slots. She looks me up and down, from my tight jeans to my plaid shirt to my ponytail. “We’re full.” Dismay works through me as I crane my neck to see her list. “The whole night? Can I at least get on the list for next week?” “We’re full every week. I can’t bump one of my regulars for you. Gotta keep this crowd happy.” I bristle, but Andie grabs me and drags me to the bathroom. “She’s just putting you off.” Half a dozen other girls compete for sink and mirror space, washing their hands and touching up their careful makeup. Every one of them looks different, but they’re all unforgettable. It’s a reminder I’ve never lived on my own, never truly made my own way. I’m in a strange city, lying to everyone about where I am and who I am… And for what? To drink and watch someone else play music? Fear slams into me as I stare into the mirror. “You done?” an unfamiliar voice demands, jockeying for position. You didn’t come here to blend in. You survived getting heartbroken, worked your ass off, and now you’re here. Don’t let them say no. The resolve I’ve built over the past year is a block of iron in my chest, heated by my frustration until it glows red. I strip off my shirt, leaving the tank underneath, and tug out my elastic, fluffing out my hair so it explodes around my head, falling in crazy waves around my shoulders. I pull out a dark pencil and use it to rim my eyes, top and bottom, until my lashes look even thicker and my eyes pop. Then, I pull out gloss and slick it over my red lips. “I’m not sure what your plan is,” Andie drawls, “but this doesn’t go with your outfit.” She unclasps my necklace and hands it to me. I hesitate before dropping it carefully into my purse. “Thanks. Art is art,” I say, turning to inspect myself from the side. “But they need to sell drinks too.” Andie lifts a brow. “You sure you want to do this?” I take a deep breath. “No.”