He’s straight out of the story I’m currently working on, the Tallulah one. Thomas, the unbelievably cool singer-songwriter, come to life—walking out of my words and into my life, ready to make me his muse. It takes all of my strength not to run over there and profess my love right now. I want to whip out my laptop and record every detail.
“Who are they?” I ask, subtly gesturing toward the group with my chin. I hope I sound casual even as my heart rate speeds up in anticipation.
“Oh, them,” Theodore responds, rolling his eyes.
“More theater kids?”
“No . . . well, actually I think Grayson may be in the theater department, but he’s strictly the highbrow stuff, no musicals,” Lenore says, talking loud and blatantly staring at the group. I wish she would turn around. “Those are the founders’ kids.”
“What does that mean?”
“Their parents are super rich and donated all the money to start the school ten years ago, just so their precious prodigies could go here one day,” Theodore explains, his face full of disdain. “So they, by default, think they’re the shit even though their talent is remedial, at best.”
“Theo’s just bitter because Poppy—that’s the girl—beat him out for a featured gallery in the winter gala freshman and sophomore year,” Lenore laughs.
“And I deserve to be bitter. . . . Poppy’s work would make more sense as the stock photos in frames at West Elm,” Theodore scoffs, returning to his sketch pad again. “I mean, how many gouache beach landscapes does the world need? Really.”
“She looks cool. . . . I mean, I like her hair,” I say feebly.
“Oh, don’t let her looks fool you,” he mutters. “Her exterior may be manic pixie dream girl, but inside she’s all Regina George.”
“Anyway,” Lenore goes on, “Poppy is in visual arts. Rhys—the ginger—is in film, I think, and the guy in the middle is Nico. He’s in creative writing, like you. None of the rules we just explained to you apply to those kids. Money and status trump conservatory when it comes to social groups here, and they’ve got that to spare. They basically run this place.”
Nico is in creative writing, like me. I try to steal another quick glance at him, but when I look up, my view is blocked by Sam, lumbering across the lawn to our group. His corduroy jacket is tied around his waist now, and he’s carrying a lunch box. My neck starts to feel warm, worrying about what my new friends will think of him.
“Hi, Tessa!” he calls as he walks up.
“Oh, is this your boyfriend?” Lenore asks, shimmying her shoulders.
Sam turns scarlet, and I’m already shaking my head.
“No. No. Not at all. We’re just friends.” I’m talking too fast. “Neighbors, really. We just met.”
Theodore looks up at that and arches one perfect eyebrow.
“Oh,” Lenore says with a smug smile, “Well, Tessa’s neighbor, I like your shoes. You should join us.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. Thank you,” Sam says, nodding too much and awkwardly crossing his arms and leaning against the railing. “Tessa, you, uh, changed your outfit?”
“Yep.” I look past him, not wanting to relive that mortifying recent memory, and I make direct eye contact with Nico across the lawn. He grins right at me, bright as the sun, and winks. Winks!
“How’s your day going?” Sam asks, somewhere back on Earth.
I can feel the smile on my face, so big it hurts.
“Better.”
Tallulah thought back to the day she had first met Thomas. Or maybe “met” isn’t the right word, because they didn’t actually speak. Saw. No, that’s not right either. Connected.
Tallulah was walking down the halls of Roosevelt High, talking to her best friend, Collette, when something—the universe, divine intervention—told her to stop. Pay attention. This is important.
She looked up, and the sea of students parted to reveal a perfect specimen of a boy standing in the middle of the hallway. He was tall and thin but still had a powerful presence, like he had stepped off a runway somewhere. His dark hair tumbled over his eyes, almost masking the alluring energy of his warm gaze. He was wearing a faded shirt for a band she didn’t recognize, jeans that hugged his body perfectly, and loosely laced black boots. He was new here. He had to be. Tallulah would have noticed him before today if he wasn’t. This boy was not someone who goes overlooked and underappreciated.
Collette pulled Tallulah along to their English class, repeating a question that she must have missed. She could tell from Collete’s tone that her friend was irritated, but she didn’t care. Her mind swirled with thoughts of the boy, and also, surprisingly: “I will know him and I will love him.” Tallulah was as sure of it as of the sun’s rising and setting.
And then he winked at her, but it was more than a wink. It was a sign, a promise, that he felt the same way.
Chapter Eight
Writing has always come easy to me. I mean, yeah, I’ve gotten writer’s block before, and there are nights when it takes me a whole hour to write a sentence the way it’s supposed to be. But I’ve always known that the words are there—have always been there—floating in the air above my head, waiting for me to snatch them down and arrange them just right.
So, with everything I’ve worried about today and everything that’s gone wrong, I’m not anxious about the actual writing. I’ve been looking forward to it, actually—the beacon at the end of this weird, exhausting, not-perfect day. At least I’ll have time to write. I can catch up with my characters, find the peace that’s always waiting for me on my laptop screen, and send Caroline a new chapter tonight. Maybe two.
At the end of lunch, I follow Sam, Theodore, and Lenore back into the main building for conservatory classes. But Sam and Theodore wave goodbye at the second and third floors, and by the time I reach the fifth floor with the frenzied tide of students, I realize I have no idea where I’m going.
“Oh, that’s back at the house,” Lenore says, glancing quickly at my schedule where it says BB instead of a room number next to Art of the Novel. “Everyone calls it the Bungalow.
“See you later, girl,” she calls with a sympathetic smile before flitting off to her class.
I turn around and fight my way back down the crowded staircase. It takes a while, a fish swimming upstream, and my heart is beating fast when I finally reach the ground floor again and the final bell rings. I’m late.
I run across the now-empty lawn, trying to ignore my rising panic, and scramble up the steps of the brown house I was sitting on the porch of not too long ago. I can’t believe I wasted so much time, that I didn’t check my schedule. I studied it like a sacred text all week. How did I miss that?
I open the bright yellow door of the old house, the Bungalow, and it lets out a loud creak that’s jarring in the silent room. Where is everyone?
“Hello?” My whisper sounds like a yell and each footstep a thud. I walk past what would be a living room in any normal house, three couches arranged with no coffee table in the middle.
I walk around a staircase in the middle of the house and through an empty kitchen. I’m just about to give up and go ask someone in the office for help when I hear the faint tinkle of laughter and voices coming from a door, slightly ajar, that I missed before. A basement. I didn’t even know houses in Southern California had basements. I open the door hesitantly, revealing a set of narrow stairs, and the voices get louder.