“That’s not true!” I turn back to Cinny. “That’s not true.”
“Liar. You were all...” He places a hand on his hip and overdramatically says, “My technical term is standby.” He flips imaginary hair over his shoulder.
“Is that supposed to be me?” I narrow my eyes. “Cuz that’s a terrible impersonation.”
“Trust me. It was spot-on.”
Oh my God! Here I am meeting the world-renowned Cinny for the first time, and this pretty-boy jackass is making me look like a moron!
“Well.” I shake my head. “It truly is an honor to meet you, Cinny. I look forward to watching you work and being here as a support if you need it.”
“Or if you literally break your leg,” Zeppelin adds with a grin.
I glare at him again. Maybe pretty boy actually is synonymous with imbecile. I move around Cinny, rush out of the bathroom, and hurry down the hallway.
Only seconds have passed when I hear a deep voice call out, “Hey. Wait up.”
I turn to see Pretty Boy—I mean, Zeppelin—rushing to catch up with me, his backpack slung over his shoulder, his motorcycle helmet clutched in one hand.
“Forgot your guitar?” I ask as I turn to keep walking.
“Don’t worry. Your psychic skills are intact. I do play the guitar. Not in this production though.”
“Thanks for clarifying. Better late than never.”
“What do you mean?” He laughs. “I never said I wasn’t a part of the cast.”
“But you should have.” I stop, turning around to face him. “You just let me ramble on and on! I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t. It was the cutest ramble of all time. How’s your head? Seriously. I don’t want you dropping dead on me in the middle of the first act. That would just extend rehearsal, and I have somewhere to be tonight.”
“It’s a tiny bump. I’ll live.”
“Good.” He glances at the ceiling. “All right, Universe. Cue a lot of bad shit.”
“Huh?”
“According to your Shakespeare logic.” He smiles, electric-blue eyes lighting up the space. “In order for anything good to happen, a lot of bad shit has to happen first. So, if bad shit is my only option, I summon a lot of it.” He backs away toward the doors to the rehearsal room. “Cuz I’m hoping for something really good. At least when it comes to you, Jerzie Jhames.”
Um. Confuse me? I quickly replay our meeting. Door slammed into my head. Check. Walk down the hallway. Check. Pulled into bathroom and hands washed. Check and check. Introductions? No. We didn’t introduce ourselves. I know his name only because Cinny said it.
So how does he know mine?
Before I have a chance to inquire, the adorable, annoying, and now quite mysterious Zeppelin Reid moves through the double doors marked 7A, leaving me alone in the hallway to ponder our strange and curious encounter.
“With a Tender Kiss...”
When I step back into the rehearsal space at Forty-Second Street Studios, I’m surprised to see the lights are now dim and the room mostly empty. Even Zeppelin seems to have vanished into thin air. Did I imagine him?
Standing near the piano is Robert Christian Ruiz—or, wait, he did ask me to call him Robbie. Anyway, Robbie is chatting quietly with Alan. There’s another guy with them whom I’ve never seen before, wearing dance heels, spandex shorts, and a loose T-shirt. Alan is sighing dramatically with every word Robbie says while the man in heels rubs his temples. I wonder what Robbie is saying that’s got both men seeming so stressed.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to face Nigel.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Where is everybody?”
“We have the whole floor, remember? All in different rooms. You’re with Cinny, so you’ll still be in here.”
My eyes scan the room. There’s the pianist sitting at the piano and the three men in deep discussion close beside her.
Nigel shoves his clipboard at me. “Can you sign this? It’s just a formality. Your parents already signed.”
I read the top line on Nigel’s sheet of paper. “Nondisclosure agreement?”
“For You-Know-Who,” he says quietly. “We all had to sign one.”
“You-Know-Who?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” Nigel whispers. “Cinny.”
I scan the sheet. Recipient will pay up to the sum of one million dollars ($1,000,000) as a reasonable and fair amount to compensate... I look up.
“My parents signed this?”
“Yup.” Nigel peels the green foil wrapper from a stick of gum and stuffs the gum into his mouth. “Just keep what happens here private. Don’t talk about her, tweet about her, take pictures, look at her. That sorta thing.”
“I can’t look at her?”
“She doesn’t like to be stared at. Glared at. Ogled. You get the gist.”
“Nigel, I’m getting paid to look at her.”
“Avoid eye contact, maybe?” He shrugs, like he’s got his own problems and can’t worry about mine.
And suddenly, he reappears. In my peripheral vision, I see the boy formerly known as Pretty Boy. Zeppelin Reid. My head swivels in his direction, and automatic body functions like breathing, blinking, swallowing—they all seem to simultaneously malfunction. My eyes water, my throat dries up, and I can’t get a proper inhale. I attempt to swallow but only end up coughing like I’m about to hack up a lung.
“Full disclosure,” Nigel states. “I don’t know CPR.”
“I’m cool.” I pound on my chest. But, ow, a little too hard. At least I’m back to breathing normally again. And blinking. And swallowing.
Zeppelin has stepped out from behind a tall, rectangular panel on wheels. The room is actually cluttered with dozens of these panels. He must’ve changed behind it, because now he’s wearing a pair of stylish sweatpants rolled to the knee, sneakers, and a plain black T-shirt that shows off most of the tattoo I’d noticed on his right arm. It’s black and gray, but the artwork looks imaginative. Like Salvador Dalí rose from the dead and used Zeppelin’s arm as a final canvas. His mess of hair is pulled off his face with a headband, accentuating those blue eyes that are now highlighted by sunlight pouring in through the windows.
Be still my heart.
Nigel follows my sight line and smirks. “Care for an introduction? He’s our Roman.”