Never Too Late

by A. Destiny

  I dug my fingers into the bedspread, vividly remembering the way I’d felt when I’d overheard The Conversation in the gym on the way back from the bathroom:

  Random friend of Jason’s: “Gonna ask anyone to dance?”

  Jason, looking around but not seeing me, slightly behind him: “Nah. I don’t like to dance at these things. It makes me look stupid.”

  Friend: “Slow dancing is different, though.” Pause. “What about one of those cute girls? Like those two who are always together—Olivia and . . . Alley?”

  My face instantly flamed. I knew he was talking about me, even if he’d messed my name up.

  Jason, laughing. “Who, Abbey? Right. Only if I want to be bored to death. There’s nothing interesting about her at all.”

  Somehow I’d managed to make my feet move, marched right by both of them with my head held high. I refused to let Jason see me embarrassed and would not give him the pleasure of showing my emotions. But that hot flood of mortification slid through me, and the second I got home later that night, I cried.

  Nice guy, huh. He might have fooled Olivia into thinking he’d changed, but not me. I wouldn’t forgive him, and I wouldn’t forget.

  I’d spent most of this year patently ignoring him in class, pretending like he didn’t exist. No eye contact, no conversations, no engagement at all. And now I had to work opposite of him several days a week over the next few weeks, drilling lines over and over again. Pretending we were in love onstage.

  Could I really do this? Would my acting skills be strong enough to help me swallow my revulsion at his utter snobbery and fake my way through it?

  Well, there was no way I was letting him ruin this for me. If I was serious about the arts, it had to start now. Artists and musicians didn’t let personal feelings get in the way of a performance. They channeled that emotion, twisted it into something usable.

  I could do the same.

  And maybe if I kept telling myself that, I’d eventually believe it.

  There was nothing worse than gym at 7:45 in the morning.

  Mrs. Belati’s shrill whistle pierced my ears, and I shivered in the light chill of the crisp morning air. “Come on, ladies! Let’s get some hustle going—the guys are beating you in lap times!” She jogged over to talk to a group of girls behind me, her green vinyl pants vip-vipping with each step.

  “This stinks,” my friend Lauretta whispered. She tucked a strand of pink-tipped hair behind her ear from where it had slid out of her ponytail and stepped up her pace. “How can she be so perky this early?”

  I groaned and walked faster beside Lauretta, shivering lightly. Shouldn’t mornings be warmer in May by now? “I have no idea.”

  “Ladies, I want to see you running, not walking and talking,” Mrs. Belati said to Lauretta and me, popping up right behind us. “You’re getting smoked by the boys today. Move it, move it!”

  A snicker came from my left side right as someone blurred by me. Jason. He waggled his fingers at Lauretta and me as he passed by, following the curve of the path up ahead in a smoothly paced gait. A natural runner, it seemed. Absurdly gifted at everything from school to acting to sports.

  What a shocker.

  My cheeks burned from irritation, and suddenly I felt overheated and flushed all over. The urge to beat him came over me in a sharp rush. “Oh, it’s on,” I whispered. “Lauretta, I’ll see ya at the end.”

  “Go, girl!” she said, rooting me on.

  I kicked up my pace and whipped around the corner, coming right up behind him. My lungs started to ache but I ignored it, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping Jason in my sights the whole time.

  Inching closer, closer . . .

  My thighs trembled slightly as I made it to his side, our feet slapping in rhythm on the concrete path. He glanced over at me, blinking in surprise. Then he shot me a small, crooked grin and pushed ahead.

  Oh, no you don’t. I made myself go faster, harder. The space under my ribs started to scream for relief. Come on, Abbey, I pleaded with myself. Do this.

  Cheers erupted from all around us. The girls were rooting me on. The guys were shouting for Jason to beat me. A speedy peek over my shoulder confirmed that even Mrs. Belati watched our race with interest.

  The finish line loomed ahead. Just one more curve, and it was a straight path to winning. I could do this. I could do it.

  “Wow,” Jason said on a breath, his arms sawing by his sides as a couple of beads of sweat trailed down his face. “You’re fast.”

  A small swell of pride hit me at the acknowledgment, but I shoved it aside. Focus.

  We hit the curve, neck and neck.

  Then I edged out slightly in front.

  Finally!

  But he was still too close. So close that I could hear the soft, shallow puffs of his breath—he was panting as hard as I was. My right side began to throb and stab in pain and my legs shook even harder.

  Thirty feet from the finish, Jason must have gotten a last burst of energy. He evened up to my side for a moment then pushed ahead and beat me, crossing the white line with less than a second to spare.

  Defeat dampened me in a swift rush, and I slowed to a crawl, slumped over and lungs desperately gasping for air. I couldn’t believe I’d lost to him. So much for beating the arrogant—

  “That was an awesome run,” Jason said in between breaths, clapping me on the back. Sweat now fully dribbled down his flushed face, plastering the strands along his hairline to his forehead. He wore a huge grin, his straight white teeth flashing. “Nice job.”

  I blinked, stood up to look at him, the stitch in my side temporarily forgotten. Did Jason Hardy just compliment me? And touch me?

  What planet was this?

  “Uh, thanks,” I finally muttered, unsure how else to respond and too stunned to think of something more coherent to say.

  He nodded then strolled away, back to his group of friends.

  “Well done!” Mrs. Belati said loudly with a few hearty claps before she blew her whistle again. “Okay, everyone. Show’s over—let’s work on stretches and wrap up class for the day.”

  “That was amazing,” Lauretta said, admiration shining in her voice and her eyes. She slipped beside me as we made our way to the middle of the field. “You were unbelievably fast.” She elbowed me in the side. “You’ve been holding out on us, lady.”

  “Oh, please,” I said with a laugh, lungs still burning for air as I tried to play it cool. “It was just a silly run.”

  “Not so silly to him,” she retorted, nudging her chin toward Jason. “He seemed impressed.” She gave a small sigh, eyeing him while he bent over and stretched his calves.

  Oh, no. Not her, too. Did everyone in the school have a crush on him? Okay, I’d give him that he was undeniably cute. His answers in World History showed me he was reasonably intelligent and could maintain a conversation, as well, so I had to admit that he wasn’t a dummy.

  And since I was being honest, I could also recognize that he didn’t make me feel like a total loser just now when I lost our race.

  I drew in slow breaths and began my stretches, forcing myself to keep from looking over at Jason. Just because he had one isolated flare-up of being nice to me didn’t mean that was who he really was. It didn’t mean that I could expect kindness from him on a regular basis.

  And if I wanted to get through this play with my pride intact, I had to remember that.

  Chapter Three

  Abbey!” A low, rumbling voice stopped me dead in my tracks. Robert, head of the yearbook committee, newspaper editor in chief, chess team captain, and all-around busy guy, was bellowing for me from about fifty feet away. “Hold up—I need to talk to you for a second!”

  I moved over to the side of the hallway, propping my notebook on my hip. “What’s going on?”

  He strolled toward me on long, gangly legs, his gray T-shirt half-tucked into his jeans. “Do you have time to talk?” His black hair was a messy mop, looking like he’d run his
fingers through it constantly. Typical Robert.

  I glanced at my cell: three fifty. Only ten minutes until our first gathering for the play, and I didn’t want to be late. “Well, I can spare a minute or two, but then I have to run. What’s going on?”

  “We need your help,” Robert said, shoving his glasses up his nose. “Our newspaper photographer took some pictures of the spring sports teams last week, but her computer crashed and she lost all of her shots.”

  “You want me to take pictures?” I raised one eyebrow but was kind of intrigued. I enjoyed amateur photography and had taken art class last year with Robert. My end-of-year project was a series of black-and-white nature shots, something he’d actually complimented me on, saying I had a great eye for composition.

  “She doesn’t have the time to go back and redo them, since we still need other photos and we’re on a time crunch.” He dug into his back pocket and handed me a piece of paper, giving an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I was writing it in a hurry, so my handwriting is a little messy. It’s not a lot, but we’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure. I’ll help.” I glanced over the list:

  Baseball—practice shots are fine

  Softball—practice shots

  Golf (boys and girls)—need to get game shots

  Soccer—can do practice shots

  Should be easy enough. The golf course was fairly close to my house, so I could easily walk there. And the rest I could do after school on the grounds. “E-mail me later with specifics, like how many shots and when they’re due, okay?” I grabbed the black pen tucked in the spiral of my notebook, wrote my e-mail on the bottom of the paper, ripped it off, and gave it to him. “I have to go to play practice, but we can talk later.”

  “Thank you!” He gave me a toothy grin. “You just saved my hide.”

  I nodded then took off back down the hallway, my tennis shoes padding across the tiled floor. Nerves flooded me once again, shaking my hands.

  You can do this. You can do this.

  Don always said that success started in the mind. Staying calm and in control was my best strategy. I practiced some relaxation techniques and controlled my breathing in slow, measured inhales and exhales as I neared the theater, where we’d be doing our rehearsals.

  I passed through the double doors and moved down the aisle; there were a dozen people already waiting in seats in the front row. Surprisingly enough, Liana—the World History snoozer—was there too, her head dipped back on the seat as she stared blindly at the ceiling.

  Interesting. How had I missed her audition? And what role did she have? Was it onstage, or backstage?

  “Oh good, we’re all here,” Mr. Ferrell said as he popped out from behind the curtains and made his way to the front of the stage, holding a clipboard. He sat down on the edge, legs dangling. His jeans were faded, and he had on a flannel shirt lightly fitted and worn. His brown hair was lightly mussed, with black-rimmed glasses pushed back on top of his head.

  He was definitely one of the cutest teachers in our school—in his early twenties and still single, from what we’d heard. I dropped into a seat and smothered a laugh behind my hand as the girls around me sat up, inconspicuously fluffing their hair and straightening their shirts.

  Mr. Ferrell, utterly clueless about how many girls found him attractive, grabbed the clipboard and absently flipped through the top few pages. “Okay, I have our rehearsal schedules here. All practices will be after school, twice a week until the week before the play, when we’ll rehearse three times a week. The day before the play will be a full-costume rehearsal. . . .” With this, he looked up and winked. “We gotta give you ladies a chance to get used to wearing those dresses, right?”

  A few high giggles smattered throughout the theater.

  “And I’ll be giving you the scripts today too. Now, where are my leads?” He scanned the audience, his eyes connecting with mine. “Ah, good. I see our heroine. And our male lead is . . .”

  In the front row, an arm shot up and waved.

  “Jason. Gotcha. Aaaaand I see our two understudies, as well.” Mr. Ferrell slid off the stage and walked around to hand out the schedules to us, then went to the left of the stage, where there was a beat-up cardboard box. He heaved it to center stage then plopped it down. “Well, that’s all I have for our meeting today, folks. When you leave, grab one of these scripts and start reading tonight, please. Time is of the essence, and while the play isn’t long, it’s important for you to start memorizing your lines. We’re going to start blocking the opening scenes this week. And please note that all practices are mandatory—you need to be here.”

  I headed over to dig through the box and take a copy. The play itself wasn’t going to be very lengthy, maybe an hour from the looks of it, but the title—All’s Fair in Love—promised some fun and witty dialogue, as well as the love-triangle plot. I couldn’t wait to start.

  As I made my way back down the aisle to gather my notebook, I heard a deep voice say, “Abbey, wait.”

  I froze in place. We’d already had an encounter earlier today . . . it figured that wouldn’t be enough. With a light sigh, I turned and faced Jason. “Yes?”

  He sauntered up to me, taking his time like he didn’t have a care in the world. Probably didn’t—guys like that had nothing to worry about. He gave me a casual one-shoulder shrug. “I was thinking, you and I should probably schedule some extra rehearsal times to make sure things are progressing at the right pace.”

  Instantly, I bristled. What, did he think I was going to ruin this or something? It was bad enough that I had to sit in World History with him, be in gym with him, and practice with him twice a week. Now he wanted to throw in some extra torture sessions just for kicks. “You don’t think we’ll get it all down with our regular practices?”

  “It just needs to be perfect.” A thread of irritation pierced his words, and he furrowed his brow.

  “It will be perfect. You don’t need to worry about me,” I retorted. “I won’t have any problems keeping up.” A lot of bravado, I knew, but he was setting me on edge, and I felt a sudden need to prove myself worthy of a role I’d already won.

  His mouth went flat. “I won’t have any problems with it either. It was just an idea, you know.”

  At his words, my stomach pinched. For as much as he bugged me, as much as I was rightfully angry at his snobbery, it was me being the pain in the backside right now. “Well, it was a good idea,” I made myself admit. “Maybe we can squeeze in a few extra practices. Just to be on the safe side.”

  Jason gave me a quick nod, his eyes unreadable. He dug a pen out of his pocket, grabbed my hand, and flipped it over, palm up. I blinked, confused, my skin tingling where his fingers brushed my bare skin.

  He slid my sleeve up, baring my wrist and forearm. “Here’s my cell,” he said, writing his phone number on my arm. The pen tickled as it slid across my skin. “Text or call me with your schedule of when you’re free so we can work it out.”

  My heart gave a strange, painful thud, and I swallowed and nodded.

  He clicked the tip of the pen back into itself then looked up at me as he crammed the pen back into his pocket. His eyes were deep, strangely intense and open, and for a moment I forgot how much I disliked him.

  After a few seconds he gave me a toothy grin and chuckled. “As tempting as it must be to keep my number on you, make sure you wash that arm later. Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

  I rolled my eyes, jerked my hand away, and shoved the sleeve back down. Then I grabbed my stuff and booked it out the theater without looking back, trying to force back the strange, swirling emotions I’d had when he’d touched me.

  Jason was a jerk. Arrogant and full of himself. Of course he didn’t even bother to ask for my number—he just gave me his, expecting me to be the one to reach out to him. Writing it on my skin, too.

  By the time I made it outside, I’d almost forgotten how it had felt when his thumb had brushed against my pulse point.

  Almo
st.

  Rosalyn: Wait, you . . . you love me? But how can this be? You have done nothing but tease and torture me from childhood on. Our whole history is built upon this strange antagonism between us.

  William: From the first time I pulled your hair at the side of the river, I knew I loved you. How could I not? Especially when you returned my attention with a punch in the nose—well deserved, I might add.

  Rosalyn: I never knew you felt that way. Why did you not speak of these feelings before . . . before your brother made his intentions clear toward me?

  William (stepping closer, taking Rosalyn’s hand): Would you have trusted me, had you known? I have railed against this for far too long, believe me. My heart did struggle with the knowledge that I could not let my brother win your hand. Not when . . . when I wanted it for my own. I could no longer remain silent.

  Rosalyn (closing the gap between them): Oh, my dear William, I love you too.

  They kiss.

  Wait, what?

  I blinked and reread that last line, jaw dropped. That couldn’t be right. But there it was, black letters on white paper, taunting me.

  I was going to have to kiss Jason Hardy. On the mouth and everything.

  Well duh, Abbey.

  My hand shook as I pushed up my sleeve, staring at the numbers I’d made myself ignore through dinner, two hours of homework, and yet another distracted violin practice. But still I felt branded, unable to shake off the memory of his warm fingers pressing on my skin.

  And now, thanks to the play, we were going to have to press our lips together too. How could I do it?

  How could Jason Hardy be my first real kiss?

  My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I’d been saving my first kiss for someone special, a guy worth waiting for. I hadn’t found him yet, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t out there, looking for me too. All this time, and now it didn’t matter. It was going to be wasted on a total jerk.

  Maybe I could ask Mr. Ferrell to rewrite the ending. Surely he’d consider it? I mean, how appropriate was it to have two students kiss onstage in front of the entire school, anyway?