by Nia Stephens
“I wouldn’t attract any more attention to my class-skipping self if I was you,” Sutton said, sliding into the seat opposite Bree. Kylian poked his head in the library door, saw them, and joined Sutton on her side of the table.
“This is an intervention,” Sutton announced. “You are out of control, sweetheart.”
“I’m just tired,” Bree said, still yawning.
“You’re always tired. I know sex can be exhausting, but come on, Bree—this is the fall of your senior year. You could screw up your whole life,” Kylian said seriously.
“I am not worn out from nymphomania,” she assured him. “We just went out to this little funk club out in Harlem. It was so awesome, I can’t believe I never—”
“Bree, check yourself. You’re being a crappy friend, forcing me to run all by myself in the mornings, but that’s okay. I will forgive you. Someday. And you’re being a crappy student, which is not okay, but it’s only been a month—you can probably make up for lost time if you get yourself under control. But look at you. Honestly, and I’m saying this because I love you, you look like shit. You’re exhausted. You can’t keep this up. And I bet you haven’t been to an audition in two weeks.”
“Maybe,” Bree conceded grudgingly.
“I hate to say it, but I think Matt is bad for you,” Kylian said. “Maybe you don’t need to dump him, but if not, you’ve definitely got to step things down.”
“First you thought I just had to try online dating. Now that I’ve actually found someone I care about who I love spending time with, you think I should dump him. Why should I listen to you at all?” Bree complained.
“Because you’re spending too much time with him. And if he really cared about you, he’d tell you to get some sleep,” Sutton insisted. “You’re a wreck. If he hasn’t said, ‘You know, you look tired. Maybe we should stay in and get a pizza,’ then what he wants is a dance partner, not a girlfriend.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bree said, and stalked out of the library.
But on the lonely walk home, she began to wonder if her friends were right. Matt always said that she looked wonderful, but for the last two weeks she looked like someone who needed a nap. He said he loved her, but maybe he just loved the fact that she always said yes when he asked if she wanted to do something. But Matt was not the kind of person who ever stayed in with a pizza. Dating him meant joining in his whirlwind existence—there was no other option. Except breaking up.
SHOULD BREE GO OUT WITH MATT AGAIN?
turn to page 183 to see how it goes.
SHOULD BREE TELL HIM SHE CAN’T SEE HIM ANYMORE?
turn to page 187 to see what happens.
Still think Matt is a good partner for Bree? Read on to see what happens!
Chapter 7
A Fine Romance
“Matt, we’ve got to talk,” Bree said, letting him into her apartment that night.
“Sure, as long as it’s fast. Buck Buchanan goes onstage in forty minutes, and it will take at least that long to get to TriBeCa.”
“I don’t think I can go dancing tonight,” Bree said, collapsing onto her couch. “I’m absolutely exhausted.”
“Are you sick?” he asked, taking her hand.
“No, just tired.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“Not at all.” Bree kissed him on the cheek. “But pizza and a movie on the couch is as high-speed as I can get tonight.”
“Okay, sounds good,” he said.
Bree could tell he meant it, too. But he was fidgeting so much in the first twenty minutes of The Red Shoes that Bree finally paused it and asked if he wanted to go to TriBeCa by himself.
“You wouldn’t mind?” he asked hopefully. In fact, Bree had meant it sarcastically—of course she didn’t want him out dancing by himself.
“Not really,” she lied. “But have you noticed that we only do what you want to do when we’re out together?”
“Are you saying you don’t like dancing with me?” Now he looked hurt.
“I love dancing with you,” she assured him. “But I don’t have the energy for dancing all night, three nights a week.”
“But I only get three nights off a week,” he said. “I don’t want to waste a whole night watching movies.”
“Then maybe we need to slow things down a little,” Bree said regretfully. “I love watching movies, and if you want to do different things, you don’t actually have to spend all of your nights off with me.”
“It sounds like what you really need is a good night’s sleep,” he told her, getting to his feet. “Rest easy. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Have fun,” Bree said miserably.
“Sweet dreams.” He kissed her before he left.
I’m going to kill Kylian and Sutton, she resolved before falling asleep on the sofa.
The next night was Thursday: salsa night at Little Puerto Rico. Bree was napping in her floaty, fiery red skirt when Matt showed up.
“I brought sesame chicken and Last Tango in Paris,” he said, kissing her hello.
“I love you,” Bree answered happily.
“Good. Samba wasn’t half as much fun without you last night.”
“We’ll go next week,” Bree promised. “I didn’t say that I wanted to stop dancing. Just make time for some other activities.”
“Good. Because there’re lots of things I’d like to do with you that aren’t dancing.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Bree said, leading the way into her lounge.
THINK BREE MADE THE RIGHT DECISION?
turn the page to see what would have happened if Bree had dumped Matt, or turn to page 53 to choose a different boy.
Think Bree would be better off without Matt? Read on to see what happens!
Chapter 7
Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off
“But why?” said Matt, his voice cracking with astonishment. They were at the Starbucks closest to Bree’s house, which seemed like a very safe place for this kind of conversation. Bree didn’t think he would get too melodramatic in a Starbucks. “I thought we had the beginning of something special.”
“We do,” Bree said quietly. “I’m not dumping you, Matt. I’m just taking some time off. I just can’t keep up with everything I need to do right now and see you at the same time.”
“How much time off?”
“A month? Two months? My college apps are due, and I have a big audition on February second.”
“Holidays, huh?” he said glumly. “Well, at least I won’t have to get you presents.”
Bree laughed and squeezed his hands.
“What if I meet someone while you’re on vacation?” he asked, serious again. “Two months is a long time.”
“I’m not going to ask you not to see other people,” Bree said slowly. “I don’t think that would be fair. But if you’re still interested on February third, call me.”
“It’s a promise,” he said. He kissed Bree on the cheek and left.
She felt strangely disappointed. She thought he would beg her to reconsider, or at least offer to see her a little less instead of agreeing not to see her at all. But Bree had no time to wallow in disappointment. She really had been completely absent from her own life for the last month. First she had to convince Sutton and her teachers to forgive her, and get her college applications in order. Then she had to turn her attention to that audition in February. The producers of an independent fantasy film mostly set in Central Park had approached Fiona about Bree’s availability. The audition in February was a screen test for a starring role as an urban elf. It sounded like lots of fun—and like a film that might get some attention at Sundance. If she really meant as much to Matt as he said, he would still be free in February. But meanwhile, she had other things to worry about.
Bree’s phone didn’t stop ringing on February third. It was a Saturday, but the director wanted to start filming on May fifteenth—two days after Bree’s graduation—and there were a lot of details
to sort out before filming could begin.
Bree was spending the day at Sutton’s, nursing her second-ever hangover. She couldn’t believe it when the director had offered her the role on the spot. She didn’t think things like that still happened, even for low-budget fantasy films. She thought that the fact that she had basically memorized the role already might have impressed them, and she had taken the time to thoroughly imagine what life might be like for a Central Park elf, trapped on all sides by modernization and cold iron. But whatever the reason, Sutton had thrown her an impromptu celebration wild enough that building security had to come by. They’d had a few glasses of champagne too.
“Who is it now?” Bree shouted from the bathroom when her phone beeped again.
“Matthew, no last name,” Sutton answered. “Do we know any Matts?”
Bree flew from the bathroom, all traces of nausea gone.
“Matt!” she said happily, flopping onto the floor. “I got it! I got the part!”
“Congratulations! What are you talking about?”
Bree explained to him about the movie. Of course, Sutton and Kylian had been hearing about it daily for months, so it was nice to tell someone who had no idea what it was about.
“That sounds fantastic,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Can I take you out for a drink to celebrate?”
“Definitely not a drink,” Bree groaned. “But maybe dinner and dancing.”
“I can’t wait,” he said. “I really missed you, Bree.”
“I missed you,” she admitted. “I’ve got to warn you, though, that my schedule’s going to be pretty crazy. I won’t be going dancing five nights a week.”
“We’ll work something out,” he assured her. “Now tell me about your skimpy elf costume.”
BREE SEEMS HAPPY ENOUGH TO GIVE THEIR RELATIONSHIP ANOTHER TRY. TO SEE WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF BREE NEVER DUMPED HIM,
turn to page 185, or turn to page 70 to choose another boy.
Want more?
Satisfy your craving with the
following excerpt from
BOY SHOPPING
and pick it up wherever books are sold!
Boy Shopping
“You don’t look so good, baby girl,” Kiki’s dad said when he pulled up in front of Wentworth, staring at her over the top of his new black-rimmed bifocals. Kiki thought they made him look like Denzel Washington as Malcom X, which Dr. Kelvin considered one of the nicest compliments he had ever received.
“Thanks, Dad. How was work?”
“Fine. What’s up with you? Aren’t you supposed to be going to Franklin’s for practice?”
“Practice was cancelled.” Of course, she didn’t know if Franklin and Mark felt up to playing music, but she was definitely not in the mood. If they didn’t appreciate her, they could find a drum machine somewhere.
“Those boys getting on your nerves?”
Kiki raised an eyebrow. Rumors spread fast at a school as small as Wentworth, but she didn’t think they could reach the neurosurgery department at Vanderbilt in less than a day.
He laughed. “Any girl who was stuck with my friends in high school, morning, noon, and night, would have stabbed every one of us. Teenaged boys are just stupid. It’s the hormones.”
“Maybe you can do a study on that, proving that seventeen-year-old boys can’t think at all.”
“You can’t practice neurosurgery on a subject that doesn’t have a brain. There’s nothing to dissect.”
She had to laugh at that. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said before I went on tour last summer.”
“That I would cut off Franklin’s hands if he touched you?”
She snorted at that. “I told you then that that would never happen.”
“That if I heard you smoked anything I’d lock you in the basement until your eighteenth birthday?”
“Not that either. You said that you would support me with the music thing as long as I wanted to do it. But if I ever wanted to quit, you’d support me in that, too.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Your mother is the one who can help you get out of the contract.”
“I know. But you won’t freak out about me letting my label down after they’ve spent a fortune promoting us, throwing away an opportunity that a lot of people would kill to have?” That was what her managers told her every time she complained about anything. And despite the fact that her managers were white, barely thirty, and slightly crazy, both of them reminded her of her father. Part of that was the way they treated her: like their favorite person in the whole world, unless she did something that annoyed them. Then she had to listen to lecture after lecture until they settled down.
“If you ask me to, I’ll burn your drum kit in the backyard. It would be nice to have you around during the summer.”
Kiki’s heart fluttered at the thought of her drums on fire, the glittery red paint on the sides bubbling and turning black. No. No matter what happened between her and Mark, she would never give up music.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“No problem.” He grinned, and couldn’t help adding, “The day I complain because you won’t be spending all your time with a couple of boys is the day I need my own brain examined.”
Once they got home, Kiki’s dad asked her if she wanted to go out for dinner, since her mother was stuck doing paperwork at the courthouse.
“I’ve got a lot of homework,” she said, trudging up to her room. It was true—she always had a lot of homework—but she didn’t feel like doing it. Instead she logged into the Internet to check her e-mail. She still talked to lots of people she had toured with over the summer—not all the time, since they all had strange schedules, but she tried to check in at least once a week.
After laughing at Annette’s description of a terrifying dinner full of mysterious, slimy objects, hosted by her Japanese label’s reps, and Colin’s complaints about adjusting to real life after ten months on the road, Kiki felt a little better. Good enough that when Franklin’s number appeared on her cell phone, she actually answered. He might be calling to apologize—about as likely as him bringing a girl flowers—but anything could happen.
“Did you forget about practice?” His usual bass rumble had gone high and whiny.
“Nope. I’m just not coming.”
“You have to come. We have to arrange the rhythm section for ‘Every Angel,’ and we’ve got to finish ‘Foxfire.’”
“I don’t have to do anything, Franklin, and I’m not going to until you and Mark say you’re sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“Sorry you’re just that stupid, maybe?”
“Look, Kiki, just ’cause you’ve got PMS, or haven’t gotten laid in the last year, doesn’t mean—”
Kiki hung up before she started screaming at him so loud that it might kill her cell phone. Whenever she disagreed with him, no matter how wrong he was, he always said it was PMS, or she wasn’t getting laid. You’d think even Franklin would figure out that no one had PMS for a month straight, but his math skills were even worse than hers. She ignored the call when he instantly rang her back, concentrating instead on the text message she was typing to Sasha, Camille, and Jasmine.
Thru w. Mark & Frnkln 4ever. What r u up 2?
Before she could hit “send,” she heard the asthmatic chug of Mark’s Karmann Ghia coming up the hill. She scanned her bedroom for something to throw—her windows had a clear view of the front walk. There were books, but her mother would kill her for throwing anything with words in it. She had a few million pairs of shoes, but if she missed they might get dirty, and she liked her shoes. Then there were instruments: bongo drums, spare snares, cymbals, and hi-hats, and a keyboard she was teaching herself to play. Any one of them would hurt like hell, tumbling down from two stories, but she would never mistreat an instrument like that. She decided to run downstairs and tell her father to say she wasn’t home, but she wasn’t fast enough—she glimpsed Mark passing the big picture window in the livin
g room, and that meant that he saw her.
“What do you want?” she asked, opening the door. It didn’t help that he looked fantastic, as usual. Jasmine always laughed about Mark’s sense of style, which she called “neo-grunge,” but what it really amounted to was Mark’s complete lack of interest in his appearance. He really had no idea that his ragged, baby-blue polo shirt made his eyes seem even bluer than they were, and that his faded khakis made even his milky arms look tan.
Mark also looked apologetic, which went a long way toward calming Kiki down. But not all the way—oh no. No one who had known Kiki as long as Mark had, had any right to say the things he had said earlier, much less scream them in the middle of school for everyone to hear.
“I wanted to apologize for earlier,” he mumbled, staring at his shoes. “That was way out of line.”
“No kidding.”
“Yeah.” He toed a pebble off the top step. “I was all freaked out about Dr. Eckhart, and then you said that thing about the cow’s heart.” He finally looked up. “Is it true?”
“Would I make up something like that?” She tugged on a dreadlock in frustration. The cow heart had grossed her out, and scared her, too, when she ripped open the pretty, red-wrapped box by the mailbox on Valentine’s Day. Her parents made her report it to the police and everything, though they cautioned her not to talk about it, because if whoever sent it knew it had made an impression, they might be tempted to try something even crazier. But it only happened once, and she had never received any sort of threats afterward. She had almost forgotten the whole thing, until the weird incident at school that morning. “Why would I say something like that if it wasn’t true? Come on, Mark—you know me.”
“I thought I did. I don’t know. I guess . . . things have changed, you know. Since before the band.”
