After my hands are dry, he takes them in his, warming them by rubbing his thumbs back and forth across my palms. It summons about a thousand butterflies like, drunkenly crashing into one another, deep within the pit of my belly. Is the pain in my head making me feel so all consumed? So overwhelmed? So electrified? Or is it him?
“I hope I don’t have a concussion,” I whisper.
“Pretty sure you’re gonna be okay.”
“Yeah? You an expert in concussions?”
“Didn’t you know?” He runs a hand through his mess of hair, holding the silky strands off his face for a moment as we stare into one another’s eyes. “Anybody can be an expert on anything these days. All you need is Google.”
He leans forward so that our foreheads are almost touching, and I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding against the inside of my chest like, Um, hello, Jerzie! What the hell is going on out there?
“Unless you wanna go to the ER,” he adds. “Where you can sit in an overcrowded, dirty waiting room for sixteen hours until a doctor tells you the same thing I did. But the doc will charge you about a thousand dollars for it. And definitely won’t be as cute as me.”
“You’re not that cute.” I’m lyin’. He’s fine as hell. He’s cute squared. He is cute to the freakin’ tenth power.
“Your words, not mine.” He’s smiling again, presenting those pearly whites. “Say the word and I’ll toss you over the back of my bike and drive you to a local hospital.”
Toss me over the back of his bike? Should that sound enticing? Because it kinda does. Also, who am I kidding—he could take me anywhere, really. A white van with a sign that reads The Killer Is Inside? I’d probably go. Dark basement? Don’t mind if I do.
He releases my hands and moves to lean against the tile wall, sighing again like he’s pretty relieved I’m gonna be fine.
I take the moment to properly observe this rare concoction of supergenetics. He’s tall. I’d put him at six foot two. Doesn’t look too much older than me, to be honest. He’s wearing very expensive clothes. I’m not into brands, mostly because I can’t afford them, but since Aunt Karla works in fashion, I know a thing or two. He’s wearing Balmain jeans. John Varvatos leather boots. His T-shirt is Play. I can tell because of the iconic red heart displayed on the front.
His phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his back pocket, glances at the screen. “One sec.” He slides his finger across the glass, holds the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Ava. I’m seeing you tonight, right?”
I don’t mean to pry, but it’s like, dead-ass quiet with a strong echo in here, so I can easily hear both ends of the conversation.
“He’s back. He won’t let me,” a girl with a soft, sweet voice replies sadly. “He said no.”
“Don’t listen to him. Please. Come anyway.”
“I’m not like you. I don’t know how to disobey,” she replies.
“Fuck.” He sighs. “It’s whatever. Fine then.”
“Please don’t be mad.”
He looks up, and our eyes meet. “I’ll text you later. I’m sort of in the middle of something.”
“I’m sorry. Love you.” She sounds like she’s about to cry.
“I know. Me, too.” He ends the call.
Ava, huh? Must be a girlfriend. Probably one of many. I watch him closely as he stuffs the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. He strikes me as that typical rich, New York City, private-school white boy. I bet he’s from SoHo. Or no, correction. Those John Varvatos boots he’s wearing probably cost a thousand dollars. This isn’t a rebel. This is just a boy with rich parents wasting Mom and Dad’s money on expensive clothes. I’d say he lives on the Upper East Side. That’s old money.
I pull on the straps of my backpack, which probably makes me look like I’m twelve. Not that it matters. Two different households. Nothing alike in dignity.
“I should get going. Thanks for your help.” I move toward the door.
“Wait.” His voice alone stops me. I turn around to face him again. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“In the bathroom?”
He laughs. “You’re pretty cute, you know that?”
He keeps calling me cute. I raise an eyebrow. Is he just...messing with me?
“I meant...” He stares at me, a curious expression on his pretty face. “What are you’re doing at Forty-Second Street Studios? Today.”
“Um...” I can’t tell him I’m a standby! I decide on a diversion technique. “What are you doing here? Today.” I smile. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m gonna guess you’re a musician. And you play the...guitar? Right?” Much to your parents’ horror—they were hoping you’d go to Yale. At least for undergrad. Then Stanford for law. They shouldn’t worry. There’s still time to whip you into shape.
“Impressive. You should consider giving psychic readings.” He crosses his arms. “Now back to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” he says. “The only other person in this bathroom.”
“Oh. I’m sorta here to, kinda, work on a new musical. It’s my first day. With the cast, I mean.”
“Your first day, huh?” Once again he runs a hand through his hair, a mess of silky strands whose complete disarray seems to be the root of their charm. I almost wanna ask if I can run my hands through his hair, but I know better. He takes a step closer to me, heating up the small space between us. “You excited to sorta kinda work on a new musical?”
“Sorta.” I shrug. “It’s Shakespeare. A Romeo and Juliet reimagining. It’s called Roman and Jewel. But this version is a fantasy. After their suicide, they both end up in purgatory and are sentenced to infinite lives on Earth until they can meet up again to, you know, right their wrongs.”
“A happy Shakespeare. I love it.”
“You don’t tune in to Shakespeare for happily-ever-after. So don’t worry. There’s still enough angst and drama. Robert Christian Ruiz—he’s the composer. He wrote the book, too. He most definitely captured the heart of the story.”
“Which is?”
“Um.” I pause. Jesus, his eyes are so bright and blue that I feel temporarily blinded. “The cycles of love and hate. In order for something good to happen, a lot of bad shit has to happen first. You know. The main theme of the original play.”
“That is not the main theme.” He laughs. “I think you should reread the play for fresh insight. Try Shakespeare for Dummies.”
“Excuse me?” I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying my hardest to play it cool, even though this boy is making my heart race so fast I’m feeling short of breath. And this time it’s not because he’s cute. “I’ve read Romeo and Juliet like fifteen times.”
“Sixteenth time’s a charm?”
I glare at him. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Pretty Boy laughs again, holding both hands up as if in surrender. “And you’re the perfect Jewel, by the way.”
“I’m not Jewel.” I shake my head. “I’m a standby for Jewel.” Not that it’s any of his business.
“You’re an understudy.”
“My technical term is standby. But yes, that’s my story. I’m just a standby.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a lot more to the story with you?”
The bathroom door is suddenly pushed open.
I spin around and gasp. It’s Cinny! Cinny is revealed in all her one-name glory. Holy hell. She looks startled to see us in here. Which. Understandable. Strangely enough, pretty-boy musician doesn’t look like a person should look when a superstar singer enters the bathroom they’re standing in.
“Hey, Cinny,” he says with a nonchalance that makes my face scrunch up in confusion. “Don’t you knock before you bust into a bathroom?”
She flips her hair over her shoulder, and I notice she has a splattering of frec
kles on her nose. I also notice she’s even prettier up close.
“Why am I not surprised to see you holed up in a bathroom with a girl, Zeppelin Reid?” she declares.
Wait. What? Zeppelin Reid? This is Zeppelin Reid? This is the boy cast as Roman!
“Nothing funny going on,” he says. “I saved this girl’s life is all.”
She looks at me, her expression disbelieving. “He did?”
“Not. He did not.” Aaaand it’s official. I am in conversation with Cinny. “He nearly killed me, more like it.” I clumsily lurch forward and extend my hand. “By the way. Hello and greetings.” Hello and greetings? The fuck is wrong with me?! “It’s very nice to meet you, Cinny.” I hope I sound mature and professional and not like the hyper superfans she’s probably used to.
“Oh. Okay.” She eyes me, like maybe I could be some sort of internet stalker who found her way into Forty-Second Street Studios to harass her.
“Don’t worry. I’m normal. I swear,” I declare.
“Fun fact...” Zeppelin moves to stand beside me, and I hold back my overwhelming desire to elbow him in his stupid, sexy six-pack. How dare he play some game with me? Pretending he’s a musician? Letting me blab about a show he’s the star of? Imbecile! “She’s suffered through reading Romeo and Juliet fifteen times and still doesn’t get it. Oh, and she’s your cover.”
“Say what?” I turn to him.
“Crap. Her technical term is standby.” He adds apologetically, “Call her an understudy and she’ll go off on you.”
“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.”
&n
bsp; “No, no.” I attempt to appear disinterested by staring at the floor, but it’s too late. Nigel calls out to Zeppelin. Crap.
He makes his way to our side.
“Zepp. This is Jerzie Jhames. She’s the standby for Cinny. Jerzie, this is Zeppelin Reid. A Montague.”
Zeppelin shakes my hand like we’re meeting for the first time. His skin is so warm, but I still feel chilled, as if his hand were a solid block of ice.
“Hey, Zepp!” Robbie calls out.
“Welcome to the cast, Jerzie Jhames,” Zeppelin says, then turns and heads toward Robbie.
“Sign.”
“Huh?” I look at Nigel.
“The nondisclosure agreement. Sign please.”
The scent of Nigel’s peppermint gum burns my throat as he thrusts a pen at me. I try to read a few more lines, but I can’t really discern contract speech. Liquidated damages. Does that have to do with water? Besides, all I can concentrate on is the fact that the hand Zeppelin touched is somehow, magically, simultaneously hot and cold. I scribble something illegible at the bottom of the page.
“Thanks, kiddo.” Nigel scurries off.
My gaze shifts back to Zeppelin and Cinny as I move to the back of the room, set my backpack at my feet, and slide onto one of the folding chairs. Wait, Cinny? I didn’t even notice she’d returned. She’s leaning her head on Zeppelin’s shoulder and holding on to his tatted arm like she never wants to let it go as they both chat with Robbie. They definitely have chemisty together.
Two additional cast members push through the door. A girl with sculpted legs that seem to stretch on infinitely and fire-red coils of hair piled on top of her head, and a boy with brown skin like mine. He looks familiar. In fact, it feels like I know him. Do I?
“Let’s run it,” Alan says. “From the top. ‘I Think I Remember You.’”
“What’s all that?” Cinny points.
Roman and Jewel Page 4
