I scoff. “Not when you’re home.”
“No, never. I’ve asked, and while Mrs. Yvon was more than happy to spill the truth that this time prior was not the first time for you to invite Calypso over, she’s commented that it was thefirst time for you to have a girl over at all.”
My jaw clenches. “So?”
“Don’t pretend I don’t know you at all.”
I snarl. “You really don’t.”
My father’s chin lifts, his lips pulling into a taunt line. “Invite her. Invite her, or I will send someone to that school of yours and do it myself. If she doesn’t RSVP in two weeks, I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
I glare at the invitation. “Why?”
“Because,” he states, already turning away from me, “it’s important to see if someone you’re interested in knows how to handle themselves in what will soon be your world.”
My heart thuds, and my stomach swirls while I watch my father’s back grow smaller and smaller as each of his strides takes him farther and farther away. The kitchen door swings closed behind him.
My world.
I hate that. I hate knowing that Calypso will hatemy worldalmost as much as I do. The plastic acts. The dull atmosphere. The bright lights from every angle. The chaotic noises. The judgment.
On paper, it looks exactly like being on stage, but Calypso is already struggling with enjoying that, and to me it’s completely different. Stage acts have life. Joking acts end with a punchline.
This role is nothing more than a high-effort, low-return sensory heck.
And, yet, the threat is clear.
If Calypso can’t survive in the world my father has deemed my future, there won’t be a future for us at all.
I have to invite her.
And I have to tell her the truth.
Calypso
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lex stops texting me in the afternoon on Sunday, and he doesn’t show up to Monday morning’s music room escapade.
I first see him at lunch when he comes into the cafeteria with Jason and finds me tucked in our usual indoor corner. It’s cold today. A little cloudy. Too cold to bother with sitting outside. Everything seems normal when he slides into the seat beside me, even though that action alone—taking the seat beside me instead of across from me—makes my heart flutter and is not entirely normal.
His hand lands on my thigh when his warm eyes meet mine. “Afternoon, sugar, are you ready for this evening?”
This evening.
Thescene.
“Or,” he leans in close, his fingers slipping down my leg to my knee, “did you need more practice?”
Heat rushes into the wake of his touch, and I murmur, “Maybe I could have gotten some if you’d showed up this morning.”
His eyes widen, then he grins, moving so close his nose is nearly touching mine.
Jason plops down in front of us with his tray, loudly letting it clatter against the table. “AmI interrupting something?”
“No,” Lex and I both note in unison.
I mourn the loss of his touch when he begins to unravel his lunch: burritos, a quesadilla, and nachos. An expensive order. Not the dollar menu order that I normally splurge on. This lucky mister.
