My chest is heavy, my mind swirling.
I can’t remember my lines.
“You’re more than that. You’re inspiring, compelling, and you’re…” His eyes become hooded, jaw tensing. “You’re beautiful.” Lex leans in all the way, dipping his lips to the shell of my ear so only I can hear him now. “And I’m sorry.”
My eyelids flutter closed as I swallow hard and try to regroup. “You must be mistaken. I’m just a—”
“Cut.”
Lex flinches.
He pulls away from me as Mr. Hamlin strides over to us.
“As much as I appreciate the occasional improvising, now is not the time for ad-libbing. Let’s keep it to the script.” His focus is aimed at Lex. “This is an offbeat love confession, not an expression of remorse. I want to feel the zest, the buoyancy. This will lead into ‘Elephant Love Medley.’”
Lex nods, staring over my shoulder at nothing at all.
I clear my throat. “Sorry, Mr. Hamlin.”
“Do we need to take a quick break?”
“No,” Lex assures him, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck. “I’m good.”
“Very well. Let’s start again.”
We go back to the beginning, and I redirect my emotions, forcing my skill to outshine my jitters. Lex infuses passion into his dialogue, sticking to the script this time, and I follow his lead, prancing along the stage, inflecting an air of mischief and quirkiness into every line.
We perform it decently. Mr. Hamlin doesn’t interrupt us again, and we finish out the bit with a tender moment, both of our characters acknowledging the budding connection.
An hour later, I’m seated at a high-top table, shoving spoonfuls of rainbow sherbet into my mouth while Misty grills me about the practice session.
“That was weird earlier,” she declares.
“What was weird?”
“The vibes. Lex. Something was just…off.”
Jameson adds his own unsolicited commentary. “Everything is off about that guy.”
She flicks her spoon at him. “What was he doing, going off-script like that?” Misty wonders, turning back to me. “Even Hamlin seemed flustered.”
Shrugging, I dismiss her probing. “I don’t know. Maybe the car accident had him rattled.”
Misty crinkles her nose and goes back to her chocolate ice cream. “Huh. I guess.”
Ice-cold sherbet dissolves on my tongue, along with the lie. I know exactly what he was doing: he was apologizing for the things he said on Friday.
But that doesn’t change anything.
At the end of the day, I’m the tragic artist in our real-life show.
And he’s the sparkling diamond.
***
The moon looks brighter tonight. It’s milky and aglow, draping soft light across the expanse of our farm. I wrap my arms around my knees and glance skyward. Stars twinkle from way up high, and I talk to them, whispering stories about my day. I tell the most dazzling star, situated above the eastern tree line, that Jameson dropped his paper cup of ice cream in his lap, staining his white shorts with cookies and cream. Misty laughed so hard, she snorted chocolate through her nose. It made me laugh too, and I’m laughing again, here and now, until the laughter turns into tears because a huge piece of my heart is not here to laugh with me.
Sound breaks through my quiet whimpers, a shuffling of feet from below. I hear noises often—nighttime critters who prefer the stars over the sun, just like me. But these feet sound human, so I whip my gaze around the darkened property, squinting until a shadowy shape comes into focus.
