A pink rash stains her ivory skin, keeping the memory of that mustache alive and well. Another swell of laughter bubbles in my chest.
Joplin’s eyes widen. “Don’t. Don’t you dare—”
I collapse to my knees.
“Stevie!” She shouts my name through a sharp laugh, lowering to the floor across from me, both of our shoulders shaking. “I hate you so much.”
“Nope. You love me.” I force the words out through a mess of giggle tears, my cheeks stretched and achy.
Regrouping, Joplin slaps the mustache back on her face. It’s crooked now. She jumps to her feet and waves her arms around with a flair of drama. “You’re right. I do love you. And guess what?” She lowers her voice to a raspy, masculine tone yet manages to maintain the enthusiasm. “All you need is love!”
My eyes are glittering with pure, teary joy. “That’s Christian’s line. You’re Zidler.”
“Just go with it.”
I pull to a stand and smooth down my red wig before spinning in a graceless circle. We clasp hands and twirl together, singing our hearts out, bouncing between “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles and “Pride (In the Name of Love)” by U2. Joplin is wildly off-key, which only spurs more laughter, and we dance and dance until Mom calls us down to the kitchen for supper.
Out of breath, I tug the wig off my head and fluff my flattened mane as we race toward the staircase. The aroma of savory beef stew and homemade biscuits wafts through the quaint house.
Dad looks up from the book he’s reading. Something about the Civil War. “Tell me I have a theatrical daughter without telling me I have a theatrical daughter.”
I pulse my eyebrows and slap the wig back on my head before dipping forward with an exaggerated bow.
Joplin cuts in as she makes a beeline for the stove and sticks a wooden spoon in the pot for a taste test. “She lured me into wearing this mortifying costume. No judgments, please.”
“With bribes or threats?” Dad wonders, adjusting his reading glasses.
“Threats, obviously,” I provide.
“That’s my girl.”
I take a seat at the kitchen table and prop my chin in my hand, smiling as I watch Mom shoo Joplin’s hand away when she tries to take another bite. “I have a good feeling about this one,” I murmur, drumming my fingers along my cheek.
Dad glances up from his book. “The play?”
“Yeah. I’ve nailed the lines, and I think I can really bring the emotion.”
“When are auditions?”
My stomach twists with nerves. “Thursday.”
Mom floats from the counter to the small, cluttered island, carrying over a basket of warm biscuits. Hesitating, she tucks a strand of wispy hair behind her ear. “Is that boy trying out for the male lead?”
I blink at her, the nerves weaving into an anxious knot.
That boy.
Lexington Hall.
Residual hurt courses through me as I set my jaw. “He said he was thinking about it.” I shrug, my lips twisting to the side. “Considering he’s the new ‘it boy’ in town, I’m guessing he’s a shoo-in.”
“Surely there are other worthy candidates.”
Joplin interrupts. “Doesn’t matter, Mom. The moment the Hall family rode in on their high horses, they had the school wrapped around their little finger. It’s only been a few weeks, and even the teachers are fawning all over that kid.”
Dad grumbles. “Money talks.”
My fingertips press harder into my cheek, leaving red nail marks behind. Dad’s right. Money does talk, and the Hall family seems to know how to make it sing. Their name is synonymous with success—Lex having been in the business since elementary school, his mother a soap opera star, and his father a bigwig lawyer—proving yet again that in the world they dominate, money not only talks but also opens every door.
