I nod and follow her, feeling empty and numb at the same time. It sucks. It hurts. I determinedly push the memories and images aside. I must, there’s no other way. I have to focus on this moment, otherwise I might freak out completely.
I start my warm-up exercises with Zoe, and I quickly realize that I can’t even come close to stretching as deeply as she does. My muscles aren’t as supple as hers. I feel stiff and awkward and incapable, like I don’t belong here. Like I don’t deserve it.
“Don’t stress,” Zoe says so quietly that no one but me can hear her. Can she read minds? Probably not. It must be written all over my face.
“I’ll try,” I whisper back, but it’s hard because as I look around, I can already tell that everyone is better than me, and the class hasn’t even started yet.
The movements of the others are fluid, light, and graceful. It looks so easy when they do it. Much easier than it actually is.I can’t keep myself from tensing up, even though it only makes everything more difficult.
“Good morning.” I look up when I hear a deep, friendly voice. It’s a young man, maybe in his late twenties, who’s just come into the studio. He’s good-looking and has an infectious smile and bright eyes. “Welcome back, and happy new year.”
“That’s Mr.Conrad,” Zoe whispers to me, and helps me to my feet.
Mr.Conrad looks directly at me. For a brief moment, he sizes me up, and it feels like a test I can’t possibly pass. But then he smiles. “I hear we have a new addition. You’re Rayne Bellamy, aren’t you?”
Curious whispers ripple through the room, and I have to force myself to keep looking at Mr.Conrad and not give in to the instinct to run and hide, because now everyone knows who I am. But I expected that. Dad’s name has been in the media for months, as has mine. I was mentioned more often than I can count. I’m trying not to think about the photos that were taken of me. At the funeral. Every time I dared to leave the house. I refused to look at any of the photographers, trying to hide my face and purple hair as well as I could under sunglasses and baseball caps. Too many people know who I am and what I look like.
The fact that I didn’t want any of it doesn’t change the fact that the articles, photos, and videos that were posted online exist. The paparazzi only left me alone once I moved to Boston and hid out at Grandma’s house.
Mr.Conrad clears his throat, snapping me out of my reverie. I realize he’s asked me something, and nod belatedly, my mouth so dry I can’t answer.
“Welcome, it’s nice to have you here,” he says, a look of sympathy crossing his face. But he doesn’t say how sorry he is that my parents died. Thank God. I don’t think I could handle that, not here in front of everyone. It already feels strange enough to be the only new student. The others have had six months to get to know one another and find out how they fit in as part of this class. I feel like an intruder, even though I know it’s unlikely anyone sees me that way. Still, I can’t help it.
Mr.Conrad gives me a quick, encouraging smile, then turns to the rest of the class. “Unfortunately, Deborah broke her hand during the holidays, so we needed a last-minute replacement to play piano for us.”
As if on cue, a tall, slender person enters the room. A very familiar person with dark hair and blue eyes.
“This is Easton Coleman. He’ll be taking Deborah’s place this semester,” Mr.Conrad continues, but his words barely register with me.
I can only stare at Easton. He stares back, his eyes wide, just as stunned as I am. My heart is racing and I feel hot, uncomfortable, and nervous. This is crazy. He can’t be here. What kind of weird coincidence is this, him working at my school? It’s unbelievable. I don’t understand the world anymore. I especially don’t understand why he didn’t tell me about it.
It’s stupid how much that hurts me. It’s unjustified and unfair of me, I know. But it still hurts, because he told me everything. Even when I didn’t answer, he still told me everything. At least, that’s what I thought. Obviously, I was mistaken.
Chapter 8
Easton
Dreamer—Dermot Kennedy
I’m Sorry.
Two words. An apology, but no explanation. I didn’t answer Rayne’s message yesterday, even though I read it, and now she’s standing in front of me, staring at me in horror with those gray eyes. I’m ashamed of myself.
But to answer and tell her that it’s okay and she doesn’t need to feel bad would have been a complete lie. Asking her why she ran away, and why she didn’t tell me she was in Boston, would have been pointless. She probably wouldn’t have told me anyway.
Would she really not have told me?the stupid, much-too-persistent voice in my head asks. I’ve been trying to ignore it for days. First it tried to get me to text Rayne, and then to answer her message. I didn’t do either. Now I’m not only ashamed of myself, but I regret not listening to it. Because maybe this time she would have responded, and then we would have started to have a real conversation again. Eventually, we would have both figured outthat we’d see each other again this morning. Then we wouldn’t be so shocked. Rayne’s lips are moving, and I don’t have to be a genius to know what she’s trying to say.
What are you doing here?
I’m asking myself the same question: What isshedoing here? She shouldn’t be here. Correction: She doesn’twantto be here.
At least not the Rayne I know. Or knew? I’m not sure. Because I don’t really know her, do I? Rayne is Liam Bellamy’s daughter, and I didn’t notice, didn’t know, didn’t figure it out. Not even when she was standing right in front of me. Maybe I would have recognized her sooner if she hadn’t hidden her hair under her hat. Those long purple locks that are impossible to miss are now pulled back into a tight bun.
“Okay, everyone, to the barres.” Mr.Conrad claps his hands and snaps me out of my thoughts. Rayne flinches and turns away abruptly. Only when she turns to the two girls beside her do I notice Zoe and Mae.
Mae waves cheerfully at me, while Zoe smiles warmly. At least they seem happy to see me. Rayne, on the other hand, ignores me completely, and I can see how tense she is. Her shoulders are hunched and her hands are clenched into fists. My instincts urge me to go over and talk to her, but this is not the right time. After all, I’m not here for her; I have a job to do.
I force myself to turn away and sit down at the piano. The instrument is beautiful and probably worth more than all the instruments we have in our living room at home put together—and we have a lot of them.