Page 20 of Intermission

“Any score below a B+ and your drama artsy stuff gets nixed. No show choir, no dance team, no community theatre. Got it?”

“Got it.” My enthusiasm wanes. Whenever Mom whips out the wordartsy,I know I’m on thin ice.

Too bad I don’t always heed the warning.

“Gretchen never had to quit volleyball whenshegot a B.”

As soon as the words exit my lips, I regret them. Athletics are almost a religion in the Prescott home. My mom was a volleyball and track star at her high school in Nebraska. Dad played intramural sports in college, all the way through med school. My brother Ryan declined three different full-tuition baseball scholarships from smaller schools when he chose to forego playing college sports and focus on his pre-med studies at the U of I instead. And Gretchen, Golden Gretchen, set dual records for serves and kills at Kanton High that have yet to be broken, as far as I know.

Mom’s lips form a thin line. “Your sister graduated in the top two percent of her class.”

“I know, but—”

“And her college tuition would have been paid by a volleyball scholarship if she hadn’t torn her ACL the third time.”

Colleges have music and drama scholarships, too, but I know better than to take the argument further. You can’t prove the value of the arts to someone who has no love for them.

Mom can’t carry a tune in her gym bag. She thinks dancing should be reserved for four-year-olds in tutus and the occasional wedding reception—and it is certainlynotto be considered asport. School sports impart valuable life skills, but the arts are expendable luxuries for flighty airheads with no sense of healthy competition.

No sense of competition? In the theatre department? She has noidea.

Still, I know her threat has teeth. Last year, right before Christmas break, I got a B- on a Biology test the week of my ballet recital. I was the Sugarplum Fairy inThe Nutcracker, and regardless of the fact that mine was the second highest score in the class—and I still ended up with an A for the semester—that was my last ballet recital.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll have plenty of time to study. I prom—”

Pink glitter vibrates in my hand, and I look at the screen.Unknown caller.

“Go on.” Mom sighs, shooing me away. “But remember what I said, okay?”

“I will.” As I turn to go back upstairs, I push the button to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Faith. This is Noah Spencer.”

“Hi!” Too enthusiastic. I sound like an idiot.Don’t be an idiot, Faith.

“I asked Dr. Hitchings for your number. I hope that’s okay. I can’t believe I didn’t think to get it from you the other day.”

The thrill Mom doused flares high. I force down a giggle. To let it out would be worse than uncool. “No. I don’t mind. Did you get a callback, too?”

“I did. He wants me to read for Rolf. So I was wondering... I’m going to be working a tiling job in Kanton on Tuesday afternoon. Would you like to carpool with me to Leopold?”

I go into my room and shut the door. “Do you need a ride?”

“Uh, no.” Noah laughs. “I wasofferingone. I thought maybe we could grab a sandwich or something before the audition. My treat.”

“Your treat?”

“Um, yeah.” Noah clears his throat. “I’m, uh, trying to ask you out. Pretty smooth, huh?”

I answer his laugh with my own, but words fail me. Noah Spencer is asking me out.

Noah Spencer, who sings like a dream, who loves the theatre, who is kinda hot and totally nice, is asking me out. Me.

Noah Spencer, who graduated two years ago with my golden sister... is askingmeout?

Is that weird? Or just . . . amazing?

“Faith? Are you still there?”