Page 21 of Intermission

“Oh! Yes.”

“So... would you go out to dinner with me before our callback audition?”

“I’d like to, but...” I bite my lip. My parents rarely get home from work before a quarter to six, which means there won’t be time for him to meet them—a Prescott dating requirement—and still leave time for us to have dinner before the audition.

“You have a boyfriend, right?” He sighs. “I should’ve known. Sorry. I didn’t think to ask.”

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend.” I press a hand against the heat of my cheek. “But I have Show Choir rehearsal after school. I won’t be finished until around 4:30.”

“Perfect. I get off at four, so that will give me a chance to clean up a little. Should I pick you up at school?”

“That should work.” Guilt pricks me, but what are my options, really? “Around 4:40? That’ll give me time to gather my stuff in case Mr. Barron goes over time.”

“You mean there are times hedoesn’tgo over?”

“Right.” I laugh. “A quarter to five then. I’ll watch for you from the front doors. Will you be driving the truck?”

“Unfortunately, no. I got my car back. It’s a somewhat ancient Buick four-door. Three-door if you only count the ones that open. It’s a rusty shade of blue, but I imagine you’ll hear it before you see it.”

“Ah. A classic, huh?”

“More of a beast, actually, but I’m sure she’d appreciate the compliment.”

“Doesshehave a name?”

“Of course. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“At least you’re honest. I call her Eliza. As in Doolittle.”

“Ah.My Fair Lady.”

“The same. She’s crass and loud and regularly threatens to do me in, but,” he half-sings the next few words in a British accent, “I’ve grown accustomed to her... pace.”

“I don’t think that’s how the song goes.”

“Forgive me. I’m a habitual hack. And that, I must admit, was one of my very worst lyrical hacks. You can smack me if it gets annoying. Most everyone does.”

I’m glad to be on the telephone instead of in person. My smile feels like it’s stretching toward something goofy.

“So, on that sour note,” Noah continues, “I’ll say goodbye for now and plan to pick you up at the high school at a quarter to five on Tuesday.”

“Great. In the meantime,” I affect a brash cockney accent, “please give Miss Doo-li-ul me regards.”

I can still hear him laughing when I hang up.

I glance at the clock for the fortieth time since school let out. “Mr. B, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go.”

“But it’s only—” The choir director glances over his shoulder at the clock in the back of the auditorium. “Oh. I guess we went over time. Again. Sorry, guys. Okay, I’ll see you all back here Thursday after school.”

I fly off the stage and out of the auditorium to my locker.

Just outside the high school’s front entry doors, Noah stands with his hands in the pockets of an unzipped, sturdy brown jacket. Looking like he’s stepped off the cover of an L.L. Bean catalog, he wears a blue and white flannel shirt over a navy t-shirt and faded jeans with dark brown lace-up boots. His gaze is directed toward the parking lot. He hasn’t seen me yet.

I glance down at my own outfit of skinny jeans with a dark pink hooded cardigan over a black fitted tee. On my feet, black high-top Converse.

“It’ll do.” I push through the doors.