Page 52 of Intermission

“I wouldn’t dare.” I laugh, but the singers I’d held up as my romantic ideals of awesomeness in middle school fall strangely short when compared to Noah Spencer.

“He’s like all four of them combined, only... better. He may even have a little bit of Zayn’s soulful—”

“Oh, barf. So he’s perfect.” Jenna’s tone is dry. She pantomimes being sick and then wiggles her eyebrows. “At least he’s a good kisser.”

I grin. “He is that. Now shut up and watch the movie.”

“You get to kiss him on stage, right? At the thing in Leopold?”

“Yeah. Now shush already.”

“I am so buying a ticket to that stupid musical.”

That stops me short. “Really? But youhatemusicals!”

“You hate volleyball, but you still come to my games.”

“I don’t hate volleyball.”

“Liar.”

“You’re right. I hate volleyball. You’ll really come?”

“Of course I’ll come! How many times does a girl get a chance to see her best friend make out with a guy in front of her parents?”

“Don’t remind me.” I groan. “Dad’s on call at the hospital all that weekend, but my mom is going to opening night.” I wrinkle my nose. “I was secretly hoping they were going to be out of town.”

“Because of the kiss?”

“No. Okay, a little, I guess,” I admit when she arches one eyebrow and gives methat look. “But mainly it’s because I’m always so nervous when they’re in the audience.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t do anything right. My mom’s never been in a play in her life, but she’s the expert on everything I’m doing wrong.”

“Come on, Faith. I’ve heard her tell you how good you are.”

“And every single time it’s followed with a, ‘but next time you should try to...’” I grab a handful of popcorn. “It’s not just that, though. I’m nervous about her meeting Noah.”

“Why? He seems like a good guy. Hey!” She points at the TV. “Niall’s looking at us. He is looking at us!”

It’s what we imagined when we were younger, every time one of the guys looked at the camera. But even the happy sight of Niall singing directly to me—er, the camera—can’t completely ease my tension about opening night and what will come after.

Eventually, Noah will have to meet my parents.

Backstage, I’m one scene away from the shrill whistle that will call Liesl von Trapp forth for her debut on the remodeled Leopold Opera House stage. Somewhere, likely near the back, my mom is watching, probably keeping a mental list of every perceived fault in the performance, if only to assuage her boredom.

Energy is high, zinging through the atmosphere so thickly that it’s almost a tangible thing, at least backstage. It’s a packed house, and the audience seems very responsive so far, which makes our job as performers much easier. Still, I’m sure Mom will find something someone is doing wrong, even though the only role she’s ever played in a theatrical production is as a chauffeur, driving me to and from rehearsals and performances before I got my license.

In my stomach, butterflies multiply, and some grow claws as they always do this close to taking the stage. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders like the good little von Trapp child that I am about to become, and...

A faint waft of cinnamon cracks through the competing scents of hot lights, lingering sawdust, and set paint. As gentle fingers graze the inside of my forearm, sliding down to lace with mine in that sweet, now-familiar Noah-way, a friendlier, heart-shaped butterfly joins its stage-born brothers and sisters.

I turn a smile up at him, but I can feel its wobble.

His gaze is warm. Centering. I take a deep breath in... and out.

Who knew cinnamon had such calming properties?