Page 2 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

CELESTE

There was nothing like being stuck on the side of the highway, with cars blurring past you at eighty miles an hour, to make you come to a decision.

“I think I’m going to stop having social anxiety,” I shouted as a semi-truck that failed to switch lanes barreled by.

Naomi’s black braids whipped at her cheeks. Her brown skin beaded with sweat from the evening heat. She crouched at the front of my car, inspecting the tire that had decided to delay our journey home. “Come again? Couldn’t hear you over the roar of potential death.”

I waited for a break in traffic before I rolled over the spare tire. It had taken some elbow grease and a YouTube tutorial refresher, but we managed to get the car jacked up.

“Social anxiety disorder,” I said, now by her side. “I’m over it.”

She laughed and held out her hand for the wrench tucked in the waistband of my skirt. “Took you long enough.”

“I know.” I rolled my eyes. “Been dragging my feet for years. But you know how we are.”

“Obsessed with one another.” Naomi finished removing the lug nuts I’d loosened.

“Enthralled. It’s toxic.” I got into position to help her remove the tire. Dirt and grime from the rubber stamped our fingers. Between the summer sun and the dry air, we were huffing and puffing, trying to get the spare into place.

“What made you finally come to terms with this long-overdue breakup?” Naomi made a face as we struggled to align the tire’s holes with the wheel’s bolts.

I took a deep breath, readying myself before ripping off the band-aid. “My parents withdrew their financial support for school.”

Her hands fell from the tire, and I moved to the center to keep it in place.

“What?” she asked, louder due more to frustration’s sake than highway traffic interference. “When?”

“When they realized they weren’t getting a refund for the classes I dropped last semester. I missed the add/drop period.” I was usually better about that.

I was also better about curating my classes, so nothing stood in the way of completion.

Unfortunately, failed me. Dozens of students there assured me the professors for my English and Art History courses didn’t require presentations.

And if they did, I could convince them to let me write a ten-page paper instead.

Maybe the professors had new requirements.

Maybe they were tired of reading ten-page papers.

Maybe they didn’t like my timid email request. Whatever it was, they hadn’t budged.

I tried to stick it out in the first few classes.

Because perhaps there was a chance I could conquer almost twenty years of crippling anxiety in the span of a week.

It turns out, I made things worse. Now, I had an aversion to the sidewalks leading from the English building to the nearest working restroom.

I also scared a group of touring high school seniors with my panicked throwing up, but I couldn’t dwell on the nitty-gritty details…

not when they made my stomach churn with aftershocks.

“So, what does this mean?” Naomi searched my face, confused at my nonchalance. What I hadn’t shared was that I cried for weeks about the situation. My best friend had enough on her plate—no need to add my deteriorating college experience to the combo.

“It means,” I said, grunting as I finished aligning the tire. It was my turn to hold out my hand in request for the wrench. “I don’t have enough money for the rest of my courses.”

“Celeste.” Seeing a frown on her face was foreign. “How long have you known this?”

“Since last semester.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve kept this a secret that long?”

“It wasn’t a secret.” I almost pulled my bicep trying to tighten the first nut. Naomi noticed the struggle and leaned in again to help. She placed her hand over mine, and we tugged the wrench together.

“You could have asked for help,” she said.

“With what? Coming up with thousands of dollars in the span of four months?”

“I have a head for numbers.”

That she did, along with two part-time jobs, twelve-credit course load, and a whole life I needed her to enjoy.

Naomi was the kind of friend who’d douse you first if you were both on fire.

And then, she’d insist her third-degree burns were of no concern until you were salved up.

It took true investigative work to learn she was homeless after the death of her mother.

And hours of convincing her to come live with my family and me while she got back on her feet.

“And I have a head for obsessing over solutions,” I said.

“So, you’ve been ruminating. And how does that set you on the path of this grand anxiety breakup?”

When I didn’t answer, she sighed. The grease on her fingers transferred to her jaw as she tried to flip her braids back.

I itched to hold my own hair off my neck, resisting because of the grime under my freshly painted pink nails.

It was a terrible day to forgo my protective twists.

My brown coils were a heavy blanket on my skin, shrinking by the second from soaking up my sweat.

“You want to know my solution or not?” We were on the final nut. I waved her hand away so I could finish tightening it myself.

“Fine.” Naomi huffed and gave up crouching to sit on the burning concrete. She winced in discomfort but toughed it out because if she felt anything like me, her knees were killing her. Her legs were far longer than mine, so she had to scoot back to extend fully.

“I’m going to stop having social anxiety,” I said.

“Ha ha.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “Be for real now.”

“That’s just step one.”

She raised a brow, catching on to the seriousness wrapped in my absurdity. “Step two?”

“Ophelia Lawrence is coming back to Tinsel,” I said.

Naomi’s mouth parted in awe because, of course, she remembered my favorite songwriter. “How long have you known this?”

“Only a couple of days.”

“And you’ve been sitting on this information? We were just doing the world’s best rendition of Every Single. I was this close to hitting the high note in the chorus.”

“So close,” I agreed, laughing at the fact I’d gotten her deep enough into musicals that she knew every word to one of my all-time favorites.

“I would have liked to know one of the greatest songwriters of our generation was coming here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, still laughing.

“It’ll all be forgiven if you say we have tickets.”

“Tickets?” I asked.

“Is she not here for a show?”

“No.” I shook my head and tested all the nuts once more. Everything felt tight enough. “She’s here to announce a mentorship program at the playhouse. Aunt Kiera and my mentor, Nola, gave me a heads up and a chance to look at the application before it goes live next week.”

My aunt was the manager of Tinsel’s Playhouse.

She’d gotten me into musicals as a kid, always convincing my parents to let me tag along with her and my cousin whenever a new show was in town.

And Nola was my school-appointed mentor.

She wasn’t particularly one for inspiration, but she gave brilliant critiques.

Her ear was unmatched at Mendell’s School of Music.

“Ophelia’s going to mentor you?” Naomi reached out to grab my arm, but thought otherwise when she remembered her hands were filthy. She settled for air-pinching my cheeks. “Oh my God, are you kidding?”

“Whoa, hold on. We do not know that yet.” My stomach jumped, restless at the thought of how low the odds of me getting the mentorship were.

“I have to apply. And for the application, I have to submit something incredible. Something that will impress a genius musician who’s written Tony award-winning musicals and Grammy-winning soundtracks.

She's the only Black woman to compose an entire film for a Disney princess. And she did all that before thirty-five.”

“And you’ll be writing for Broadway by twenty-three.” Naomi shrugged. “I don’t see the problem here.”

I released a low, disbelieving laugh.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Celeste, you’re talented. Anytime I’m in the music building, someone’s singing your praises. Pun intended.”

I scoffed. “It’s stiff competition. The winner gets the chance to join her in New York for a season.

All expenses paid. I’d work under her for a few months.

Learn far more than I could at Mendell. And then, maybe…

I could clean up my musical. I want to apply for a grant.

With Ophelia’s recommendation and notes on revisions, I don’t know.

.. I could use it to finish school and get started on doing this writing stuff for real. ”

I chewed on my inner cheek. This all sounded ridiculous. A fool’s dream. Did I really think I was going to come up with something brilliant enough to impress someone like Ophelia over the course of a summer? My skin burned at how silly the plan was now it existed outside my brain.

Naomi huffed in disapproval, already anticipating my train of thought. “Nope. You’re doing it. Regardless of whether you need the money, you’re applying. When are we starting?”

I shook my head. “I don’t expect you to help.”

“Girl, stop.” She pushed herself off the ground and offered me a hand up. Cars continued to speed by as we plotted out how I would achieve all my hopes and dreams.

“So?” Naomi placed her hands on her hips. “When? And how?”

I took a breath and went for it. “I need to stand out. I can record demos and sing all the parts, but that’s what most people will do.”

I couldn’t possibly know who all would apply.

But I was familiar with some of my competition because they’d come from our school.

The very school that didn’t put much stock into funding the arts.

Neglected art programs made hungry students.

Hungry students were a force to be reckoned with—especially hungry musicians.

There was a kind of fire in our belly that wouldn’t be tamed, no matter how many “you should get a backup plan” comments were thrown our way.

“Everyone in my department will be incredible,” I insisted. “I have to be better.”

Naomi rubbed her hands together, dying for my solution. “What have you got for me?”

I swallowed, taking a beat before explaining, “I want to put on a musical. A real musical, with singers and musicians. On stage and everything.”

My goal was out there in all its silly, impossible, hopeful glory. I gnawed at the bit, waiting for her response.

Naomi tried to press her lips together to keep from smiling too widely. “Are you talking about the musical you started writing in middle school?”

“It’s gone through the ringer since you’ve heard it,” I was quick to promise.

“It’s brilliant,” Naomi insisted.

I laughed, thankful my biggest fan was so sure. “You don’t know that.”

“Ophelia better watch her crown.”

“So, you don’t think the idea’s too ridiculous? Too risky?” I chewed on my bottom lip.

“It’s perfect, Celeste. The timing couldn’t be any better. Ophelia here with a once-in-a-lifetime mentorship right when your folks stop financially supporting you? The stars have aligned. It’d be too risky not to do it.”

I breathed a sigh. “I’ll need a crew.”

“Of course.” Naomi nodded. “I… I’m drowning in work, but I can do weekends and nights.”

I shook my head. “I’d love your help, if you have any extra time, but you’re not giving up your sleep schedule and off days for me. I need to find other people. I have performers in mind; I just need people to work backstage.”

Naomi hummed. I knew that look on her face. The setting sun made the air slightly less torturous. And the traffic had thinned, so standing on the side of the interstate was half as dangerous.

“What?” I asked.

“You have to really give it a chance,” she said. “Because it’s a match made in heaven.”

“What?” I pressed.

“You need a right-hand. And I know a guy who needs a good community service project for a summer course. He’ll handle the interactions with performers so you can focus on any final music tweaks.”

My stomach turned. I knew where this was going. And, unfortunately, it did sound like a good idea.

“You really think he’d say yes?”

Naomi smiled and nodded. “There is no world in which Lincoln Hill would ever turn down a chance to work with you.”