Page 8

Chapter Eight

On Sunday after church, my GPS helps me navigate from Cambridge to Boston. It’s embarrassing to rely so heavily on my phone for directions, but I literally still don’t know the streets of Boston, and city drivers scare me.

Still, it’s worth it if I get to see Carlton.

The excursion takes a grand total of ten minutes, and when I arrive, my eyes widen at the mini feast his parents have prepared for us, complete with a colorful charcuterie board, hot apple cider, fresh fruit, a vegetable platter, and caviar. Yes… caviar .

This has to be the day he asks me to be his girlfriend. The day he finally makes things official between us.

We’re seated in the heavily windowed dining room in stiff, beautifully upholstered provincial chairs. My legs tingle with numbness, so I swing them back and forth to keep my blood moving. The dining room, much like the rest of Carlton’s house, is overwhelming to look at, with grand, double-height ceilings, extravagant light fixtures, custom wainscoting, and Renaissance-style paintings and sculptures nearly everywhere I turn.

The lunch meat his mom sliced is fanned out on a thick wooden board like a deck of cards, topped with paper-thin lemon wedges and a sprinkle of parsley. I’m afraid to mess it up.

“Nigel Weathers reposted Fallbrook’s performance announcement. I saw it last night.” Mrs. Peters beams. Her eyes are full of warmth as she smiles at Carlton. “This is the year. I just know it.”

Carlton’s cheeks lift in response, but the smile is too tight for his face. “You would think so.”

“You’re not going to let us down this time, son,” his dad says. He says it like it’s a simple truth. Like he’s commenting on the fact that it’s foggy outside with a twenty percent chance of rain.

The words aren’t even directed me, but they send dread and sadness rocketing through me. When I glance at Carlton to see his response, his face is neutral. The only thing that gives him away is the way his hands are balled into fists on his legs.

“Even if he doesn’t get into Underwood Academy,” I say, ignoring Mrs. Peters’s eyes landing on me sharply, “I know he’ll give a great performance. And he could always just apply after high school, right?”

I’m not sure why I say it. Maybe because of the unbearable pressure his parents are putting him under. I can practically feel the tangible weight of it, and it’s not even directed at me.

“He will get into Underwood Academy.” Mr. Peters takes a sip of his hot cider. “It will be better for his future if he completes his high school education there while simultaneously earning college credits.” His statement indicates the subject is now closed, so I drop it.

“I just hope Nigel realizes his mistake from last year. He’s got a chance now to remedy it,” Mrs. Peters says. “Carlton was the best sophomore in the whole play.”

“Sophomore? I thought only juniors and seniors could get accepted to Underwood.” I sound exasperated, even to my own ears. How long has Carlton been trying to get into this school, anyway?

“Sophomores and even freshmen can get accepted,” says Mr. Peters. “But it’s pretty rare. Usually, the two lead actors are the ones chosen, and those roles are always given to upperclassmen.” He purses his lips. “But Carlton was better than both of them last year, even as a supporting role.”

Carlton’s shoulders relax. “Thanks, Mom.”

“It’s true. And if things get serious after you graduate from Underwood,” she says, “we’ll have to either move to Los Angeles or New York, depending on the path you want to take in your career.” She pats Carlton’s hand.

My brows draw together. “Path?”

His mom glances at me. “Film or Broadway. LA for film, New York for stage.” She scrunches her nose. “But so much filming is done in New York, it’s the best of both worlds, in my opinion.”

“Right.” I nod, like I knew that already, of course I did. “That makes sense.”

Carlton’s parents continue planning what he’ll do after he gets into Underwood. They discuss where he’ll stay, helping him with rent or even getting a second home there, and what kind of roles would best suit him. If this is what he wants, and he’s not just trying to please his parents like I am, then I’m happy for him. But one thing is clear: the future they’re discussing does not include me. And why should it? I’m not Carlton’s girlfriend. For all his parents know, I’m just another friend of his, like Rue, Meredith, or Mabel. Carlton fidgets in his seat as his parents go on, his eyes downcast beneath his furrowed brows.

After lunch, his parents announce they’re going to the club for a round of golf.

Carlton stretches his shoulders. “Dot and I should probably run lines together.” He’s not wrong. Carlton and I have plenty of scenes together, but we still haven’t taken the time to rehearse alone yet.

“Hm. I don’t know.” Mr. Peters lingers, like he’s not sure if they should leave us in the house alone together, yet, but Mrs. Peters hurries him along. “They’re children, not criminals. Goodness.”

When they shut and lock the door behind them, silence echoes around the house. I hadn’t realized how much of the talking had been coming from them. Now it’s just me and Carlton, and I’m not sure what to say.

We get up from the table and he finally breaks the silence. “That was intense.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah. All that talk about film and Broadway…” I trail off, searching for the right way to phrase my thoughts.

“What about it?”

“I guess I’m just trying to figure out where I fit into all of it.” I don’t know how to hint any longer, so I’m just going to finally ask the question. “What are we, exactly?”

“Well, I’m Carlton. And you’re Dot.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “So, I guess that makes us Carlton and Dot.”

I fold my arms. “You know what I mean.”

“Last I checked things were going well. Why the sudden need for all this heavy talk?”

“It’s not that heavy,” I mutter. But at the same time, I know he’s probably right. I’m just feeling insecure because of all these plans being made about Carlton’s future. Last I checked, none of the eight Ivy League colleges are in Los Angeles, so him moving there would probably mean goodbye for good.

Unless you don’t get into an Ivy, Dot. I try to ignore how light inside I feel at the concept of not going Ivy. Of possibly going to an unconventional school like Underwood.

I try to tell myself that’s not what I really want, that I’m only thinking like this because I miss the impulsive structure of homeschool and still haven’t adjusted to the linear setup of Fallbrook.

“Hey,” Carlton says, lifting my chin with his finger. “Let’s just start over. Come here.”

We both get out of our chairs, and he gives me a light hug, patting my back a few times. I don’t know why, but the gesture irritates me. Being patted on the back reminds me of how I would pat a dog for behaving well. Not how I would comfort someone I care about.

But then Carlton kisses me lightly on the lips, and all negativity drains from my mind. I shut my eyes, enjoying the soft warmth of his lips.

You’re overthinking things, Dot, I tell myself. Just relax. Be cool.

When the kiss stretches out and becomes deeper, the remaining insecure thoughts I’ve been harboring evaporate. If only I could just stay here in this moment, never returning to reality. Just stay here, feeling Carlton’s lips on mine, and letting my arms wind gently around his neck.

A whistle sounds in the room, followed by another. I belatedly realize that the noise is not a person, but our phones going off.

A Little Birdie blast.

Carlton breaks apart from me, eager to read whatever the anonymous blogger has to say. A prick of annoyance stabs me.

Seriously? Little Birdie is more important than this moment we’re sharing right now?

I heave a dramatic sigh, not hiding my irritation, but otherwise take out my phone to check the blast as well.

And I read:

Fledglings!

My goodness, do I have a scoop of something yummy for you to snack on until I return next!

How could I, after all, keep something this delicious to myself? It wouldn’t be fair.

Just yesterday, none other than Dot Bennett, arguably Fallbrook’s new It Girl, was spotted in a restaurant sitting across from—you guessed it—Zayne Silverman! But what could easily be mistaken as a friendly rendezvous in fact appeared to be much more! See from the photo—snapped by an anonymous bystander—the look in Dot’s eyes, the way she stares longingly at Zayne, who is obviously just as enraptured by Dot’s beauty as she is by his appeal.

Now the question is only what Carlton, her original beau, will do in response.

Eagerly awaiting some action is Yours Truly,

Little Birdie

When I look up from my screen, cheeks burning in rage, Carlton is already done reading. His lips are pressed together in a tight line, and he’s staring not at me, but past me, like I’m not right in front of him. Like I don’t even exist.

“Carlton—” I start, but he holds up a hand, silencing me.

“I don’t want to hear it, Dot.”

My heart hammers against my ribcage. Caught. I’ve been caught, and I wasn’t even doing anything wrong, but how can I explain that to Carlton? If I were in his shoes, this would all cut me so deep, I wouldn’t be sure who or what to believe. I’d like to think I’d believe him , trust him, but how do you deny what’s right in front of you, picture evidence?

“It’s not what it looks like,” I try again.

He finally looks at me. “Oh, it isn’t?” He holds up his phone, showing me the photo of me sitting across from Zayne at the restaurant, our intimate shared moment that would have been lost in time, now forever recorded by one finger tapping a camera button on a phone. It looks like whoever snapped the photo was near the exit, as if they took it on their way out.

“Because what it looks like,” he says, bringing me back to the present, “is that you failed to mention you met up with Zayne, who happens to hate my guts.” He doesn’t drop the phone, though his point has been made. Just keeps holding it up to my face. “So please, Dot, tell me how this is not what it looks like.”

I grasp for words, my mind in fragments. Finally, I remember how to speak. “I didn’t meet up with him. It’s not like I specifically sought him out or something. I just took Beau out to eat, and Zayne was our waiter.”

He nods, but his grimace only deepens. “Right. Like you didn’t know he works there.”

“I didn’t!” The words come out helplessly.

Carlton grits his teeth. “Everyone knows that restaurant is his family’s. Come on, Dot. I know you’re not actually that stupid.”

My heart clenches. Just moments ago, Carlton’s arms were around me. We were kissing. How did those sweet moments turn into this? Just thinking about it gives me whiplash. “Maybe I should go.”

“Maybe you should. We can rehearse at school.”

We stare at each other wordlessly. I will him with my eyes to take it back, tell me he didn’t mean any of it. To laugh and brush this argument off as a result of stress from trying to get into Underwood Academy.

But he doesn’t.

He just stares at me, his eyes like a curtain, closed against the blinding, unwelcome sun on a lazy morning.

So, I have no other choice but to turn around and leave.