Page 72 of Strings

“Oh. Hey. Was I interrupting?” Cherese asks.

“No,” he responds as he turns back to me briefly. “We’re done.”

It’s been two days since I’ve spoken to Sebastian. He left my apartment in a hurry when he opened my door to get my phone from Cherese, and we’ve managed to successfully avoid each other ever since.

Everyone thinks we’re fighting over some jealous moment, but the truth is we aren’t fighting at all. We’re avoiding. We shouldn’t have kissed. Now everything is awkward and I don’t know how to make it right.

Even though it’s Sunday at noon and I’m at home, Amy calls me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No, nothing. I just wanted to let you know that I heard the youth group is practicing at the community center on Tenth Street today.”

“Okay. Why are you telling me this?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to hear them? I know you’re still trying to figure out how to get them into the Gala.”

“Yeah. That’s true. I am.”

“You should stop by.”

“Amy…”

“Yes?”

“What are you not telling me?”

She sighs into the phone. “Gosh, you read me like a book. Sebastian is there.”

“Ugh.”

“Before you get all mad at me, hear me out. You’re miserable. I know you don’t want to talk about what happened between you, but I really think you should talk it out. You can’t ignore each other forever.”

“I’ll think about it. And Amy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

As I end the call, I stare at Stella. She’s looking atPride and Prejudiceon the table in front of her. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not my pride that’s standing in my way.”

She’s quiet. She does that when she knows I’m kidding myself.

“Do you really think I should go see him?”

I pace back and forth for a few minutes. I have no idea what I want to say to him. But Amy’s right. I hate feeling this way. It’s bad enough that I’m not thinking clearly, but add not knowing how I feel about him, trying to avoid him, and trying to avoid thinking about him or feeling anything at all is ridiculous. And I thought avoiding Mercer and Bella was bad. They have nothing on him. It has to stop.

Before I can change my mind, I check the bus schedule on my phone, grab my keys, and rush out the door.

The community center is on the east side of town. Traffic isn’t bad getting down here, and I can see why. There aren’t many cars on the streets. The L.A. Center for Performing Arts is a bright spot in town. It stands out among the dilapidated buildings surrounding it.

When I walk through the door, I can already hear the sounds of music. It’s not the same music I hear at the Sym, but it’s music all the same.

“Can I help you?”

There’s a young woman sitting at a desk, folding papers and stuffing them into envelopes.

“Hi. I’m Talia Pearson from the L.A. Sym. I was told Sebastian Corronov was here. I was hoping I could listen to the kids for a bit.”