Page 41 of Easy Out

“You graduated high school years ago. Why is Westfield Prep on your mind?”

“Every year, they offer scholarships for their performing arts program.” Why am I sharing this with him? Hart leads us toward a bench just outside the library. I take a seat and situate myself facing him. He drops our bags on the floor and rests his arm casually on the back of the bench.

“Westfield Prep is a gateway to Ivy League schools and job opportunities that don’t include selling a part of yourself to put food on your table.”

“I know plenty of people who were born with silver spoons and still did nefarious things to get ahead.”

“True. I want better for them. I want them to have more options than struggles. I want them to have so many doors opening they never feel claustrophobic and stuck in a bad situation. Earning a scholarship to Westfield will give them a chance.” I slam my mouth shut. I’ve said too much.

“Who are you trying to help? They must be special if you’re letting yourself get so worked up over them.” Do I tell him? Hart already knows more than I want him to. Would it hurt the kids if he knew about them? Hart runs a thumb over my eyebrow. “You can trust me, cariño.” I nod. I think I can too.

“A few kids from my neighborhood.” Thinking about them makes me smile. They’ve all taken a hit or two but are still full of life and promise. I can’t let them lose that light.

“Why is it your responsibility to help them?”

“It’s not.”

“But.” He understands. I smile and nod.

“But, I feel like if I don’t help them, no one else will. Their parents are drowning in their addictions or struggling to do the bare minimum. I can’t walk away knowing I have the means to help them.”

“So, you’re what? Mentoring them? How are you helping them with Westfield Prep exactly?”

“I’m getting them ready for their auditions.” I check the time on my phone. It’s almost midnight. “I need to go.” Hart offers to walk me back to my dorm. I don’t decline him. Not that he would let me.

On our walk, I share more about the kids. The words flow without any hesitation. Hart listens as I go on about the importance of music and picking a song that tells a story.

He doesn’t interrupt me with questions as I explain the dance style and what we’re doing mixing our street moves with contemporary choreography.

“I want to meet them,” Hart says outside my dorm building.

“What?” I ask, a little stunned.

“I want to meet the people you care so much about. I want to see what you’re so passionate about in person.”

“Why? You can’t write about them.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says sternly, ensuring he has my full attention and understanding. “After what you showed me tonight, I need to see more of what you do.”

Why does the thought of Hart watching me teach make me uneasy? At the same time, I want to show him how well I can move my body on the dance floor.

I have this strange desire to see the effect I have on him. I felt it earlier. It’s addicting and heady having Hart’s attention.

“I’ll need to ask them first. If they say it’s okay, you can come to one of our practices.” I won’t do anything that will make the kids uncomfortable.

“I can live with that.” His smile feels like I poured a packet of pop rocks into my bloodstream. Tiny explosions set off all over my body. “I’m taking these with me,” Hart says, holding up the plastic container of cupcakes.

“That’s fine. I have more.”

Hart says goodnight. I watch him walk back toward the library. We didn’t make plans to meet again. Maybe that’s a good thing.

Hart is proving to be everything I thought he wasn’t. It would be a lot easier to stop myself from opening up to him if he was cold and detached. But no, Hart has turned out to be a good listener, considerate, and caring.

That is dangerous for a girl like me.

I’ve let people get close to me, only to have them leave me behind. There is a protective wall around my heart few have been able to penetrate. Hart is slicing through my armor one conversation at a time.

Sydney’s light is still on when I enter our dorm room. I bet she’s putting new pins in her Dr. Nichols voodoo doll. Maybe I should make one for Hart. Poke pins into him until he’s an asshole again. Maybe then I won’t want to like him so much.

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