Page 40 of Past the Broken Bridges

Dixie is upside down from the angle I’m looking at her at, but she slowly turns to me from her desk chair. “Beethoven was deaf, not Mozart.”

I think about it. “Oh. Which one had a dog named after him?”

She blinks. “Beethoven.”

All I say is “Huh.”

Dixie moves on. “Classical is what most of us are trained in. It’s what my parents wanted me to play. But I won more competitions playing AC/DC and Def Leppard mashups. You should have seen their faces when I got onstage and started playing Bon Jovi.”

From what she said, her parents are the ritzy country club types who go golfing every week and attend charity galas. I’ve never seen photos, but I picture them wearing matching cashmere sweaters and khaki pants while drinking tea at the club with their pinkies up. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I guess. But it seems like they’re all about their image, and Dixie playing what she wants and coming here ruins that for them.

The girl whose shoulder-length hair I put into a French braid twirls in her chair mindlessly. “My parents both come from old money, so it isn’t like they depended on what I earned from my performances to get by. That would have been way too much pressure.”

I could imagine. My parents had the misfortune of getting a daughter who cost them more money than I earned them.

She props her elbow on her desk and rests her chin on her palm. “I think it was a pride thing. They liked bragging to their friends that I played at Carnegie. When I toldthem I wasn’t applying to Juilliard, my mother about had a conniption.”

I roll my head to get a better look at the subtle frown on her face. On the outside, the girl who owns more cardigans than I can keep count of looks like she’s too soft for life. Her features are doe-like and fragile, she’s quiet, and she barely goes after what she wants. Like Dawson Gable, who she talks about relentlessly, especially after he brought her Pop-Tart-shaped hearts that looked suspiciously identical to the ones at my door on Valentine’s Day. Except I know it wasn’t Dawson who dropped them off because he doesn’t know my secret obsession with the childhood treats. And I also know for a fact Dixie doesn’t even like overly sweet things like I do. She’s a savory type of person, and anyone who hangs around her knows that if they pay enough attention.

Which begs the question—why did Dawson give those to Dixie? And whose idea was it?

It was easy not getting in my head about it when my brain felt like it was going to explode, but now that I’m better, I can’t stop wondering what the motive was. And that always leads to thinking about the boy next door. And the fact he never used my number I left for him.

I’m secretly dreading class on Wednesday, hoping he doesn’t feel awkward about it.

Forcing the thoughts away, I ask, “Are you close with your parents?”

I can tell Dixie loves her family, and sometimes they’re the hardest people to stand up to when it comes to what you want.

Even though I know my mother and father would do anything for me, it wasn’t easy telling them what I wanted to do. With all the money they spent on me over the years andall the worrying they did, I knew asking to leave was risky. Selfish, even. Thankfully, they understood.

“I need to do this,” I tell my mother after Bentley goes to bed. “For me.Please.”

Dixie leans her elbows on her bent knees. “Not as close as we used to be, but we talk still. They clearly accepted my decision to come here, even if they didn’t like it. I think they’re letting me live my life and spend time figuring myself out.”

Figuring herself out.Sounds familiar. “That’s good then.” As far as I’m concerned, that’s what all parents should want for their kids. If they want to spend college learning who they are, they should be encouraged for it rather than questioned. Likesomepeople tend to.

She nods in agreement, a faraway look about her as she starts spinning in the chair again.

When we get quiet, I decide to break the silence. “You never went into detail about how your date went. Have you heard from Dawson since you guys went out?”

She hasn’t said much about the bubbly boy who joins us a few times a week for lunch. He typically sits by me, save for the few times I’ve made up excuses to leave early to give them some one-on-one time. Dixie always texts me asking what to talk about as soon as I’m gone, which I conveniently miss seeing so she can figure it out.

Dixie’s head tilts back, groaning. “No. I saw him on campus last night with a group of people, but I don’t think he saw me.”

“Why didn’t you go up to him?”

Her expression turns dumbfounded. “Do I look like the type to go up to a cute boy and strike up a conversation?” She gestures to herself with a frown, flicking her cardigan. It’s a blue one today. Yesterday, it was beige. Theday before, white. The day we went through her closet to find something to go out in, I understood why she wanted to raid my wardrobe. Apparently, you can take the girl out of the country club, but not the country club out of the girl. “Plus, he was talking to another girl. So…”

Oh.Oh.“Maybe they’re friends?” I offer weakly.

Doubt clouds her features. “Maybe.”

Dawson seems like a flirt, but he doesn’t seem like a serious relationship guy. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

She makes a face. “That’s what Banks said.”

When did she ask Banks about Dawson? “I didn’t know you two talked.”

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