Page 54 of Come As You Are

“And this one?” I push forward the second card with an exaggerated pout on my face. “This one’s not either?”

“She already told you it’s not! Can’t you hear, Rumson Girl?”

My teeth are going to crack if I clench them any harder, but Isabel plays it cool and just says, “Nope, that’s not it either.”

“And this third one?” I widen my eyes in panic. “You’re sure it’s not this one?”

“I’m sure,” says Isabel, holding up the third card.

“Then I guess it must be this one,” I say, pointing to the fourth. I wait for an annoying outburst from the audience, and so does Isabel, neither of us wanting the punch line to drown in it, but it doesn’t come. Finally, Isabel picks up the card, and her face breaks into a huge smile.

“That’s it!” she says, holding up the card as if it were a newborn lion. I knew she could act, but the wonder on her face, as if she’s never seen this trick before, is perfect. The entire audience cheers, and for the rest of the routine, there’s no more shit from the crowd, even when I slip slightly on an aerial and nearly drop the deck.

By the time they announce the end of our performance, I could not be readier to get off that stage.

“That went great!” Isabel whispers excitedly, squeezing my arm. “You really do have to show me how you do that stuff.”

“I will,” I promise. I go to take my seat with Heather and Sabrina, and watch as Isabel takes hers. Salem catches my eye and gives me a little golf clap, which I respond to with a dramatic bow.

“That was so great!” Heather gushes. “You— Oh! Lucas is up!”

Well, that was some short-lived joy. I take my seat quietly and dig my nails into my thighs as I watch Lucas perform an entire comedy routine by John Mulaney, though he does admittedly nail the voice and intonations. The audience eats it up, despite the fact that they watched Jesse do something similar a few acts ago, breaking into laughter at all the right points, and I want to remind them that it isn’t becauseLucasis funny.

Mercifully, it’s a short set, after which Heather immediately goes to find him, tell him he’s brilliant, and abandon me and Sabrina to go sit with him. Sabs and I sit through an impressive quick-change routine, an even more impressive singing performance by Heather and Kayla, a tap dance by a girl in my chem class, Darryl and Jason’s rap battle, a ventriloquist, and a Shakespearean monologue by the Lockwood prefect. The night seems to be winding down when Hoffman declares, “And next up, we have a late addition to the roster… from the illustrious Rumson Hall, please welcome Salem Grayson and his guitar, playing Guns N’ Roses’ ‘Patience’!”

“I’m sorry, it’s who doing what now?” But even as thewords leave my lips my eyes track Salem’s long, lean body shuffling up to the stage, a guitar I’ve never even seen before slung over his shoulder.

Sabrina rolls her eyes. “I knew he couldn’t resist.”

“Hewhat?” I’m still stunned by the sight of Salem up there on the stage, hopping onto a stool, admittedly looking every inch the rock star.

Jenna must be so proud. I’ve never seen her play anything but cool, but the way her eyes are fixed on the stage, a tiny smile playing at her lips, her eyes glittering in the dim light of the room… against all odds, she really does like Salem. It’s fascinating.

Salem coughs into the mic and says, “It’s actually Chris Cornell’s cover of ‘Patience,’ but uh, yeah.”

He starts strumming, and from the very first melancholy notes, my breath catches in my throat. The melody is beautiful, yeah, but there’s something about the way his fingers look curved around the wood of the guitar’s neck, the effortlessness with which they pluck at the chords, and the contemplative look on his face, peaceful but focused, as if whatever—or whoever—is inspiring him right now is right there behind his eyelids.

And when he opens his mouth, his playing is nothing compared to his voice. Hisvoice.It’s a low rasp coated in honey, achingly romantic, and even though I know those grungy jeans and that Black Flag T-shirt and corded leather bracelet as well as I know my own wardrobe, I cannot believe that voice is coming out of SalemGrayson,of all people. The voice and thewords.He made it sound like he and Jenna are a casual thing,like they’re just hooking up, but… this isn’t a song you sing about a girl you’re just having fun with. A song about waiting? Having patience? Believing that you’ll make it?

Salem’s singing like he’s in love.

If I were Jenna—or, hell, if this were anyone other than Salem—I’d be fully weak in the knees by now.

As it is, I’m not feeling too hot. I know he’s not trying to rub salt in the wounds Lucas and Craig left behind—hecouldn’tbe—but it’s so brutal to hear him singing about taking it slow and having a future when I’m still so full of regrets. It almost feels like he knows, like he’s somehow reached into my brain and my heart and decided to claw me open and drag me in front of the entire school.

And when he looks up and locks eyes with me for a second, the faintest of smiles on his lips, intellectually I know it’s a nod to my saying I knew he’d play guitar at the talent show, but still, it hurts like hell.

When he comes down off the final notes, the room absolutely explodes in applause and whistles, including from Sabrina. It’s total chaos, and if I were to look in Jenna’s direction, I might see her sailing down toward the stage, claiming her man with a big, proud kiss.

But I don’t have time to look in Jenna’s direction; I have to take this opportunity to get the hell out of there ASAP. And so without another glance at Salem, without a word to Sabrina, without so much as another breath, I bolt.

No one follows me out. As far as I know, no one even notices I’m gone. And who would? As far as everyoneelseknows, I’m fine, absolutely fine, everything isfine.I have no one to call, nothing to do in my room except solitaire, which seems way too on point at the moment.

So I go to bed, hoping sleep will take me and I won’t have to think about any of these things, any of these people. But hours later I’ve tried everything from counting sheep to recounting all my Spanish vocabulary words, and still nothing. I hear the boys file back into the dorm, loud voices carrying as they talk about the talent show, and there’s little I can make out in the individual conversations that twist and tangle together. Eventually, that too dies down, giving way to the sounds of showers turning on and doors closing.

And then, a knock, so quiet I think I’m imagining it until I hear it again, a little louder this time.

“I’m asleep,” I call.

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