Page 12 of Intermission
“A little.” Noah rubs his hands down his cheeks. “Probably nomore than I do.” A dimple tugs his right cheek inward as he smiles. “I guess I’ll see you next Sunday.”
My mind is a sudden blank. “N-next Sunday?”
“I’m coming to see the dumb hotel at the Sunday matinee, remember?”
“You’re really going to come?”
“Well, I can’tpromise,” he hedges. “Sometimes my work schedule changes at the last minute, but I usually have Sundays off.”
“Cool.” My grin is a little too wide. I try to contain it. “Can you find your way home from here?”
“I’m notthatdirectionally challenged.” He chuckles. “I do okay out in civilization.”
“Okay. Well...” I glance toward the house. “Thanks for the ride.”
“My pleasure. Besides, if you and Janey hadn’t come along, I’d probably be cutting branches to build a shelter right now.”
I laugh.
“Goodnight, Madeleine Faith. Thanks for a great evening.”
“You, too.”
After turning the deadbolt on the door, I peek out the sidelight window. To my surprise, Noah Spencer stands exactly where I left him, staring at the door with a thoughtful, almost bemused expression.
Suddenly, he wrinkles his nose, gives a slight shake of his head, and moves toward the truck.
As he rounds the driveway, I press my cheek against the window, watching until his red taillights disappear, thinking of Sunday, and wondering if he’ll like my version of a dumb hotel.
If he likes . . . me.
When I rise from my final bow as Lily St. Regis during Sunday’s curtain call and the house lights come up, my eyes are drawn to a two-fingered whistle coming from the back of the auditorium. Noah smiles and gives a salute. I grin. Still feeling a little in character, I lift my hand to bounce the curls of my short blonde wig and give him an impulsive—and rather outrageous—wink. His head tilts back, but he is too far away for me to hear the chuckle that shakes his shoulders.
I expect Noah to come up to the stage and talk to me, but when the crowd clears, he’s gone. I’m more disappointed than I should be. But what did I expect? I’m just a sixteen-year-old girl in a high school musical. He’s Noah Spencer, future star of London’s West End.
Ah, well. Back to my regularly scheduled life-after-musical, I suppose.
On Monday morning, at the end of my second period class, I’m called to the principal’s office.
The. Principal’s. Office.
My stomach swirls. What have I done? Am I in trouble? Have they called my parents?
I’ve never been called to the office before. Never. I wrack my brain for something,anything,that might explain the summons. I’m a model student. Respectful. Even my friends have occasionally called me a prude. I can’t remember the last time I had my phone out during class without permission. This has to be a mistake.
As I pass the gym, the reek of hormone-laced sweat almost overpowers the unpleasant aromas wafting from the adjacent cafeteria. Coupled with my nerves, the government-issue food products, ever-present scent of moldy dishcloths, and testosterone-on-crack boy-stink is almost enough to make me gag.
I pause at the glass office door, swallow hard, then push it open and walk to the counter to wait—respectfully—while Mrs. Tulley, the secretary, finishes her call.
“Hi, Faith. What can I do for you?”
I hold up the yellow slip of paper. “I got a notice to report.”
“Oh, right. Right! How could I forget?” The secretary beams, as if getting called to the office is some sort of honor. “You look worried. Don’t be, sweetie. You’re not in trouble.” Mrs. Tulley scoots backward on her wheeled chair. “You have a delivery.”
Swiveling to the table behind her desk, Mrs. Tulley grabs a long white box with a purple bow.
“For me?”
