Page 5 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

“Don’t be like that, Birdy.”

My brows pinch until curiosity has me looking up at him. Mischief dances across his features, the corners of his lips quirked up until dimples pop out on either side of his mouth.

“Don’t call me that.”

He winks. “Seems appropriate. You’re flighty when it comes to answering my questions.”

I’m flighty? He ignored me to look at old photos like he’d rather see the evolution of hairstyles, rather than answer a simple question.

He starts walking further down the hall, causing me to try catching up with him. Nothing but the squeal of our shoes against the freshly polished floors fills the silence between us.

I’m prepared to respond when he suddenly stops by the auditorium. One of the double sets of doors is propped open. The janitors are probably cleaning after it was used for the middle school assembly on drug use this morning.

When he starts walking in, I snap out of my train of thought and grab his arm. “What are you do

ing? You can’t go in there.”

He rolls his eyes and peeks in. It’s nothing special to look at. There are three sections of seating, and a medium sized wooden stage in the front of the room. Currently, the two sets of black curtains are open, revealing the cobblestone wall that matches the exterior of the school. On the rest of the beige walls are random geometric shapes that match the school’s forest green color scheme. We’re home of the Spartans.

“They do plays here?” His question is almost lost on me because he’s studying the stage contently. It isn’t until he looks over his shoulder at me and tips his head toward the room again that I muster an answer.

“Yeah.”

They’ve already started meeting afterschool about the winter play. I heard someone say it’s going to be a musical, but for such a small school it’s very hush-hush. I’m betting on Grease, since that’s a fan favorite.

He hums before turning toward me. “Do you participate in them?”

Me? I blink, wondering if he’s kidding. Then I remember that he doesn’t know me, which means he doesn’t know how awkward I am in front of people. “Um … no.”

He tilts his head. “Why not?”

I give him a small shrug. It’s really a comfort thing—not a difficult answer. Somehow I don’t think that’ll be good enough for him though.

“I’m not much into acting, I guess.”

There’s no guessing about it. The only acting I do is when I come home and tell everyone I had a good day at school. It’s a tale I spin to stop my brother from threatening petty people who make fun of me over stupid things like staying quiet or eating alone.

We begin walking again. “What are you into then?” He stops in the middle of the hall, his boots making a horrendous sound against the tile. “Wait, let me guess. You’re the bookish type who loses herself in period pieces where the men insult the available women until they inevitably get married because they’ve always truly loved each other, right?”

I blink. Then blink again. “Did you just describe Pride and Prejudice?”

His grin returns. “Unlike you, I happen to love acting. My old school’s drama club did a year’s worth of Jane Austen adaptations.”

“And I assume you always got the lead?”

He doesn’t have to tell me with words.

He tells me with his eyes—with his confidence. It radiates off him like his own personal spotlight. I wonder if it gets too hot.

Shaking my head, I fight off the small smile that wants to tilt my lips. If they curve upward, I lose. New Kid can’t win.

He steps forward, the tips of his boots nudging the ends of mine. “Come on, Birdy. You know you want to smile.”

My brows arch. “I told you not to—”

“Fine,” he relents, studying me. My five-foot-seven frame feels puny compared to him. He notices the difference as much as me, looking down to catch my eye. “Little Bird is far better.”

My jaw clenches. “I’m not flighty.”

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