Page 2 of Two Kinds of Us

I’m sure it was obvious I didn’t mean it.

As soon as Untapped Potential finished their sets, my mood would always plummet. The band didn’t play on Sundays, so another weekend of music and happiness had passed, which meant another week of school and responsibilities stared down at me like a gun barrel pointed at my forehead. Dramatic? Maybe. But it was overwhelming how much I wanted to rewind the tape to yesterday afternoon. Just live my life in a perpetual weekend.

No such luck.

“Okay, Jon, give me one for the road,” I said as I pushed my way to the coffee counter. “But I want—”

“Decaf,” Jonathan finished for me, looking up from sweeping behind the counter. His dark hair was cropped short and curly, his full lips pulled into a familiar smile. “Yeah, you ask for the same thing every weekend, Stella.”

I grinned back, slipping onto a barstool while I waited. “I love this routine we have going. We’re on the same wavelength.”

“You know, I do this only for you. The counter officially closed thirty minutes ago.”

Leaning my elbows onto the counter, I batted my eyes at him. “You love me, just say it.”

When I first met Jonathan, we’d instantly clicked. It’d been my first time stumbling into Crushed Beanz back in November, the same time I saw Untapped Potential play. I’d been so enthralled by the music that Jonathan made me something random to drink. And to this day, he made me the same thing every night.

Although I saw him for only a few hours twice a week, Jonathan knew more about me than most people—he knew what secret I kept.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I told him with a sigh, staring down at the teal to-go cup, the color so bright and cheery andnotmatching my insides. “See you next week?”

“I’ll be here,” he said with a nod, giving me a sympathetic expression. He no doubt could easily read my mood. “Chin up, Stella.”

As I buttoned up my coat, I turned, glancing out over the lounge one last time. I wasn’t sure what I hoped for. Some movie moment where I’d look back and lock eyes with some mega-hot guy? Maybe he’d make his way through the people, wanting to strike up a conversation before the night was over.

Maybe I’d look up and I’d lock eyes with Harry Russo.

Except where he stood, his back was to me, oblivious that I even existed.

I’d parked in a pretty dark corner of the lot, my SUV a spot of black against the snow. My headlights flashed as I pressed the unlock button, my boots slipping over a random patch of ice. Thank goodness January was almost over; warmer temperatures were on the horizon.

Curfew on weekends was eleven-thirty, but since Untapped Potential finished around ten o’clock, I just decided to head home.

Instead of climbing behind the steering wheel, I opened the backseat door and slid in.

Once the darkness fully enveloped me, the process began.

I started by slipping my hands underneath my hair and lifting, loosening the clasps that fastened the wig to my real hairline. It was such a relief once it came off, only because of howhotthe hair made me. Sweat had accumulated underneath it, the icy air cooling it against my skin. For now, I slipped the black wig into a silk bag.

Next, I grabbed makeup remover wipes from my purse and went to work on rubbing all the heavy eyeliner off. Mom and Dad would kill me if they ever saw me with so much makeup on.

The clothes had to go next, and I stripped as quickly as possible, pulling the tattered turtleneck off and shoving it into my bag. I had a pink sweater tucked inside, and I latched onto it.

It was a Hannah Montana moment in the SUV.

Really, it was a Stella moment.

Stella was a black dress with tears and holes and threads, bare and exposed. A pair of black sneakers. Large earrings and sometimes fake nose ring, even temporary tattoos if I wanted to go all out. Stella was a beautiful, luxurious, sleek, straight black wig.

As soon as that wig came off, I stopped being Stella, the carefree and confident young lady who loved Untapped Potential and dancing on a Saturday night. Instead, I transformed back into Destelle, the girl who lived her life under her parents’ watchful eyes.

And I use “lived” as a very loose term.

This bag only ever traveled from the car to a box underneath my bed. If my parents ever found its contents, it’d be game over. Any chance of freedom would be immediately shot down. My future would forever be under their lock and key.

Stella got to be her own person, do what she wanted whenever she wanted. Everything Destelle wasn’t allowed to.

I envied her.

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