But any idiot should know that you don’t go around trying to grab a girl’s arm like that.
And social awkwardness doesn’t explain his eerie, fiery eyes, or the strange heat that seemed to be radiating off his skin. It had actually hurt when he had tried to touch my arm.
I look down at my wrist. My skin stings, and there are four red marks on my arm. They’re long and thin, like the shape of fingers. Right where the guy had touched my skin.
That definitely isn’t normal.
I notice the time on my watch. It’s almost three o’clock. I’d been in the grove much longer than I’d realized. That’s not nearly enough time for me to bike down to the security station and back before my audition.
My audition!
Why am I letting myself get carried away when I have much more important things to worry about? Forget about weird guys in the woods; I have only thirty-six and a half minutes to finish preparing for my audition.
Leaving my bike in the rack, I make my way between the granite columns at the entrance of the school and into the main hall. It’s large and echoey, and I can hear singing drifting through the halls. Auditions for the musical must have been going on all day. I follow the sound through the school until I find the auditorium. I peek through the heavy double doors. Someone is onstage, singing a song from Evita, while a few clusters of students sit in the auditorium seats. Back at Ellis High, which comprised five whole rooms, we had to do all of our performing on a platform in the cafeteria. I’ve never sung in a room this big.
The girl on the stage stands perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her chest and her chin out. Her voice is strong and even, and I can tell she’s had years of professional training, but if Jonathan were around, he’d probably tell her to be more expressive with her body, not just her voice. The only adult in the room is a thin man with graying hair, who sits at a table, making notes in a binder. I assume he’s Mr. Morgan, the music director. When the singer draws out her final note—a bit too long, in my opinion—I push the auditorium door open and slip inside.
Mr. Morgan calls out a name I don’t quite catch. A guy comes out from behind the curtains on the stage. He wears skinny jeans, a white button-up shirt, a small open vest, and a tweed, narrow-brimmed fedora. He lifts his hat and gives a curt bow to Mr. Morgan, revealing his floppy black hair. He announces the songs he’s going to sing to Mr. Morgan and then puts his hat back on. I take a seat near the back of the auditorium. The accompanist on the piano starts the intro, and with a snap of his wrist, Fedora Boy grabs the microphone stand and croons into the mic with all the flare of Frank Sinatra.
I’m still shaking a bit from my close encounter of the weird kind, so I try to run through a few relaxation exercises that CeCe taught me, but Fedora Boy’s voice is so warm yet powerful that I find myself distracted. I like the sound of this guy’s voice, and it relaxes me more than the breathing exercises. There’s something familiar about him—something I hear in him and the way he moves his body while he sings. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t place it. I find myself smiling when he starts his third song. I must have caught his eye, because as he finishes his last line, he plucks his fedora from his head, dips it down when he bows, and then winks … at me.
“Well done,” Mr. Morgan says to the boy. “But the winking was a bit much.”
Fedora Boy smiles wide and hops off the stage with a goofy swagger that makes me giggle inside. Mr. Morgan picks up his coffee mug and announces that he’s going to “take five.”
I realize just how dry my throat is from my bike ride, so I pick up my guitar and head out a side door to find a drinking fountain. Only twenty minutes remain until my audition, and a raspy voice isn’t going to impress anyone.
The hall is dark and empty. I find the drinking fountain, but as I’m leaning over to take a sip, I think I see something move in my peripheral vision. A low hiss buzzes in my ears. I pop upright, water dribbling on my chin. I look left and right, but all I see are shadows.
My mouth feels even drier. I take a second sip. This time, I hear a sound from behind, like the ratta-tat-tat of a snare drum, and I know I am not alone. I whirl around and find the boy in the fedora standing there. He smiles wide, and the drumming sound grows stronger. I realize the syncopated beat is coming from him. It’s his song. His inner melody, which only I can hear. It’s a warm and inviting sound, not like the cold hiss I’d heard just a moment ago, and it clicks with his Sinatra vibe. He’s a crooner at heart.
“Hey,” he says. “Glad I caught you. You must be New Girl.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking over his shoulder to make sure he’s the only other person in the hall. Maybe I’m still just shaken from what happened in the grove, but I have the weirdest feeling at the moment—like we’re not alone. Like someone is watching me.