And all I want to do is run away.
Mr. Morgan holds out his hands to quiet the class. Everyone is in a tizzy, speculating who will be chosen, or what it will mean to be the star of an original Joe Vince musical production. I can hear the Sopranos fluttering around Lexie, assuring her she’s a shoo-in for the lead—especially now that Pear is hospitalized. The class finally falls silent at Mr. Morgan’s and Joe’s bidding.
“Without further ado,” Mr. Morgan says, “I am pleased to announce the leads for the debut production of Joe Vince’s rock opera version of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth: Into the Dark.…”
How quickly could I cross the room and get out the classroom door?
“In the role of Orpheus, we’ll have Tobin Oshiro-Winters!”
“Sweet!” Tobin smacks his hands together.
Iris cheers for him, but I’m still too panicked to react.
“And in the role of Eurydice, we have another special treat.…”
I feel like my throat is about to close in.
“My very own daughter,” Joe says, cutting Mr. Morgan off in his excitement, “will be playing the part.” He claps his hands out toward me. “Stand up, Daphne, so the others can meet you!”
All I want to do is hide under my chair, but I’m pretty sure Joe isn’t going to stop clapping until I stand up. I do so, pulling Tobin up with me so I won’t be the only one in the spotlight. Tobin gives a salute to Joe and Mr. Morgan, and then a Frank Sinatra–esque bow to his fellow students, who call out their congratulations to him. There’s not a single congrats thrown my way, but there are plenty of dagger stares coming from Lexie and her Sopranos.
“This is crap,” she says, not so quietly, to her friends. “Isn’t nepotism illegal?”
Even Iris is staring at me, with her mouth looking like her jaw has come unhinged. “Why did you say you were a schollie?” she finally asks.
This is exactly what I was afraid of all along. I don’t even want people to think I’d gotten into the program because I’m Joe Vince’s daughter, and now they all believe I’d gotten the lead because my father is writing the play.
Joe gives me a big thumbs-up. So this is what he had meant the other night when he said he was going to make it up to me. If he thinks he is helping me win friends and influence people, he is as delusional as he is a drunk. I can tell from the murmurs and glares being exchanged that my social standing has just gone from New Girl to downright most hated.
Joe and Mr. Morgan go over some of the details of how the next few months are going to work with preparations, but honestly, I tune them out. When the bell rings, a few girls rush the stage. Joe signs autographs for them as he makes his way in my direction. The last thing I want to do is talk to him right now, so I grab my bag, ignore Tobin’s offer to help me find my next class, head for the door, and escape out into the hall.
I bump into several people as I try to find my way through the unfamiliar halls of Olympus Hills High, fighting tears of frustration that sting the backs of my eyes. The last seventy-two hours had been anything but ideal. I’d been ignored by my father; accosted in the grove; had found the body of a girl who may or may not have been attacked because of me; was treated like I’m delusional by a couple of rent-a-cops; and now I had earned the ire of almost every student in the music program, and the program was my only reason for being here.
I can’t imagine how things could possibly get any worse, I think as I round the corner and find room 108, my humanities class. I push open the door and almost drop my backpack. Because sitting right there in the back row is the boy from the grove.
I can’t believe it. There he is, looking through a textbook and tapping his pencil against the top of a desk. Just like any other student waiting for class to start. Except he’s scanning the pages of his book so quickly, he can’t possibly be reading anything.
“What is he doing here?” I say under my breath.
“You know Haden Lord?” The question comes from behind me. I glance back and see Bridgette standing there.
“Yes,” I say quietly. But do I know him? Is this even the same boy? He looks so different under the fluorescent school bulbs—so normal. If the contours of his face hadn’t been etched into my thoughts for the last day and a half, I might not have recognized him. His hair is still dark, but more the color of rich coffee than the midnight black it seemed in the grove. It’s shorter, too, and waves and curls slightly around his ears, rather than hanging to his shoulders like before. “No. I mean … do you know him?”
Bridgette shrugs. “I heard they were here.”