I quickly hit delete. I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing this for me.
“Hey, Chace?” I call out. “Let’s go to Joyce Hall. I know you’re not into the artsy-fartsy stuff either, but trust me, you’ll want to see the theater.”
“Sounds good.” Chace falls into step beside me, and we head out of Academics Hall and back into the quad. The sun is setting, casting a golden-pink hue across the grass. Oyster Bay Prep has never looked more perfect, like a movie set, and for a moment I feel like the leading lady with something thrilling on the horizon. I can’t help it—I break into a run and turn a cartwheel across the lawn.
Chace applauds as he catches up to me. “I give that a ten out of ten, Lana Rivera.”
I dip into a playful curtsy. We’re in front of Joyce Hall now, which would be indistinguishable from Academics if not for the four marble columns flanking its front steps. The grandeur of those columns seems to lord power over the other buildings, as if saying this is the special place, this is where the real treasure is found.
“Wow,” Chace remarks as we step inside, our shoes practically sinking into the plush red carpeting. “It’s easy to see which department Oyster Bay prizes most.”
“They definitely classed it up in here,” I agree. “But just wait till you see the theater. That’s clearly where all the alumni bribe-money must have gone.”
Chace laughs, a warm, infectious sound that makes me want to keep the joke going. Of course, we both know I wasn’t joking. There’s something about having parents in politics that exposes you to the truth early on in life, and alumni bribes? That’s reality. It’s the reason—if we’re being brutally honest—why I got into this school.
We’re nearing the theater now, but as we reach the doors, the sound of a violin emanates from behind them. I turn to Chace with a disappointed shrug.
“I guess there’s a rehearsal or something going on in there.”
Chace steps closer, pressing his ear against the door.
“I know that song. Let’s go in and watch.”
“Um…okay.”
Now it’s my turn to follow as he pushes open the theater doors and strides down the aisle until we’re shuffling into the second row of seats, looking up at a girl on the stage who doesn’t even know we’re there.
I glance at Chace. He doesn’t seem to notice the magnificence of the theater; he isn’t making the typical awed remarks about the chandeliered ceiling and gilded stage. He’s not even looking. His eyes are almost closed as he listens to the music, a half smile forming on his face, as if remembering something. A twinge of irritation flashes through me.
I study the girl currently capturing Chace’s attention. She might be talented, but thankfully she’s not hot. Her sandy blond hair is in desperate need of frizz control, and I’m slightly horrified to see that she’s wearing denim overalls. Overalls. I know some people would like to think they’re coming back in style, but—no.
The song must be over now, because Chace has leaped to his feet clapping, and the girl is blinking her eyes open, her cheeks turning tomato-red with surprise when she sees us.
“Oh God. I—I thought I was alone in here,” she stammers. “So embarrassing—”
I roll my eyes. Please.
“Are you kidding? That was amazing,” Chace raves. “Was that—were you playing the song from The Godfather II?”
I cough to disguise my snort of laughter. So we weren’t even listening to real classical music?
Violin Chick smiles, and it’s the wide, showing-all-her-teeth kind of smile that lets me know she has not learned the art of seduction.
“Yes!” she exclaims. “By Nino Rota. It’s ‘The Immigrant Theme’ from the movie. How did you know?”
“I watched all the Godfather movies with my dad when I was little. I was probably way too young,” Chace says with a chuckle. “But anyway, they’re still my favorites.”
“Those movies have the best music,” Violin Chick says, still beaming. “Film scores are kind of my thing.”
Okay, enough already. I stand up, reasserting my place next to Chace.
“I’m Lana Rivera, and this is—”
“Lana Rivera?” Violin Chick interrupts, her smile growing even wider. Who knew that was possible.
“Yep, that’s me. And this is Chace Porter. Are you a transfer?”
“No.” She lets out an awkward giggle. “I’m Nicole Morgan. We had a couple classes together freshman year.”
“Oh yeah. I remember,” I lie.
“But anyway, this is such a coincidence, because I was hoping to see you before,” she continues.
“See me before what?” I ask. I’m really getting wary of this weirdo.
“Before move-in.” When my expression remains blank, Nicole adds, “I’m your new dormmate!”
Wrong. I force a polite expression onto my face.
“You must be mistaken. I’m rooming with Stephanie Sparks, just like last year.”