Chapter 1:

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I spot the door slightly ajar. From inside, light streams out, casting a faint glow along the linoleum floor. I can feel it beckoning to me, like there’s a magnetic pull drawing me closer.

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Looking in both directions, I confirm that there are no onlookers. I glance down at my watch to confirm the time: 6:52 a.m. Most students don’t arrive until at least 7:15. Lucky (or unlucky) for me, my car is getting inspected, and my mom offered to drop me off before an early work meeting today. So, with extra time on my hands, I thought I might as well explore the theater costume shop.

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Moving cautiously, I twist the door handle and slide across the threshold. Once I’ve made it to the other side, I gaze around the room.

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“Wow,” I breathe.

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The shop is empty and quiet. As I enter, I notice costumes from past productions displayed proudly on mannequins. The walls are lined with colorful swatches of fabric and elaborate props that make me feel like I’m a performer at a circus. I marvel at the cutting tables, stitching stations, and storage spaces. A designer’s paradise.

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Skimming my hands over the costume material, I smile to myself.

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It’s no surprise that I would find comfort here. After all, my dream is to become a fashion designer one day. I’ve doodled in sketch pads and created Pinterest boards and cut out magazine collages since I was a little girl. I’ve even watched The Devil Wears Prada more times than I can count. Somehow, I admire Miranda Priestly’s powerful editor-in-chief character, even if she scares the living hell out of me. There’s something I find exhilarating about the fashion world—the glitz and glam, the grit and the guts. I know becoming a fashion designer isn’t an easy road, but it’s a journey I’m committed to, especially one that I’m ready to pour my heart into once I get into my dream school: Fashion Institute of Technology.

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As I continue to explore the shop, I see a costume that calls out to me in particular. It’s a red sparkly flapper dress—one that looks like it would have been featured prominently in a show like Chicago. My parents both participated in musical theater when they were younger and have exposed me to shows over the years, so I’m familiar with a number of them. It’s a shame that I never inherited their singing or dancing genes though. That’s why, as much as they’ve tried to convince me otherwise, theater has never been the path for me.

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As I stare at the dress, a mischievous idea pops into my head. I glance both ways again to make sure no one else is here. Then in one fluid motion, I pull the dress off the hanger, lift it over my head, and shimmy into it, still fully clothed. I don’t consider myself a rule-breaker, so I wouldn’t normally do this. But gosh darnit, it’s a Monday morning, and I need to add some spice to my life. I twirl around to stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror propped across from me. Twisting back and forth, I begin humming “All That Jazz.”

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“Come on, babe. Why don’t we paint the town?” I croon. Doing a full spin in the shimmering red dress, I imagine myself as the vaudevillian, Velma Kelly, plotting her husband’s demise. It makes me feel powerful and alluring. For a moment, I’m absorbed to the point where I forget that I’m in a high school costume shop. I’m transported to the 1920s jazz era. I’m about to sing the next line, when suddenly, I hear a rustling from behind me.

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“And all that jazz,” someone chimes in from behind me.

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The blood drains from my face. I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I’m being caught in the act in this outfit or the fact that someone is witnessing my off-key singing voice, which sounds more like a dying cat.

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As I spin around, I pray that it’s a custodian, or any impartial third party who can keep my little spectacle a secret. But standing in front of me is a male student who looks to be about my age. And not just any male student—one with beautiful blue eyes and dark, glossy hair. He’s wearing a gray cotton shirt, and his arms are crossed in a way that accentuates his athletic build.

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“Great song choice,” he smirks as he watches me with curiosity.

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I place a hand over my heart, still trying to catch my breath. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been here the whole time.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry. Just enough time to watch your opening number.”

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I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m not sure who this guy is or why he’s here, but I feel the need to justify myself. “I’m not a theater kid, if you can’t tell.”

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“You could be one. You seem to have the chops for it,” he says.

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Maybe it’s his piercing stare, or the fact that I was just caught breaking into the costume shop, but I feel light-headed. All I want to do is get out of this stifling dress as quickly as possible. “Hey, could you look the other way for a second?”

 

I know I’m fully clothed, but I still feel exposed taking off this red dress in front of a total stranger—especially one that’s making my heart rate speed up the way it is.

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“Sure,” he laughs. “I’ll even close my eyes, if that makes you feel more comfortable.”

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I know he’s probably joking, but it brings me a sense of relief. “Thanks,” I murmur. I reach my hand to the zipper in preparation to pull off the dress, but the zipper won’t budge.

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“Shoot.” I breathe as the panic begins to set in. “It’s stuck.”

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This has got to be the worst Monday in the history of Mondays.

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The guy removes his hands from his eyes. “Want me to help you with that?”

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I would put up a fight, but I have no choice. I made my bed, so I might as well lie in it, too. “Yes, please.”

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He comes up behind me and reaches for the zipper. My body freezes as he brushes a strand of hair away from my neck.

“Stay still,” he whispers as he tampers with the zipper, until I hear it click. He glides the zipper down my back. The gesture causes a chill to run down my spine.

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“There we go. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he looks at me with an earnest expression.

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I tug the dress off and place it back on the hanger to return it to the rack. “Please, just promise me you won’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

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“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” he nods, “but maybe you should tell me your name—just so I know who I’m not supposed to be talking about.”

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He’s smooth…I’ll give him that. Still, I rationalize that I’m probably not going to see this guy again anytime soon, so it really doesn’t matter. “You know, it’s probably better if I don’t.” I brush past him without responding to his question, keeping my head cast down. “Thanks again for the help.”

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As I exit the costume shop, I glance back one more time. He’s grinning at me. “You’re welcome.”

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I feel like my cheeks must match the color of the red dress I was just wearing. The hallways are picking up with students now that class is almost about to start. Wanting to forget this entire situation, I veer off into the adjacent hallway and go to find my best friend, Macie. After all, she’s taking theater as an elective this year, so she’s the one person who will find humor in this.

 

As I approach her locker, I see her curly strawberry blonde hair from behind.

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“Macie, you’ll never guess what happened,” I tap my best friend on the back. I always meet up with her before school starts.

 

“What happened, Scar?” Her hazel eyes light up as she grabs her water bottle from her locker.

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“I was poking around the costume shop just now, and this random guy caught me trying on one of the dresses.”

 

She laughs and shakes her head. “Look at you getting into mischief. At least it could be worse. You don’t have to face your doom performing a monologue in the third period for Mr. Walsh like I do.”

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My heart goes out to her. Though she’s not a performer, Macie chose to sign up for an elective theater class when the semester started in September. Originally, she had registered thinking that the class would be a joke. But it’s turned out to be more work than she’d bargained for. From what she’s told me, the exams are awful, considering each student is required to perform a three-minute monologue in front of the entire class. And this happens to be the last theater exam before Winter Break, which means it will weigh even more heavily on her grade.

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I put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re going to be great. How bad can it be, right?”

 

“As long as I don’t faint on stage or have a heart attack during my performance, I’ll consider it a success.”

 

“Atta girl,” I flash a sympathetic smile.

 

“Look,” Macie points behind me, “it’s Liam!”

 

I turn just in time to to spot Macie's recent friend from the swim team, who also happens to be in her acting class. He’s walking in our direction, sporting a retro corduroy jacket and faded dark-wash jeans. I don’t know him as well as she does, but Macie seems to have built a good relationship with him. And a friend of hers is a friend of mine.

 

“As if seeing you at practice every day isn’t enough already,” she teases to Liam, “I can’t believe we both have to survive this same Acting Technique class, too.”

 

“I know. This exam is going to be killer. At least I’ll get to make ridiculous faces at you during your monologue.”

 

Macie sticks her tongue out at him in return. “Well, gee—thanks, Liam,” she retorts. “If you do anything to mess up my monologue, I might have to get on stage during yours and trip you.”

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Liam puts his hands up in the air, as if signaling a peace declaration. Then he turns to me. “Scarlett, you should come to the mini theater during third period. Anyone is allowed to sit in during the monologues.”

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Now that Liam’s mentioning it, I realize that there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than watching Macie recite a theater monologue. I’m not passing up a chance to witness my best friend act in front of an audience. Macie sure carries the athletic gene when it comes to swimming, but acting is far from her strong suit. Plus, third period happens to be my free period.

 

“I have Study Center then,” I grin at Liam. “I will totally be there.”

 

Liam does a silent fist pump as Macie groans.

 

“At least now we’ll both get to make fun of you during your performance too, Liam.” I chuckle.

 

“Don’t get too excited,” Macie interjects. “He’s actually one of the more convincing performers in class.”

 

“Well, aside from Nathaniel Wilder,” Liam pauses. “It’s like he came straight out of a movie from Cannes.”

 

“Nathaniel…who?”

 

There’s a particular ring to the name in the way it rolls off of Liam’s tongue—the type of name that once you hear, you can’t easily forget.

 

“You’ll understand after his monologue,” Liam continues. “He just moved here this year, but he’s already building a reputation as a legend in the theater department.”

 

“He’s a sight to see,” Macie confirms.

 

I’m intrigued by the way Liam speaks the name with a hint of reverence, as if this “Nathaniel” is some sort of wizard with magical acting powers. For some reason, I think back to the guy I met in the costume shop this morning. After all, he asked for my name, but I realize I never got his name. Still, I doubt he could be who Liam is referring to.

 

The name rings over again in my ears. Whatever his gift is, I’ll find out soon enough…

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