Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
The click of heels approaches behind me. I wad up the note in my fist and glance over my shoulder.
Ann leans against the locker between Ellie and me and gives me a once-over. “The girls have been talking.”
Uh huh. She’s here, on behalf of the female population, to remind me that she’s prettier, smarter, and more popular.
I slide my hand into the satchel and drop the balled-up note. Then I shift to face her head-on, wearing the smile my dad always said was my greatest weapon.
Her sneer warps her smooth black skin and perfect features. “That’s a Dolce & Gabbana dress.”
I glance down at the yellow and white daisy print, loving how the A-line silhouette fits my body. “Okay.”
“Yesterday you wore Valentino. Day before that was Oscar de la Renta. For reals, Ivory. You’re a shoplifter now?”
Why couldn’t Emeric have just picked up some clothes from Wal-Mart? I wouldn’t have known the damn difference.
Because he doesn’t do anything unless it’s over-the-top.
Ellie steps beside me, hitching her humongous backpack over her shoulder. “Leave her alone, Ann.”
“It’s fine.” I nod in the direction of Crescent Hall. “I’ll catch up with you, okay?”
She gives me a sympathetic smile and heads toward our next class.
I turn back to Ann and contemplate a repulsive response, because it’s so much fun watching her squirm. I could tell her I fucked the store manager at Neiman Marcus. Is that where people go to buy these clothes? I don’t know, but that suggestion hits too close to my prior arrangements. Oh, I know… “I started selling my eggs.”
Her brown eyes bulge. “Your…what?”
“Eggs.” I shrug. “Who knew ovulation could be so lucrative? With my good looks and excellent SAT scores, the fertility center pays me double the going rate.”
She makes a gagging noise. “That’s disgusting.”
“So is your attitude.” I shut the locker and step around her. “But I’m deeply touched by how closely you pay attention to me. Brings new light on our friendship. Maybe we can go shopping and have sleepovers.” I’d rather be crushed by a twelve-hundred-pound piano. “We could get BFF necklaces—”
“You’re such a bitch.”
“—or not.” I pat her bony shoulder as I pass. “Thanks for keeping it real.”
Several hours later, I’m sitting behind the Steinway on the campus theater stage. Emeric moved my private lessons here a few days ago to get me comfortable with the acoustics. The Holiday Chamber Music Celebration is only a couple months away. As one of Le Moyne’s biggest performances, the ballet is open to the public and showcases the academy’s top musicians and dancers.
Piano is only a small piece of the production, but I would love to finally be part of it. Emeric still hasn’t announced who will fill that seat. He takes his job so seriously he’s not giving me any advantages just because we’re together. I have to earn it, and there isn’t an ounce of me that begrudges him that.
Even so, he has a frustrating way of making me wait for things.
When he joined me in the kitchen this morning, he told me it’s beautiful to see me waiting.
I will gladly go to exhaustion waiting for him. Waiting for his discipline. Waiting for his affection. Waiting for the unknown.
“Begin again.” His voice booms from the shadows of the tiered seats.
We have the theater to ourselves. He’s somewhere in the front row, but I can’t see him beyond the blinding stage lights.
Bending over the keyboard, I dive into Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker suite. My hands fly through the bursting tremolos, wrists snapping over the quickly-changing keys. I’ve played this piece so many times I know it by rote, my fingers moving of their own volition, seamlessly adapted with the notes.
As the dial on my watch reaches seven o’clock, perspiration licks my skin, and spasms twinge the joints in my shoulders and hands. Emeric has only interrupted me a few times to point out slip-ups. Hell, he’s been so quiet for the last hour I wonder if he left.
I pivot on the piano bench and squint against the lights. “Did you fall asleep out there?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “That was exquisite, Miss Westbrook.” His dark, deep-toned voice echoes through the theater. “This stage isn’t big enough for you.”
Tendrils of warmth unfurl inside me, spiraling along my arms, between my breasts, and around my spine.
“How about the stage at Leopold?” I tilt my head, blinking against the lights. “You know, since that’s where I’m going.”
“Leopold is just an idea stuck in your head. Think bigger. Better.”
Better than the best conservatory? I purse my lips. “Like what?”
“There’s not an audience in the world big enough to contain you. But you need one passionate enough to hold you.”
Wow. I’ve never thought of it like that before.
“Come here.”
It’s a command he would give to any of his students, like sit down, stop talking, answer the question. But to me, it holds a deeper meaning, one that doesn’t belong within the walls of a school.