We’re in the zone. That magical state performers sometimes achieve when everything is flowing and open. Heart, mind, body. I’ve felt it before, but never with another person.
It’s amazing.
Smiles spread on our faces. I notice Holt is kind of beautiful when he smiles.
Our arms are above our heads, and as we bring them down, our palms come together. His hands are big and warm. My skin tingles where we touch. Then I’m looking into his eyes, and we’re both not breathing, and I don’t know why.
In a second, Holt’s expression fills with panic, and he tenses. He blinks and drops his gaze, and suddenly it’s like all the buoyancy has gone out of the air. Our energy slams into the floor and drains away.
Holt steps away and exhales before looking over at Erika. “Are we done? Nobody else went for that long. We’re done, right?”
Erika tilts her head and studies him. His posture is tense and challenging.
I lower my hands. They’re cold now, and I clench them at my sides as my heart beats fast and unsteady.
“Are we done or not?” Holt says, and every good thing I felt about him fades in the shadow of his rudeness.
“Yes, Mr. Holt,” Erika says calmly while glancing at me. “You and Miss Taylor completed the exercise. Well done. You two have some interesting chemistry, don’t you?”
He glares.
She gives him a warm smile. “You may sit down. Everyone, give them a round of applause.”
The whole group breaks into applause. I hear murmurs of surprise that we were so good.
No one is more surprised than I am.
Holt stalks back to the bleachers and sits. Zoe gushes beside him as she touches his bicep. She’d be more subtle if she ripped open her shirt and begged him to grope her. He ignores her and leans his elbows on his knees.
I make an effort to stop staring at him.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. People get cut, and the pairs get swapped around as more scenarios are played out.
At the end of the day Erika dismisses us, and we file outside to wait for her to post the callback list.
We’re all on edge. None of us know that we’ve done enough to move on to the next round. Even Zoe is unsure. She bites the inside of her cheek and paces.
I gnaw at my cuticles and chant, “Oh please, oh please, oh please” over and over again, as if begging the universe could possibly help me now.
At the end of the corridor, Holt sits with his back against the wall and his legs pulled up to his chest. He looks like he’s in pain.
Despite his behavior today, I feel sorry for him. Everyone’s nervous, but he seems really sick.
I walk over. He’s leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed. When I touch his shoulder, he jolts like I’ve Tasered him.
“What the fuck?” He glares, but it’s hard to find it intimidating when he’s so green he could get a job with the Muppets.
“You okay?”
He drops his head down to his knees and sighs. “I’m fine. Go away.”
I don’t know why I even bothered. “You’re a jerk, you know that?”
“I’m aware.”
“Just making sure.”
I go to leave, but he puts out an arm to stop me. “Taylor, look … I—”
“My name is Cassie.”
“Cassie…”
The way he says my name is … Well, it does strange things to me. It might be best if he goes back to calling me Taylor.
He gestures for me to sit, and I do. “The thing is … we’re not going to be friends, so I figure there’s no use in wasting energy on each other, right?”
I blink a few times. “Uh … okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?” He seems disappointed, but I don’t know why.
“Well, I’ve never really had the ‘you and I aren’t going to be friends’ talk before, so I’m not sure of the protocol. Do I thank you for pointing out the obvious, or…?”
He rubs his hands over his face and groans.
“What?” I ask. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. I wasn’t planning on being your friend.”
“Good,” he says, still rubbing his face.
I inhale and try to not lose my temper. “What is your problem? I pretty much saved your butt in there today, and you treat me like crap?”
“Yeah,” he says, his shoulders tense and high. “Because you’re so—”
“What?” I say. “Annoying? Irritating?”
“Bipolar.”
That stops me in my tracks. “Oh. I … huh?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I saw you earlier, playing the popularity game. Giving the cool kids what they wanted, which is ridiculous because most of them are obnoxious creeps who are about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. But with me, you’re all prickly impatience and ball-breaking honesty. What, you don’t like me enough to fake it?”
I hadn’t realized it, but he’s right. I’ve never, and I mean never, spoken to someone the way I’ve spoken to him. Letting people know I’m annoyed or impatient is not what I do. I get along with people. I’ve done it my whole life. If someone doesn’t like me, I make them.
But with him, everything’s different.
“Well, what about you?” I say. “What’s your story?”
He shrugs. “I’m easy to figure out. I’m an asshole.”
“I know that.”