watching him, and my emotions come from feeling unbelievably stupid. I’m clueless as hell when it comes to guys. I have no idea how to dodge and weave when in their sights, which hasn’t been often.
So I have no idea what to do with this universe-shattering flirt. That nameless librarian had set off a few pleasant imaginings. Jude, by comparison, is an entire symphony that hasn’t been written. He’s a frustrating masterpiece. Is that why I’m waiting around, as if he might come back to me? Please don’t let that be the truth.
“Are you Keeley?”
I turn to see Adelaide Deschamps standing beside me.
“That’s me. And you’re Adelaide?”
“Yup.” She’s holding something frothy and pink. At the moment, I don’t care so much about her connection to Jude. I’m just grateful to remember why I came to Yamatam’s in the first place. It wasn’t to hope Jude’s spotlight would shine on me again. “So, what was all that up there?”
“What do you mean?” She’s a good four inches shorter than me, but I’m immediately on the defensive—my exhausting default reaction to strangers.
I remind myself she’s only eighteen. She could’ve been raised in a sad old trailer park, but that’s really unlikely considering that, along with her bohemian clothes, she’s wearing a diamond solitaire pendant. With her Blonde Ambition hair and effortless cool, she’s unfairly chic. Her eyes are perfectly hazel. She looks priceless. No wonder Jude hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off her—between bouts of turning my life inside out in a matter of hours.
“You think it sucked?” I add, when she doesn’t reply right away.
The club didn’t think so, but Adelaide’s opinion will go a long way to defining our mentoring situation.
She twists her hair in an effortless curly messy but not messy style. Bright eyes narrow. She lifts onto her toes and pokes her face within inches of mine. I’m reminded briefly of how close Jude and I sat together, but this is entirely different. Adelaide wears her smirk with an edge of canny humor. She’s not that different from the flawless, curtsying megawatt beam of light she’d been onstage. Despite her more petite stature, she stands with the poise of a goddess. She has bearing.
“It was great and I think you know it,” she says with that syrup-sweet drawl. Between her and Jude, I’m being given a crash course in the sound of N’awlins suave. “You saw mine, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
For seeming so composed, her confidence isn’t as bulletproof as I would’ve guessed.
She probably expects dormouse, after how I slunk away from the stage rather than gather unexpected applause with both arms stretched wide. It’s unexpected and reassuring to think she might harbor doubts too.
“You had everyone in your palm until you decided to let them go.”
“But my playing? It’s . . . I have flaws.”
“You want the truth?”
“You’re gonna be my mentor, right?”
I nod. But what right do I have to give criticism, when I know how much emotion people put into their art? It seems this girl Adelaide actually wants honest feedback. She’s stronger in that regard than me.
“Okay, you’re right,” I say. “You perform better than you play.”
She shakes her head. “I know that’s how it is, so don’t worry about hurting my feelings or anything. I know that,” she says again, then takes a sip of her frothy drink.
I want to ask her all sorts of questions. When did you start? Where did you study? Who’s your favorite composer? That’s the sort of thing a mentor would save for later, over nachos in the student union, maybe. Am I supposed to take the lead on arranging things like that? Crap.
“I wish I could play like you,” she adds, setting down the empty glass. “You just know the piano, don’t you? Up and down and sideways. God, if I practiced more I could be like that, but I guess I get distracted. Too many other things to do. Bartender?”
She
So I have no idea what to do with this universe-shattering flirt. That nameless librarian had set off a few pleasant imaginings. Jude, by comparison, is an entire symphony that hasn’t been written. He’s a frustrating masterpiece. Is that why I’m waiting around, as if he might come back to me? Please don’t let that be the truth.
“Are you Keeley?”
I turn to see Adelaide Deschamps standing beside me.
“That’s me. And you’re Adelaide?”
“Yup.” She’s holding something frothy and pink. At the moment, I don’t care so much about her connection to Jude. I’m just grateful to remember why I came to Yamatam’s in the first place. It wasn’t to hope Jude’s spotlight would shine on me again. “So, what was all that up there?”
“What do you mean?” She’s a good four inches shorter than me, but I’m immediately on the defensive—my exhausting default reaction to strangers.
I remind myself she’s only eighteen. She could’ve been raised in a sad old trailer park, but that’s really unlikely considering that, along with her bohemian clothes, she’s wearing a diamond solitaire pendant. With her Blonde Ambition hair and effortless cool, she’s unfairly chic. Her eyes are perfectly hazel. She looks priceless. No wonder Jude hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off her—between bouts of turning my life inside out in a matter of hours.
“You think it sucked?” I add, when she doesn’t reply right away.
The club didn’t think so, but Adelaide’s opinion will go a long way to defining our mentoring situation.
She twists her hair in an effortless curly messy but not messy style. Bright eyes narrow. She lifts onto her toes and pokes her face within inches of mine. I’m reminded briefly of how close Jude and I sat together, but this is entirely different. Adelaide wears her smirk with an edge of canny humor. She’s not that different from the flawless, curtsying megawatt beam of light she’d been onstage. Despite her more petite stature, she stands with the poise of a goddess. She has bearing.
“It was great and I think you know it,” she says with that syrup-sweet drawl. Between her and Jude, I’m being given a crash course in the sound of N’awlins suave. “You saw mine, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
For seeming so composed, her confidence isn’t as bulletproof as I would’ve guessed.
She probably expects dormouse, after how I slunk away from the stage rather than gather unexpected applause with both arms stretched wide. It’s unexpected and reassuring to think she might harbor doubts too.
“You had everyone in your palm until you decided to let them go.”
“But my playing? It’s . . . I have flaws.”
“You want the truth?”
“You’re gonna be my mentor, right?”
I nod. But what right do I have to give criticism, when I know how much emotion people put into their art? It seems this girl Adelaide actually wants honest feedback. She’s stronger in that regard than me.
“Okay, you’re right,” I say. “You perform better than you play.”
She shakes her head. “I know that’s how it is, so don’t worry about hurting my feelings or anything. I know that,” she says again, then takes a sip of her frothy drink.
I want to ask her all sorts of questions. When did you start? Where did you study? Who’s your favorite composer? That’s the sort of thing a mentor would save for later, over nachos in the student union, maybe. Am I supposed to take the lead on arranging things like that? Crap.
“I wish I could play like you,” she adds, setting down the empty glass. “You just know the piano, don’t you? Up and down and sideways. God, if I practiced more I could be like that, but I guess I get distracted. Too many other things to do. Bartender?”
She
Similar Books
