~17~

"Why does this school have to be so philosophical and crap." Rylie drawls out her question, making it sound more like a statement.

I tighten a red floral hair scarf around my head, trying to somewhat contain my frizzy curls. I'm almost certain that my blonde strands have become even lighter in only two weeks of living under the garish California sun.

"What do you mean, philosophical?" I ask as she distractedly walks me to class Friday morning, fully engaged in another one of her rants.

Rylie is a very opinionated person, to say the least. We love her anyway.

" 'You have to find yourself as an individual artist before coming together to create one multi-working masterpiece.' " Rylie dramatically mocks the quote, shooting me a dull and unimpressed look.

I chuckle, knowing that I've probably heard Mrs. Esme say the exact same thing, if not close to. "It's an art school, what else would you expect? I thought I was the newbie here."

"You definitely still are. It's just that, a lot is different already this semester. All art divisions and grades usually put on a huge production for the mid-term showcase. We don't split up and do our own things, that's just—"

"Mid-term showcase?" I raise an eyebrow, having to stop her there.

"If you're not already aware, you'll hear about it soon enough." Rylie pushes the thought aside with a wave of her hand, "You're really coming into this blind, aren't you?"

Processing her accusation, I barely notice as we approach my classroom number printed loosely on a wooden door. "This is me."

"And I'm going insane waiting another entire school day to find out if I made Elites—" She pauses, sighing, "It's still cool if Acee comes over after school right?"

With a nod of approval from myself, Rylie bids a stout goodbye, retracing her steps back towards the dance hall. Her tight topknot disappears amongst the other students in a matter of seconds.

I enter the classroom and politely greet my math teacher, Mr. Bower, though I'm not expecting any return of consideration. As if this subject wasn't already hard enough for me anyway, of course I would get stuck with one of the most strict core teachers.

Though I heard Rylie's ballet teacher makes them do fifty more working sets if they so much as talk at the wrong moment, so maybe I shouldn't be complaining.

I slide my book burdening backpack of my shoulder and onto the textured tile floor. Just as I'm taking my seat, the school's speaker system crackles to life, accompanied by static and an ear piercing mic malfunction.

"Sorry about that." Corrects the voice of the male whom usually reads off our weekly announcements.

Though he must hand the reins over after that simple start, because Principal Hawklin's cold tone suddenly takes control over the intercom. "Good morning students of MACC. Firstly, I am proud to congratulate Mckenlah Beck on her first place win for the National Congregation of Visual Art youth contest."

The people around me beginning softly clapping their hands together, so I do the same.

I don't know who Mckenlah is, but good for her. We're only a couple of weeks into the year, and she already has something impressive to show for it. Do I? Not exactly.

"This is also the official announcement for the mid-term showcase auditions." Continues the speaker.

This latter announcement seems to quickly capture the attention of kids around me, and they begin whispering giddily amongst themselves.

Am I really just clueless? Whatever this mid-term show is, the mere topic is catching like wildfire all of a sudden. I don't know how I have possibly avoided hearing about it sooner.

"Dates are still being finalized. As many of you know, we're changing things up a bit this year. You will all begin pitching, preparing, and auditioning for time slots next week—while still keeping up with all other school work of course. This school is expecting nothing less than revolutionary. Good day."

The quiet chatter around me grows into voluminous conversation, though exact words blur under my frazzled thoughts. Auditions? Revolutionary? Am I going to have to perform in front of the entire school?

I feel like a lost puppy, and the only one somehow still out of the loop.

I need answers.

"Alright, alright!" Mr. Bower crudely interrupts my classmates' excitement. "Settle down. Does anyone still care about going over our pre-cal quiz material?"

I don't. Why do teachers even ask dumb questions like that? Their entire job literally revolves around knowing the answers themselves.

Never mind. I'm sure some mention of the showcase will be resurfaced as soon as I step into music class. And right about now, Mrs. Esme seems like a much better candidate for answering my curiosities than Mr. Bower, who seems even snappier today than usual.

He mutters something under his breath about how short of attention-spans arts students have before finally beginning our lesson.

•••

After biology, my last core period for the week, I let out a relieved exhale as I sit in my normal chair for all of my music classes. I've grown to love even performance hour, because so far, every assignment has come naturally and enjoyably. As much as I'm intimidated by everyone else's insane talent, I also know that I've finally found a place where I belong. Here, everyone shares the same interests as me.

My pursuing music isn't frowned upon anymore, but instead, it's the whole reason for being.

Sure, there are a couple people I don't particularly get along with, but I've luckily circumvented contact with them for the most part.

Since I'm a few minutes early, I slip my phone out of the front pocket of my backpack and type out a quick response to some random meme Max had sent me this morning.

As much as I miss the goof, I'm surviving without him better than I thought I would.

Go me.

Mrs. Esme returns from her lunch just as the bell rings, the last of the incoming students sequently filing into the spacious room.

"Happy Friday!" She rings out, sporting a lighter lip today rather than her usual dark shade. "I know that the announcement this morning probably stirred your creative minds just a bit. Though you all are juniors, and should have a good idea of what all this fuss is about, I will still give a brief overview as there are a few changes compared to previous years."

Thank goodness.

"You have all heard by now, but we're switching up the concepts for the mid-term and spring-term shows this year. Usually, we start with a combined disciplinary project, but now we're taking on the spring-term's concept a little earlier. Everyone will begin pitching individual ideas, whether that be with a solo act or a small group, and will audition for a time slot somewhere within our two hour show. As always, family and friends as well as students and school faculty will be able to buy tickets to see this show. We will be opening two or three different nights, because just like any other year, the school will be contacting as many scouts as possible."

The more she explains, the more her words set an electrified buzz to everyone around me. My heart only decides to race at an alarming speed and churn at my nervous stomach. The thought of having scouts potentially being here to watch me perform—it's terrifying, at best. This is a much bigger deal than I had previously deemed it to be.

I just got to this school, I'm happy. I don't want to already have to start worrying about my future.

"Now, now." Mrs. Esme gathers, "I'm sure you all understand how expansive of an opportunity this is, so I expect everyone to put their best foot forward and impress. But, on the other hand, we still have school—so if there aren't any questions, we'll begin with a new assignment."

A million thoughts begin drunkenly stumbling around in my head, but I keep my mouth shut regardless. I need to process the information I was given first, so that I don't overthink and screw anything up before it even starts. After all, we still have two whole months until mid-terms. I need to practice living in the moment, and being in the now.

"Okay, today we will be pairing up yet again for duets. This time, instead of focusing on the music itself, I want you to spill into the performance chemistry between you and your partner. Since there's so much going on with the showcase prep, this assignment won't be due for a whole week. Ideally, you and your partner will take the time to not just pick out a song, but to get to know each other. I want to be able to really feel your connection come next Friday. And surprise, you get to choose your own partner. This will be fun!" Mrs. Esme grins, looking as though she has to force physical restraint to not clap her hands together.

My face twists. This isn't my idea of fun at all. I'm able to almost instantly push away the thought of the showcase, because now I have a much more complicated and current problem.

I'm supposed to choose my own partner?

Making quick and painless decisions isn't really my specialty in life, but I can't exactly get out of it at this moment. The class has already begun mixing and matching, with people derivatively shuffling back and forth in front of me— while I haven't yet moved an inch.

I could simply approach Cassandra again, but that seems a little too safe. I'm not sure if she would even want to work with me again so soon.

I subconsciously search for her familiar bob of honey brown hair, but come to find it already seated next to a pretty redhead.

I bite at a dry snag on my bottom lip. Of course she would rather pair with Amber, they already have a friendship connection. A part of me can't help but wonder if I could persuade Amber to work with me, since the bulk of this assignment is to get to know someone. If I had jumped at her sooner, perhaps I could have learned more about her and whatever past she has with Rylie.

All I know right now is that the two very much dislike each other, and that I'm speedily running out of partner options.

I wince as a chair is loudly dragged across the floor, abruptly perching directly in front of my own. A darkly clothed body slides onto the chair's plastic surface, and stares at me with a blank expression.

"Can I help you?" I ask, glaring right back into the Bulldozer's devilish green eyes.

"You're my partner." Oliver says as though whatever he wants is automatically set in stone.

I spit out a crude chuckle, "Yeah, right. You really think I want to be your partner?"

"Well, do you?"

I almost hesitate to answer at the odd sincerity of his question, "No."

"Good." He smirks, "I don't want to be your's either. We're on the same page, so I guess we'll both just have to suck it up."

"I get that it might be hard to find someone actually willing to work with a conceded douche like you, but I can easily find another partner. So thanks but no thanks," I state.

Oliver scoffs, somehow finding humor in my declination, "And that's why you've been frozen to your seat this whole time. No one even knows you exist, blondie."

I frown, his words holding more truth to them than I would like.

"Besides, you've been trying to hold a conversation with me so long that everyone else has already found a partner," he says.

I frantically scan the room for any lonely stragglers, knowing that I would rather take a squirrel over a Bulldozer.

My heart sinks as I come up empty, and turn back towards a perfectly sculpted mischievous smile. I can't help but wish I had something to stab this boy with right about now.

"What's your next move, McCally? And you should think about this very carefully before you answer."

He leans forward, propping himself up with his elbows, "See my plan was, wait for it—for me to do none of the work—and for you to do all of it."

I grit my teeth, mustering all of the self-control I own to just avoid making a scene in class, "What? I am not doing everything."

"Then I guess we take a zero on the assignment."

"You mean an F? F stands for fail, incase you forgot. I don't fail!" The interjection slips off my tongue a little more frazzled sounding than meant to, and I seem to accumulate a couple of confused glances.

Oliver's smirk only grows, if that's at all possible. I'm convinced by this point that he finds his life's pleasure in others' physical and emotional pain.

"Relax," he finally says, "I'm just messing with you. Hear me out. I figure, since we hate each other's guts, that counts as a connection. It might not be positive chemistry, but it's still chemistry. And we all know Mrs. Esme, that woman loves a good twist."

I'm ready to instantly shoot down his suggestion, but it pricks at my interest otherwise. I can't decide if he just offered me the worst idea ever, or if it's actually borderline genius. How does everyone so easily shift the interpretations of these assignments anyway?

This school is way too philosophical.

"I'm listening."

He continues, "We can choose any song, whether we do a cover or an original, and make it fit the theme."

I avoid eye contact, tapping my fingers rhythmically against the green binder resting on my lap. Common sense is screaming at me to not agree with anything Oliver says, but he could be onto something here.

"We can even meet up this evening if you want, or whatever." He leans back again, signaling that he's made his case.

"I'm busy." I tell him, thankful that I actually have plans for once.

His eyes narrow for a split second, "Okay then, Saturday. I can definitely wait."

Am I really voluntarily making the decision to team up with Oliver McCally? We could end up with a really unique approach to the project and a healthy grade, that is if we don't end up murdering each other first.

And honestly, I'm not sure I have much else of a choice anymore.

"What do you say, princess? Are we partners?"

"Fine." I reluctantly agree.

I'll admit, this could backfire enormously.

Because this, this is legitimately the worst decision I've ever made.

•••

I had woken up thinking that nothing could ruin this weekend-welcoming Friday, but Oliver and the stress induced headache he's now gifted me prove otherwise.

I tiredly swipe my keycard to my dorm room, looking forward to throwing back a couple of aspirin pills in hopes of soothing the steady pressure in my temple. But as soon as the door clicks open, I'm rushed with a sudden and tight embrace.

"Woah." I laugh as Rylie gives my shoulders an abrupt squeeze. Acalia gleefully bounces up and down from behind.

"I did it! I made Elites!" Rylie practically screams, her excitement echoing off of our tiny room's bare walls.

"Amazing!"

She roughly yanks me over to her bedside, displaying a distinctly rich purple leotard. I'm guessing that's the Elite uniform, since I've rarely seen anyone from the halls dressed in such a distinct color.

Rylie stares down at the material like it's a priceless treasure. I pridefully smile at my friend, because I know just how hard she's worked for this moment. All those unearthly hours in the mornings and staying late for trainings after school, this is quite the feat in my opinion—and I know absolutely nothing about dance. It's funny, because this privileged group is pretty much the only thing that actually brings genuine human emotion out of the tough girl.

"I'm super proud of you," I tell her.

"I'm proud of me too." She snorts, "Since this basically means I'm the best in my grade, I will probably also be selected for the junior choice duet in the mid-term show. I'll be privately coached and everything."

"That means Zachary will be you're duet partner then! He made elites too." Acalia concludes.

Rylie quickly snaps back into her normal resting face, "He made elites, but that doesn't mean he'll be my partner."

"But you said that because you made it—"

"I know what I said." Rylie grimaces, "The point is, we don't know anything for sure yet. Gosh, you always know when and where to say the wrong thing."

Acalia purses her lips, thoughtfully adjusting her straightened hair, "I hope you get paired with Zachary."

"Ha ha, very funny. And I hope you trip and fall into a moist pile of dog shi—"

"How about a celebratory dinner?" I quickly cut in, though very much amused by their playful bickering. I mean, at least I think it's supposed to be playful.

"Yes!" Acee's signature one-track-mind seems instantly avert. "Lets go out!"

"Not it!" I reflexively shout.

"Not it either," Rylie repeats.

Acalia smiles contently, "Like I wasn't already going to pick the restaurant."