~18~

"Ryls, if you use anymore hairspray, we're both going to get lung cancer or something." I spurt, coughing and fanning my face in hopes to clear the heavily contaminated air.

She laughs, despite my actual concern, giving one more generous spray for good measure, "I'm going for the 'hair lift plus face lift' look."

I crack open the one little window in our dorm room, quickly taking a whiff of the fresh morning air that seeps through. "Sorry, I would laugh if my vocal chords weren't currently solidifying."

"It's my first Elites rehearsal, I can't let a single hair fall out of place."

I move on to my next early Saturday task of making my bed, starting by tucking the corners of my faded white sheets back under the flimsy mattress, "I always thought that perfect ballerina buns were just kind of an exaggerated stereotype."

"Stereotypes exist for a reason," Rylie says, "I normally don't give a crap about my appearance, but any professional dancer has to look presentable. You're the newbie to this school, but now I'm new to the Elites. I may have made it into the group, but every day is like another audition."

Listening to her words while I work, I slowly nod my head. "I originally thought that getting into this school would be the hard part, but I was so wrong. Each day, each assignment, I feel like I have to prove that I'm good enough all over again."

Rylie slips a plush pair of shorts over her tights, "That's MACC for you. Why else do you think we average around fifty dropouts a year?"

I position the last pillow at the head of my comforter, "Heat stroke?"

"You're funny, Brooklynn Hope."

"Actually, I'm nervous." I truthfully admit, stepping into our minuscule bathroom to apply a small amount of chapstick. I can't help but steal a glance of myself in the mirror. Besides my now watermelon scented lips, my face remains bare of any other makeup. My frizzy hair delicately spills out of the loose messy bun I had thrown it up into about an hour or so ago. My slouchy top and black leggings really tie everything together, in my humble opinion, because I had simply made an effort to not look decent today. The opposite of pretty—ugly even. Because frankly, this is going to be a painfully long Saturday.

"Right, you've got McCally coming over soon. How did you even get that unlucky?"

"Beats me," I huff, falling onto my newly neat bedding.

"Well, that really sounds like a personal problem, so have fun. If he ticks you off enough to make you feel a little murder-y, just don't leave any blood stains. I don't want to have to pay damage fees."

I raise my index finger at her request, just before she speedily makes an escape, grabbing her dance bag and closing our room's door behind her.

I sigh, checking my phone's clock and deducting that Oliver should be here any minute now. I never thought that I would be welcoming Hell in human form itself into my home, but here we are. Though this school has pushed me to do a lot that I wouldn't normally agree to, and I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it.

Minutes trickle by, then tens of minutes pass, and still no signs of Bulldozer. Though I would be just as happy to not ever have to see his stupid face again, our grade depends on him not being a no-show.

He's already half an hour late.

An obnoxiously loud ringtone suddenly interrupts my frustrated thoughts.

I reach for my phone, which is currently blaring, vibrating, and displaying Max's name across its screen. "Did you seriously change your ringtone on my phone to Gangnam Style?" I can't help but ask upon answering his call.

He chuckles, "I completely forgot I did that. Shows how long it's been since we've actually talked, huh?"

"For real."

"I specifically chose the sexy lady part, just so you know."

"I figured," I say, "so what's up?"

"Nothing much, double Dutch. Wait, do you actually have Dutch in you?"

Oh, how I miss his ridiculously dumb questions.

I ease into a breathy giggle, "More like French and German, I think."

"Oh yeah. Stupid white privileges."

"I don't know if I should be offended or should just call you out on also being the most basic white boy ever, which you definitely are."

His laughter rings out from the other side of the phone. As much as I want to hear his voice, it stings a little. I can convince myself that I'm doing fine without him around, but every time we talk it ignites a strong feeling inside of me that argues otherwise. Then at the same time, I don't want to avoid him in any way, because that would spark a change in our friendship. Change is my probably biggest fear, but my actions contradict themselves regardless.

When Max's audible amusement doesn't subside, so I ask him what exactly is so hilarious.

"You said also, which implies that you too are a basic white boy." He chokes with humor.

"You're actually the worst." I roll my eyes, wishing that he could feel the cold gesture though the phone.

"Pretty much, double Dutch."

"Stop saying that."

"Fine. Nothing mitch, bitch." He retorts, enunciating his make-belief word.

"Oh my gosh, M." I bark a short laugh out of not expecting his answer, "I guess my influence has already died then."

"Along with my soul and good morals," Max says, "just kidding. But seriously, I just called because I was bored. What's up with you?"

"Oh, you know, I'm just casually being stood up." I tell him, checking my phone again. Being late is the vain of my existence, and I can't see how it doesn't even affect some people.

"My best friend has a date?"

"Not even close to. I'm supposed to be working on a project with Oliver again."

"That McCally kid? Is he bothering you?" Max questions. I can hear his shuffling through the speaker, and it sounds as though he's now up on his feet.

"No. He hasn't done anything to me, I just can't stand him as a person," I nervously begin plucking a couple straying strands of lint off my leggings.

"That doesn't sound like you."

"Trust me, Oliver McCally can make an entire crowd sick of him with only a few words."

"Okay," he says reluctantly, "Well then if you hate this guy so much, why do you keep working with him?"

Excellent question. An excellent question that I am completely baffled by myself.

Just as my lips separate to answer, a loud knocking takes my thought away.

"I think he's here, I have to go now."

"Wait, Brooklynn, I was going to tell you—"

"Max." I distractingly interrupt him, "Really, I have to go. Love you, bye."

I quickly hang up and toss my phone onto the bed, standing and making a small number of fast steps towards the door. I open it to reveal the expected smirking face that I have grown to dislike so much.

"Finally. If you had taken any longer to open the freaking door I would have just left and gone back to bed." Oliver grumbles, completely neglecting any of the manners he may or may not own.

"Funny you say that, because I've been waiting for you for forty-five minutes now." I fold my arms across my chest as he saunters inside.

"How sweet."

The dark brown, almost black hair that sits on top of Oliver's head looks even messier today than usual. He has one particular strand that is haphazardly poking out in the back, and the mop towards the front of his temple is kneaded into a very fluffy texture. Instead of his signature attire consisting of a black denim jacket and jeans, he's dressed in a simple t-shirt and gray joggers this morning.

I guess we were both on the same page about not looking good for this rehearsal session. He must have honestly just rolled out of bed.

Hopefully he at least brushed his teeth though, because we are in fact vocalists. I'm not about to sit next to him singing with morning breath for the next couple of hours.

"Are you just going to stare at me or are we going to get something accomplished?" Oliver slices through my occupied mind.

He unzips the small case he had brought with him and pulls out a tenor sized ukulele. I instantly recognize the model and can't help but subtly gawk at all of the instrument's mahogany-wooded glory. I had wanted this one for years, but had never gotten around to actually ordering one.

I shake my head and take a seat, "Why would you even bring that?"

"I don't know, it's the first thing I grabbed." He shrugs, "So what now?"

I get out my own guitar, completely dismissing the idea of using his fancy uke, "You're the one who asked me to be your partner, and you're the one who wanted to work on the assignment from an odd angle. I figured you would have some master plan on where to start now."

"That's expecting a bit much from me, don't you think?" He he furrows his brows as he talks, roaming around the room and touching random objects that don't belong to him. What's up with this guy thinking that he owns everything and everyone?

I groan, fighting the urge to grab him by the shirt collar just so that he'll be still for thirty seconds. "I have officially unanimously decided for the both of us that we are doing a cover." I declare, whipping out my phone again to look up song choices. Someone's got to pick up the slack.

"I'm going to eat these." He tells me, selecting a bag of crackers and apparently forgetting that asking for permission is something that exists.

"I wouldn't if I were you." I forewarn, eyeing Rylie's especially expensive snack in his hands.

"Of course you'd be the organic type. Such a rich girl move." Oliver tuts.

This causes a scowl to take over my already harsh expression, "They're not even mine, they're my roommates. So shut up, please."

"James? That girl is all bark and no bite, I'll be fine." He cockily drops a handful of the crisps into that big mouth of his.

"Can you just stop trashing my friends, come sit down and work with me?" I frantically ask, practically pleading for his cooperation by this point.

"Sure thing, princess."

I disregard yet another use of the annoying nickname as he finally obliges, taking a seat on my bed and taking the guitar onto his own lap.

I sigh, "I'm thinking either of these two songs." I lift my phone so that the options are easily visible for him.

"Whatever."

His eyes didn't even care to graze the screen. I'm literally going to have to do everything myself, aren't I?

"Okay, I'm picking the latter. Do you know this one?"

Oliver doesn't reply. Instead, He presses his fingers to form the first chord of the song and begins strumming.

"Take it away then, first verse." I instruct, raising my palms to face him.

Without ever looking back up at me, the lyrics to Somebody That I Used To Know slowly start pouring from out of Oliver. I'm not completely sure if the song is the right fit for what we're trying to communicate, but I can barely think about that anymore once he starts singing. The last time we worked on an assignment together, it was purely instrumental, so I've actually never actually heard him before. His voice sounds exactly like what I would expect from how he talks, low and like the grinding of gravel, yet it's somehow so much more intriguing than what I thought it would be. The deepness in his tone leaves my ears ringing with gripping mystery, and the way he annunciates is actually quite beautiful.

I think I sometimes forget that everyone at this school got in for a reason—and this, his voice, is definitely reason enough.

A new sense of insecurity washes over me. Not that I care what his opinion is of me, because that is seemingly already at the bottom of the scale—but still. Judging me and judging my musical abilities are two completely different things. My voice is me, don't get me wrong, but it's also so much more than that.

Oliver suddenly stops playing, "When I stop singing, that's kind of your cue to start."

"Right." I offer a sheepish smile. Now is not the time to get inside my own head. If I freeze up in this casual setting, that will probably only prompt him to tease me even more. I'm fine, I just need to sing and get this over with.

He swipes at the guitar again, and I count through the intro and wait for my time to come in. I give the second verse a try, tweaking the melody very subtly. Though I only sing a couple of lines before I notice Oliver giving me a strange look. I try to ignore it for another measure or so, but his forest eyes seem to only be digging deeper into me.

"What?" I interject, and he ceases playing once again, "Are you just going to keep staring me, or are we going to get something accomplished?" I grin, using his own words against him.

"I wasn't staring." He repulses the truth, though his face still doesn't show any signs of embarrassment. Does he seriously have no emotions at all?

"Yes, you were. Why?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Oh please, don't act like a robot and just tell me."

"Fine." He growls, "If we're out here fishing for compliments—you're good, Brooklynn. You're really, really good."

•••

Several days later, I spot my friends at our usual shaded spot and hurry over to join them for lunch. My bowl of crunchy salad clinks against the table just as I notice Rylie's scowling expression. Her face seems to fall into this feature sequence pretty regularly, but me being the good person that I am, I decide to ask her what's wrong anyway.

"I'm done talking about it." Rylie says matter-of-factly, pushing a spoonful of blueberry yogurt into her mouth.

"It's Zachary again. Also, hi Brooklynn." Acalia nudges Rylie for her rude greeting, as if I'm not used to it by this point.

I am also pretty used to Zachary Jacobs being the usual topic of conversation.

I lift my fork and smile, "Hey to you too, Acee. And Ryls, don't you think you're a bit obsessed with the boy? It can't be healthy."

"Obsessed? With Zachary? Psh, no." She immediately protests.

Acalia and I laugh simultaneously.

Rylie looks as though she could steam some of those organic veggies she's always eating right on her forehead, "Seriously. He's just—he's so annoying, and is constantly showing off."

"Translation, he's super talented." Acalia butts in.

"He's incredibly cocky." Rylie spits out another argument.

"Translation, she thinks he's attractive."

"He drives me crazy. And I just can not work with him or around him."

A goofy grin spreads across Acalia's lips, "That doesn't even need a translation. You totally like him."

"Ohh." I coo.

"Shut the hell up!" Rylie shrills, slamming her plastic spoon down and snapping it into three separate pieces.

Acalia's light eyes widen at the violent contact, but her smile doesn't fade. She's quite the sucker for romance.

Personally, I don't get it.

Rylie takes a deep breath, "Well, obviously that was just another one of Acalia's ditsy ideas."

"Obviously." I say facetiously.

The guy has only been at our school for a week, and practically every girl is swooning over him, except for Rylie. She tries to defy social standards, but we've all seen this movie, she's bound to fall eventually.

"It's like you and Oliver," Rylie tells me, "You guy's can't stand each other either. You have to vent about him sometimes too."

I tighten my lips and nod, though I'm not sure I would compare our situations. Oliver is a pain, yes, but I think that we've finally settled the stirred waters between us. After him being a complete child for the first while on Saturday, we actually ended up getting a lot of work done. I can't say that I enjoy his company, we're still far from that point ever being a possibility, but we respect each others' talent now. I would say that it's a small step in the right direction, especially if we're forced to work together on another assignment in the future.

"I would even say McCally is more tolerable than Jacobs."

A chuckle bubbles up inside my chest, "Yeah right. I just play well with others, that's why Oliver seems better than he actually is. Besides, I ran into Zachary the other day and he actually seemed really nice—"

"Wait, what? You two have met?" Rylie questions.

I mentally cringe as the embarrassing moment replays in my mind. Yeah, we met. And yeah, I ran into him— I physically ran into him.

"Briefly." I carefully answer.

My phone begins vibrating against the table's surface, and I recognize my alarm reminder signaling for me to go study for my pre-cal test this week. My allotted free period would probably give me enough time to review all of the material, but I like to think that you can never study too much.

Acalia, Rylie and I come to the established conclusion that the boys at this school are jerks whilst I clean up my lunch garbage. I wave to my friends and wander off to find a quiet place to study.

I exit the quad and pause, scanning over the remaining locations to choose from. Amidst my elimination process, I feel a light tap on my shoulder and whirl around to discover the same blonde beauty I had just reminisced about bumping in to.

What does the ever-popular Zachary Jacobs want to do with me?

He looks down at me with stern eyes, "Brooklynn, right?"

"That's me."

"And you're friends with Rylie James?"

"I am. She's my roommate."

"Come with me," he says. And with that simple demand, he grasps me by the wrist and hastily leads me off to an unknown destination.