Chapter 213
Summer's POV
Mia stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the deep red silk dress I'd lent her. Her fingers kept adjusting the silicone pads inside, and I could see her throat working as she swallowed hard.
"Summer, I think I'm going to throw up on stage."
I didn't look up from the piano keys. My fingers were running through the opening measures for what felt like the hundredth time that week. "You're not going to throw up. And you know why?"
"Why?" Her voice came out small.
"Because your neck and shoulder line looks absolutely gorgeous right now. Like an actual swan." I finally glanced at her reflection. "Plus, you were amazing at the winter concert. Remember? Ms. Robertson literally cried."
"She cries at everything."
"She cried because you were good." I played a few more bars, then stopped. "Come on. From the top. And stop messing with the dress. You look perfect."
She picked up her flute, and we went through it again. And again. My fingers started aching around the third run-through, that deep kind of ache that settles into your knuckles and won't leave. But I didn't stop. Neither did she.
During one of our breaks, I pulled out my phone. No messages. Of course there weren't any. Kieran's phone had been confiscated for the International Physics Olympiad (IPhO) qualifier weekend. I knew that. I'd watched Coach Anderson collect all the phones before they got on the bus to New Hampshire. But some stupid part of me kept checking anyway, like maybe he'd found a way to send me a smoke signal or something.
"You okay?" Mia was watching me.
"Yeah. Just tired."
She didn't believe me. I could tell by the way her eyebrows pulled together. But she didn't push it, which was one of the things I loved about her.
We kept rehearsing until the light outside turned orange, then purple, then dark.
---
The day of the Spring Arts Festival arrived with that specific kind of chaos that only happens when you try to turn a basketball court into a concert hall. I stood backstage with Mia, peeking through a gap in the red velvet curtains at the crowd filing in.
The folding chairs were arranged in neat rows, and the front section had those little reserved signs on them. Board members. Parent representatives. And somewhere in there, the selection committee from the Boston Youth Symphony. My stomach did a weird flip.
"I can't feel my hands," Mia whispered next to me.
I grabbed her fingers. They were ice cold. "That's just adrenaline. It'll go away once we start."
"What if it doesn't?"
"Then you'll play with numb hands and still sound amazing because you're that good."
She let out a shaky laugh. Behind us, the dance team was coming off stage, all sweaty and breathless and grinning. Brooke Martinez walked past us, her ponytail swinging, and the smell of hairspray and perfume followed her like a cloud.
Someone was doing vocal warm-ups in the corner. Someone else was frantically applying more lipstick. The whole backstage area buzzed with this electric, slightly panicked energy.
The stage manager appeared at my elbow. "You're up in two minutes."
My heart jumped into my throat. I squeezed Mia's hand tighter. "Deep breath. Remember, you're not alone up there."
"If I mess up, will you forgive me?"
"You won't mess up." I said it like it was a fact, like I was telling her the sky was blue.
She nodded, but I could see her pulse hammering in her neck.
I took my own deep breath and tried not to think about Kieran sitting in some freezing exam room in New Hampshire, gripping a pencil with his left hand while his right one hung useless at his side. Please let him be okay. Please let the test go well. Please let him come back safe.
---
The lights hit us the second we stepped on stage. Hot and bright and making everything beyond the first few rows fade into darkness. I could hear the rustle of programs, the creak of chairs, someone's cough echoing in the high ceiling of the gym.
I sat down at the piano. The bench was exactly the right height. Someone had adjusted it for me. The Steinway's keys gleamed under the lights, and when I rested my fingers on them, they felt cool and smooth.
Mia stood to my left, flute raised. I could see her chest rising and falling too fast.
I gave her a tiny nod. We've got this.
Then I started playing.
The opening notes spilled out into the silence, gentle and rolling like water. Mia's flute joined in, and the sound was so pure it made my chest ache. We'd practiced this so many times that my fingers knew where to go without thinking. The music just flowed.
I let my eyes close for a moment, let myself sink into it. In this space, with these notes, nothing else existed. Not Victoria's expectations. Not the evaluators in the front row. Not the complicated mess of my second-chance life. Just the music.
When I opened my eyes again, I could see shapes in the audience. The board members in the front were nodding along. One of the Boston Youth Symphony people was writing something in a notebook. Victoria sat in the third row, back straight, that practiced smile on her face. Her phone was probably buzzing in her purse with messages from Maya about Fashion Week emergencies, but she looked like the picture of a proud mother.
Then, near the end of the piece, I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck that means someone's watching you. Really watching you.
I lifted my gaze to the highest section of the bleachers, and my breath caught.
Kieran.
He was already done with his exam — and he'd made it. He was actually here. White shirt bright against the dim background, sitting alone up there with that perfect posture of his, hands resting on his knees. Even from this distance I could make out the sharp line of his jaw. And next to him on the empty seat, wrapped in brown paper, was what looked like flowers.
Something warm and fizzy bloomed in my chest. He came.
My fingers nearly stumbled on the keys. I forced myself to focus, to channel this sudden rush of warmth into the music. The piano and flute wove together for the final phrases, rising and falling, and then settling into silence.
The applause exploded like a wave breaking.