Defiant Princess (Boys of Oak Park Prep 2)

As I unplugged my phone from the car charger and exited out of the map app, I noticed several missed texts. Worry flared in my chest for a moment as I swiped the screen to access them—Philip had been improving steadily since he’d returned home, but had something happened?

The messages weren’t from Jacqueline or the hospital though. They were from the Princes.

FINN: We don’t call you Legs 4 nothing. I’ve seen u practicing all week and even tho I don’t know shit about dance, I think ur fucking amazing. It’s beautiful. Trust me.

ELIJAH: You make me wish I still played guitar, Tal. Watching you dance to my music was one of my favorite things in the world. Kill it today.

COLE: Fight for what you want, little dancer.

Mason’s text contained no words at all. Just a link to a song that was haunting and beautiful. It had no lyrics, just a piano and guitar, and I closed my eyes and listened to the entire thing as the sun slowly began to heat up the interior of my car. It was beautiful—similar to the piece I’d chosen for my audition, actually—and I wondered what had made him pick it.

When I opened my eyes, a new text message had appeared on the screen.

MASON: Whenever I hear this song I think of you.

A strange, warm feeling expanded in my chest as I read over all the messages one more time. Those four were the only ones who’d texted me. They were the only ones who knew. I would tell Leah and Maggie about it after I got back to campus, but I hadn’t wanted to jinx myself by telling anyone else. Usually, well wishes just felt like added pressure, like I’d be letting not only myself but someone else down if I failed.

But those five texts made me feel strong and confident.

Time alternated between rushing by and dragging out as I went inside, checked in, and prepared for my audition. When I was finally ushered into the space, my breath caught in my throat. The company director and choreographers sat in the audience, and I stood on the broad stage, illuminated by bright lights that shone down on me.

Then my musical selection started, and I let myself move. I didn’t worry about the technique—I ha

d practiced and drilled so hard over the past week that all of that was as good as I could get it, ingrained in my muscles and bones—and instead, just let myself feel the music. I let it flow through me into my movements, and I told the audience a story.

A story of loss.

Of despair.

Of challenges accepted and battles won.

Of soaring highs and crushing lows.

Of pleasure and pain.

Everything I had built into the dance piece poured out of me as I moved across the stage, leaping and whirling.

I still hadn’t been able to settle on an ending. I had worked through a few options that fit the piece and felt okay, but I hadn’t been totally satisfied with any of them. As the song neared its conclusion though, I suddenly realized how it needed to end.

My movements slowed and elongated, becoming both softer and more powerful. And as the final note of the song played, I arched my back as if presenting my heart to the universe. My arms spread wide, the gesture triumphant and challenging.

Quiet descended in the space again as the music track ended, and I became aware of my pounding heart, of the trickle of sweat working its way down my back, of the small strands of hair that had come free from my bun to tease the back of my neck.

I could barely see into the audience past the blinding lights, but I caught sight of the auditioners leaning close to each other, speaking in low voices.

Then an older man on the left turned back toward me, raising his voice in the darkness. “Talia. You’re still in school, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you’d be able to start after you graduated? In the spring?”

Excitement made my heart hammer in my chest, but I kept my expression composed. “Yes. Sir.”

He smiled, and the woman next to him nodded, looking pleased. “That’s good to know. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

I walked off the stage, suppressing the urge to bound away like an excited puppy or scream and run around in circles like a five-year-old. It wasn’t a definite offer. Not yet. But it very likely could turn into one.

Holy fuck.