Playing with Fire

“How?” she asked.

I felt my split lip reopening as I bit down on it. “Car accident.”

“Were you in the …?”

“No,” I snapped. The wound of her death was too raw for me to pick at it. “There you have it, Tex. Something you know and Tess doesn’t. No one does. Well, other than East. Can we stop talking about it now?”

She didn’t answer. Rightly so. I was being a prickly sonovabitch again.

A ten-minute silence stretched between us. I hoped to hell she’d never bring Aub up again, but knew that in all probability, she would.

“You okay?” I asked finally, when I felt her going under, surrendering to sweet slumber.

“Yeah.”

I knew it was a lie.

I still took it.

Grace

A for Aubrey.

It didn’t mean anarchy or asshole or any of the things I’d guessed as I’d tossed and turned in the nights we were just friends, trying to read the impossibly mysterious West St. Claire.

Aubrey. What a beautiful name. The pieces were finally clicking into place, creating an exquisitely tragic picture.

West had gone through one of the greatest losses one could experience. His parents were broken after losing their daughter, possibly being in the car when it happened, possibly even being the reason why the accident occurred in the first place.

West was trying to help them back on their feet financially, but he still hadn’t forgiven them for Aubrey’s death.

Yes. That was what happened.

I clutched onto my boyfriend extra tight that night.

Loving him with every piece of my heart … and a little bit more.

Grace

“Professor McGraw wants you in her office. Pronto.”

Lauren, AKA Blanche, greeted me by my pickup truck first thing in the morning. Her voice was hoarse, like she’d spent the entire month going through seventeen packs of cigarettes a day; she swathed a scarf over her neck, even though the concrete hissed and sizzled with heat beneath our feet. I wobbled out of my Chevy, making my way straight to Professor McGraw’s office, thinking, Oh boy, that can’t be good.

McGraw was waiting for me, her hands folded over her desk.

“You want redemption, Grace Shaw. To be a phoenix. Everything about you screams it—your bag, your flame ring, your tragedy. You carry yourself in the hallways, taking as little space as possible, waiting for the change to happen. But in order to turn into a phoenix—you have to fight for it. To take flight. Well, it’s your lucky day.”

I darted an eyebrow up, curious. She was bang on about everything, but I hadn’t realized people were paying attention to me at school at all.

It was only recently that I’d stopped feeling like a timid bird.

“Poor Lauren has just been diagnosed with vocal cord nodules and is down for the count. We need a new Blanche, and you need a role to save your semester. I formally put down your name, and Mr. Finlay is in full agreement you should take the part.”

I opened my mouth, but she rushed in before I could add anything, shaking her head.

“As you probably know, Tess Davis has been pursuing the role actively. She is extremely disciplined, but I think, seeing as she’s been vying for this role for so long, if I give it to her, students might think they can bully their way into getting things around here, and I just won’t have that. The premiere is in less than a month. Please don’t tell me you’re unprepared. You know these lines by heart—can recite them in your sleep. Cruz has been paying attention to you during rehearsals. He’s been having doubts about Lauren for a while now. As you may know, she struggled with the manuscript.”

People had noticed me. The thought made something bloom in my chest.

“I know the lines,” I said quietly, trying to process all of this as I sank into the chair in front of her.

Blanche was the main role.

The golden opportunity.

The crux on the biscuit.

I would get to salvage my semester. Probably ace it. Anything short of a full-blown disaster would do wonders for my grade. The thought of going onstage without my ball cap made me shudder … yet it didn’t make me cower.

I’d done this before.

Taken off my ball cap.

Thanks to West.

Dozens of times, actually.

I could do this.

The realization nearly knocked the wind out of me. I could do a fine job portraying Blanche. I’d read the play so many times, my brain bled out my favorite lines every time I fell asleep. In my dreams, the old me—the me without the scars—stood on that stage, playing alongside Marlon Brando.

I was going to do this.

I was going to save my year and overcome my stage fright.

“Say something.” McGraw cocked her head, blinking at me. “I don’t like all this silence. Are you or are you not going to sub in for Miss McCarthy?”

I pressed my lips together, biting down on a huge smile.