Cassie Noble hopes to follow in the footsteps of her older brother who got into a local college on an acting scholarship, but an ex best friend derails her plans just minutes before her big audition.

Today.

Today could determine the next six years.

Maybe more.

As long as I don’t mess it up.

I run voice and diction exercises on the way to school, during lunch, and between each class. People look at me funny for enunciating “Red leather, yellow leather,” and “black bugs blood,” and “Unique New York,” but I truly do not care.

This is no time to be timid!

Everything is going fine right up until after seventh hour. Auditions for Our Town start in ten minutes in the auditorium. I scramble out of my English class and walk fast down the sidewalk toward the open-air breezeway that cuts right down the middle of Camelback High School.

Am I—Cassandra Noble, sibling to the great Brian Noble, class of ’88—going to get cast as Emily Webb, the female lead?

No. Probably not.

But maybe.

If I get cast in a bigger role than any I’ve had since last year, that puts me on the perfect trajectory for getting into Brian’s same drama program at Arizona State University. With a scholarship. My parents saved just enough money to send us both through school, but every buck we make toward college is a buck we get keep. Brian got a full ride, so’s he sitting on a nice pile of cash.

Sounds good to me!

I hurry toward the performing arts department, which anchors the south end of campus. In other words, the complete opposite end from the 400 buildings where my English class is.

Being late to auditions would not be a good look.

I pass the 300, 200, and 100 buildings, then admin and the cafeteria, starting up my vocal warm-ups to try and focus. Red leather, yellow leather.

Just as I reach the performing arts department double doors, someone calls, “Cass!”

I stop short of the doors and turn.

Lindsey Connor wheels an orange bicycle toward me from a rack. Her bike is pretty cool. I noticed when she got it early last year. She rides it everywhere. I’m not sure she even wants a car.

She smiles hesitantly, blonde hair trailing from her omnipresent brown leather cap. The brim, as always, is pulled down low to shade her eyes. It’s the end of January and still a little chilly for Phoenix, but like me, Lindsey’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Her T is a brilliant blue that brings out her eyes—when they can be seen.

My own T-shirt is black. R.E.M. Stolen from my brother.

“Oh,” I say, casting a nervous look at the performing arts entrance. I feel the clock ticking. “Hey, Lindsey.”

“How you doing?” Lindsey says as she reaches me.

“Um, good…?”

Lindz and I haven’t really talked much since eighth grade. Not her fault. But not mine either!

Is it?

I take and hold a breath, trying to figure out a polite way out of the conversation. I can’t be late.

“Good, that’s great,” Lindz says. Even though her cap is pulled so low, this close to her, I can see her expression light up. She tries on another tentative smile. “You still listen to Cyndi Lauper?”

I shake my head. Still haven’t released my breath.

But I can’t hold it forever. The air in my lungs comes bursting out of me as I say, “Lost my taste I guess.”

Lindz loses the smile, and I feel bad. She has a sweet smile. I remember when she got her braces off, she was so thrilled…

“Oh,” she says. “That’s too bad. But I get it.”

“Listen, Lindz, um…I kind of need to—”

No longer meeting my eyes, Lindsey says, “Have you talked to him?”

“No!”

I bark this at her a lot more forcefully than I mean to. I shouldn’t be such a jerk.

So I hurry to add, “I just mean, I don’t think it’s such a great idea. Is all.”

“It’s been more than a year,” Lindsey says, her voice quiet. “Can’t you guys just—”

“I have an audition,” I say, cutting her off. “I gotta go.”

Lindsey looks back at me. Even under the shade of her cap, I can see the pain in her eyes.

I hold my breath again.

“Cassie, he doesn’t talk to me either,” Lindsey says. “I didn’t even do anything and you both act like I’m a monster.”

I let out my breath. “You’re not, of course you’re not. Things just…you know.”

It’s a lame response, but I don’t want to get into it. And not just because of auditions. Which I can feel have already started without me.

“Cass—”

I interrupt her for a second time: “Lindsey, I am not relitigating this.”

That’s a lawyer word my mom loves to use at home when she’s done arguing with me or Brian or Dad over something, even if it’s just who’s turn it is to put the clean dishes away.

“And I’m really sorry,” I add, “but I have to go.”

I take a step toward the drama department doors.

“I’m going to New York,” Lindsey says.

That makes me stop. She can’t move to New York! We haven’t become best friends again yet!

I mean…there was always supposed to be time to do that. I was working up to it, I swear. I just had to wait for the right moment…

Mind spinning as I think all of this, I blurt out, “What?”

“For a choir concert. We were in a competition and won? So we’re going to sing at Carnegie Hall next semester. I’ve got a solo.”

My panic eases. Okay, she’s not moving. See? There’s still time. I’m just going to do Our Town first, and then when that wraps, I’ll…I’ll call her. Then it can be me and her and not him.

Yeah.

But I don’t say that.

“Of course you have a solo,” I say instead, because, yeah, it’s obvious she would. Lindz has an amazing voice, the kind that will probably land her on MTV if she can find the right band.

The compliment brightens her expression. “We’ll have a concert here after the spring show,” she says, gesturing toward the performing arts building. “Do you think you could come see it?”

Back in the day, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. Hell, she wouldn’t have had to ask. I’d just be there. Front row center.

Now?

The problem with being best friends again—with Lindz or anyone else for that matter—is that you have to be, you know…friends.

Meaning, open.

Trusting.

No thanks. Never again. Not in this lifetime.

While I stutter a response, a wave of sound cascades through the breezeway. I recognize it immediately.

The skaters.

I don’t know what you call a group of skate punks who think the entire campus is their own private skate park. A group? Crew? Herd? Or, how about: a jackass.

Yes. A jackass of skaters comes careening down the breezeway concrete and spins to their left, past me and Lindz, all long bangs and loud shouts. One of them carries a boom box that’s playing Social Distortion. Ring of Fire. A Johnny Cash cover.

And in the middle of the pack is Jesse Redding.

Who I haven’t spoken directly to since the last week of eighth grade.

Because you can’t say the things he said and just get over it.