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“I want you to work with Nick.”
THUD!
Evie’s songbook hit the floor along with her jaw.
“You know the ropes better than most,” explained the instructor. “Please show our guest what to do.”
Best. Day. EVER!
Nodding excitedly, Evie snatched the book from the floor and grabbed her bag. “Sure, I’ll do the ropes—I mean, I’ll show him the singing ropes…”
Stop talking! Be COOL.
As she hurried up the aisle, the manager of the community center poked his head around the doorjamb. “Alan, call for you in the office.”
Mr. Remington sputtered. “Let’s take a peedie break. Don’t go too far.”
Chair legs screeched as most of the kids bolted from the stuffy room, leaving dust particles dancing in a ribbon of sunshine spilling through the stained glass windows.
Nerves fizzing in her belly, Evie lingered behind the noisy exodus. Remember, he’s JUST a boy…like Sam’s mates. Clutching the songbook against her chest, she rounded the front row of empty seats, passing a flock of girls, including the two from Stromness, cluttering the doorway. Autographs in hand, they giggled and shamelessly eyeballed Nikolai, but he didn’t engage any further, choosing instead to plow through whatever treasures lurked in his small gym bag.
With each step, Evie’s pulse hammered harder. Who was she kidding? Nikolai was nothing like Sam’s school friends. They were loud and sweary sixteen-year-olds, into tractors, Gran Turismo 4, and drinking pilfered booze behind the five-thousand-year-old Ring of Brodgar after the snap-happy tourists had called it a day. None were jaw-droppingly pretty or smooth with girls, familiar with red carpets and big paydays. Dammit. Evie stared. The nerve of him, being even more handsome than he was on TV. The silky softness of his boy band hair, his shoulders caressed by his turquoise top, his lips twisting in thought…the same lips that had kissed Amanda’s barely visible baby bump during the previous week’s season finale of Dalston Grove. A gasp escaped Evie’s mouth as her brain scrambled for something, anything but that to talk about. She couldn’t blow this first impression, her one and only chance to make him like her. This was it.
Her fangirl brain clicked into overdrive, locating squirreled-away nuggets of Nikolai trivia. He liked cars and photography and, and…fashion! Vintage and designer, he’s into clothes big time. Tightness gripped Evie’s chest as she glanced down. And clearly, I’m not. Of all the days to wear her faded S Club 7 t-shirt with her oversized hoodie and comfiest (and Crohn’s friendliest) track pants. Nikolai wouldn’t be caught dead in gray sweats, his taste more expensive, more hip. Evie didn’t know the first thing about designer labels, and the far-from-trendy wool sweaters and touristy puffin t-shirts sold in her mother’s shop did little to expand her sartorial education.
Think of something else. Tugging her hoodie closed over her slim frame, she mined her memory. His Japanese Spitz Ross? Table tennis? Playing piano, gooey cupcakes? Nikolai loved them all, but he gave dishonesty, cats eating birds (gross), coconut, and forgetting birthdays all the thumbs-down (according to Flirty Girl magazine). His favorite color was yellow. Fave breakfast food: waffles. His first kiss was—
“Hey.”
Evie’s focus flew, crash-landing on her crush. All words, all discussion topics queued and ready to launch, dried up on her tongue.
“How are you?” Reeling in his splayed legs, Nikolai reunited his butt with the chair and sat up, a wisp of a crooked smile teasing his full lips.
Just like Jake. Evie squeezed the handle of her backpack, her knuckles whitening. “Um…” She swallowed, forcing out a breathless blurt. “I’m gonna leave this—”
“No, don’t go. Stay. Talk to me.”
Her backpack dropped on the chair beside him. “Sorry?”
“You know, talk? Save me from looking like a sad Billy No-Mates.” A wide, mischievous grin awoke the famous dimples she wrote about in her journal. “I sorta feel on display here.” Nikolai tilted his head, his eyes flitting across the whispering throng. “Like a three-headed sheep or something.” He let out a cheeky laugh, and Evie’s exhale snagged in her throat.
Is this real life? Am I dead?
Evie’s doubts were certainly warranted, especially after the unshakable nightmare of the past year: searing abdominal pains, frightening weight loss, and panicked sprints to the loo, not to mention the occasional accident. Carrying baby wipes, toilet paper, and extra underwear and jeans in her backpack just in case was a secret she didn’t dare share, but even on her worst days, one thing always made Evie smile—daydreaming about Nikolai—and like a thousand birthday wishes come true, he was right here, he was—
“Pretend you know me, Evie. Please?”
Saying her name.
Giddiness whooshed through every vein, every artery, completely evaporating Evie’s cool faster than a hot car on a sunny day. “Oh, I know you! I watch you every week, own alll the DVDs and magazines. Your storyline this year with Amanda and the pregnancy and—well, it was SO awesome!”
The fizzy sparkle in Nikolai’s eyes dimmed. “Oh. Cheers,” he muttered, his smile collapsing along with his conversational skills. “Great.” He dove into his bag again.
Oh nooo. Evie chewed her bottom lip. Too fangirly. WAY too fangirly! Her heart panged. She needed a do-over. Fast.
He pulled out a ballpoint pen, its cap riddled with bite marks. “I guess you want an autograph, too, yeah?” A resigned sigh escaped his mouth as he looked up, his gaze listless.
Yes. Yes, she did, but not at the expense of a possible friendship. That is, if one was within reach. None of the girls holding autographs in the doorway had been invited to stick around. Was it their high-pitched swooning, their monosyllabic fawning over his looks that saw them kept at a distance? A sour taste rose in Evie’s throat. She couldn’t—no, wouldn’t suffer the same fate. She’d stifle her giddiness and find common ground, something shared to spark a meaningful conversation…even if it killed her.
