Page 8 of My Unscripted Life

My cheeks burn, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of shame. I nod and sit up, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them to pull them tight. My eyes are on my feet, where royal-blue polish is chipping off my right big toe.

“You’re right,” I say. I meet Naz’s eyes, and she’s nodding right along with me, a sympathetic smile on her face. That’s another thing I love about my best friend. She’s so confident she’s right that she doesn’t have to gloat. I fling my arms around her neck and hug her, tears pricking my eyes. “I’m going to miss you this summer,” I say, my words muffled in her hair.

“I’ll miss you too,” she says, then pulls back. “But if you need me, I’m only a text away.”

INT. PARAD FAMILY DINNER TABLE.

DR. PARAD

So who is this Milo Ritter person?

DEE AND NAZ (singing)

Fast girl, you never go slow

You come find me and get real low

Red lips, soulful eyes

Can’t stand to think of any goodbyes

THE OTHER DR. PARAD

That’s music?

NAZ

Not the way I sing.

DR. PARAD

That’s going to be trapped in my head all night, isn’t it?

DEE

Maybe days.

THE OTHER DR. PARAD

Oh dear God…

At this moment Naz is in the backseat of her parents’ Prius cruising down I-16 en route to campus, ready for the summer of her dreams being a science nerd with her fellow science nerds from around the state. Simultaneously, my fellow art nerds are convening on campus, ready to art-nerd their little hearts out without me.

And for the first time since my rejection letter arrived, I kind of feel like I don’t care.

I tried my best to follow Naz’s advice, I really did. But as soon as I crawled into bed last night, my brain kicked into overdrive. Suddenly I was imagining Milo onstage accepting a heavy golden statue and thanking me while I beamed up at him from a red velvet theater seat (wearing a killer couture ball gown, of course).

I know. I’m pathetic.

It’s a cool morning, and I hop on my bike and get pedaling quickly so I can work up a little heat in my legs. It won’t last, though. The forecast is calling for another blazing-hot day, with the temperature rising steadily through lunch. At least I don’t have Dad driving me. I told him in no uncertain terms that having him drive me to work each day made me feel like I was getting dropped off at day camp. He agreed, but flatly denied my request for a family car to take. It’s not like my parents are going to need two cars at home. Mom is a writer and spends most of her days wandering from room to room, carting her laptop and trying to make the cushions of whatever chair she’s fallen into mold to her lower back so it doesn’t spasm. And since Wilder College doesn’t offer a summer program, my dad spends his days alternately working on whatever research he’s been sucked into or putting miles on his running shoes on the long back-country runs of Holland County. Despite that very well-presented argument, if I do say so myself, I’m still stuck pedaling through the heat and humidity.

My wheels bounce over the railroad tracks as I turn onto the avenue toward the studio. There’s no bike rack that I can see, so I pull up next to a No Parking sign and lock my bike to it.

Behind me, I hear tires squealing. A shiny black sports car, the same convertible that pulled up in front of the Coffee Cup last week, skids into an open parking spot. The door flies open, and I expect to see Rob step out, but it’s not Rob.

It’s Milo.

It’s weird that they’re driving the same car, but I guess if you show up at the car-rental counter and tell them you want the Hollywood Special, that’s what you drive away with.

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