Page 58 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ivy
The high school kids and I do a quick run-through before the actual concert starts. The girl who’s supposed to turn my music keeps losing focus, not flipping pages like she’s supposed to. Although it doesn’t disrupt the performance, it’s a little annoying she can’t manage the easiest task in the show. If turning pages is too much, she should’ve let someone else do it. I glance over to see what her deal is.
Her gaze is glued to the cellist, who’s doing his best to avoid eye contact. Does she have a crush on him? And is he uncomfortable about it?
I start to feel bad for her. If I’m right, her situation is a lot like mine—liking a guy who can’t let you in. Then I note the violist looking daggers in my direction. What’s her deal? I barely even know her…
Wait, she’s not mad at me, but at the girl turning my music, who’s now bristling like an indignant hedgehog. Oh boy.
All this silent drama is too much. Nobody should be doing this during a run-through, especially not right before the actual concert.
If they screw up because they can’t focus, I’m going to be furious, no matter how sorry I feel for the girl next to me. If you’re going to stage a public performance, you need to be professional.
Despite my worries, the concert goes well. The quintet plays half a beat too slow for my liking, but I don’t think anybody notices or cares. I sigh with relief when the crowd applauds after our piece, and we all rise, bow and curtsy to the warmly appreciative audience. St. Agnellus is a small town without a lot of cultural events. People here value them more than the jaded audiences you get in big cities.
And it was a great excuse to get out of the house. Tony’s silence is making me restless and disappointed. There are times I’m tempted to contact him first, but I stop myself. I don’t want him to think I’m agreeing to his decision to not let me in…even if I miss him with an almost physical pain.
Also, the Peachers are visiting again, and Aunt Margot made her disdain and displeasure known all day long. Not that I blame her. Sam and Marty are being particularly insufferable on this visit from what little I overheard. Apparently, Sam is determined to get her to invest in one of his real estate development projects, even though she’s made it clear she’d rather dump the money into Lake Pontchartrain. And if that intolerable know-it-all Marty comments one more time about my interpretation of “La Campanella,” using tidbits he’s obviously picked up from Google, I’m going to murder him.
By the time I make it to the big door to the parking lot, it’s almost nine. The building is mostly empty now—the audience is gone and just us performers are left.
The rest of the quintet plan to hang around and dissect the concert. But I want to go home, even though I hate driving in these conditions. I crack the door open and look outside. It’s storming hard, wind whipping the rain around until it hits like liquid darts sailing through the air. You can’t even block it with an umbrella. It wasn’t this bad earlier, so at least I was able to perform in dry clothes.
I get ready to dash across the lot, until I hear somebody behind me. I turn and see my page-turner. Despite being distracted throughout the run-through, she did pretty well during the actual concert.
“You were really good,” she says.
“Thanks. But everyone was great. And you were really helpful.” It’s awful I’m blanking on her name, but I’m terrible at remembering them.
“I…um…” She licks her lips, then sniffles. Her face turns blotchy.
I wait, praying she isn’t about to ask for some uncomfortable favor. Like that time when a guy begged me to hook him up with a “special” admission to Curtis.
“Could I ask you for a ride?”
“Oh. Um, okay. Are you stuck?”
“My sister… I’m sorry, it’s a long, boring story.” She tightens her mouth, then forces a smile. “I just need a ride home, and I don’t have my phone or anything.”
I finally notice she doesn’t have a purse. The only thing she’s holding is a brown paper bag. Doesn’t matter what happened between her and her sister. I don’t want her stuck out here or trying to walk home alone at night. “Sure,” I say. “Where do you live?”
“Augustine.”
That’s a little out past Tempérane, but it isn’t like I have anything pressing. And I finally remember her name. “Sure, Charlene.”
“Thanks.”
I point at my champagne-colored Lexus coupe, a gift from Aunt Margot and Uncle Lane when I got accepted to Curtis. “That’s my car. Let’s go.”
I hit the fob to unlock the doors as I dash across as fast as I can, but it’s futile. Charlene and I are both drenched within seconds.
“Buckle up,” I say when we’re finally in the car.
She fumbles around, but nothing clicks. “It doesn’t work.”
“Huh?” I reach over and try it myself, but she’s right. There’s no click, and the tongue just slides out. Then I remember one of the guys I gave a ride to at Curtis busted the latch when he dropped a paperclip in it last spring. I meant to have it looked at, but kept forgetting. “Ugh. I hate this.”
