“Oh, I won’t be dancing. I’ll be singing.”

“You sing?” Tyler asks. “I didn’t know that.”

“I am a girl of many talents,” I say. Tyler grins, but before I can ask why he looks so happy, I find out. Someone sits down beside me.

Branden.

“Hey,” he says. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all!” Riley responds. I want to ask where Megan is, but I keep my mouth shut and smile instead. He’s in a lime-green T-shirt and khaki shorts. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his face, but his shirt is dry. Was he practicing shirtless? Just the thought makes my heart flip. Thankfully, Riley keeps the attention off me. For a very brief moment. “We were just discussing how Jennifer’s going to blow everyone away with her singing tonight.”

“So I heard,” Branden says. “Girl of many talents, right?”

“Except for handling heights,” I mutter. Because I’m not going to let that be the elephant in the room—I know he’s still thinking it.

To my surprise, the statement doesn’t seem to make him uncomfortable; most people get uneasy when they’re called out on things they’re secretly thinking, but he just shrugs.

“First times are always terrifying,” he says. “Some you can’t overcome, and some you just have to leap over.” He gives me a knowing look, and I’m suddenly not entirely certain we’re just talking about flying trapeze. And now my face is definitely going red.

“Anyway,” Tyler says, making me look over to him. I want to mouth thank you for getting everyone’s attention. “Have you decided on a song for tonight?” He seems to reconsider his question, looking between Branden and me. “And are you in, Branden? We could always use an extra backup dancer. Or singer, depending.”

“I’m no singer,” Branden admits. “Or dancer, either.”

“Oh, come on,” Riley goads. “Every amazing singer needs equally amazing backup dancers.”

Branden bites his lip and looks at me—or maybe it’s the other way around, which seems like it would have an entirely different meaning. The blush I was just managing to get under control goes wild. Whatever act we do tonight, I’m going to have to wear a lot of foundation, otherwise I’m going to look like a tomato every time I remember that Branden’s dancing around onstage with me. A part of me really hopes he’ll say no. The rest of me—the part that wants to rub this in Megan’s face and get the boy and still manage to be a star this spring break—has every finger and toe crossed that he’ll say yes.

“Sure,” he says. And it’s like my heart does a little vault into my throat.

“Wait, really?” I blurt out, because I’m not entirely certain he said it or I just imagined he said it.

“Why not?” he asks with a shrug. “Sounds like fun, and it sure beats the beatboxing I was going to do.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Riley interrupts. “You beatbox?”

“Nope. I’m horrible at it.” Branden grins. “This is saving everyone a lot of pain and embarrassment.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t heard my singing,” I joke. Though I’m pretty certain my singing is better than his beatboxing. I can’t help the self-deprecating humor. When I’m on a roll, I’m on a roll.

He smiles wider and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I look forward to it,” he says. He turns to the rest of the group. His hand stays where it is. His touch is a bubbly mix of heat and electricity. It makes me want to lean in to him and wrap his other arm around me—something I’ve never felt from a boy before. In the back of my mind, though, I’m acutely aware that just hours ago, he was arm in arm with Megan. It reminds me of Josh and the cheerleader, and I suddenly want to shrink away. What if Branden really is just playing me like Josh did? “When are we going to practice?” he asks.

And then everyone starts comparing schedules, trying to find a free hour in a pretty packed day. The show is at eight thirty. And after a lot of negotiating, we find a time slot that works for everyone. The only problem is, it’s only for an hour after dinner.

Branden squeezes my shoulder again when he stands to go to practice. He seems excited, as do Tyler and Kevin and Riley. I can’t help but feel we’ve got a lot of work to do. Otherwise this is going to be a disaster.

•  •  •

I have half an hour free between lunch and my next round of juggling practice. I consider going back and calling my parents, but I don’t really know what I’d say. I don’t want to tell them about not getting into flying trapeze, not yet. I don’t want to disappoint them. And hey, maybe if I get really good at juggling before the final showcase, I’ll be able to convince them I chose not to do flying trap. It’s too nice out to stay indoors, anyway. And I have a feeling that free time is something I won’t have much of for the next few days.

So, while Tyler and Kevin and Riley head to do some drop-in acro workshop, I leave the school and head across the lawn, past the tents and the mats in the sun where people are warming up or throwing a Frisbee. I try not to think about where I’m actually going; if I do, I might wimp out and stop myself.

I slow down a few hundred feet from the trapeze rig, leaning against a tree and watching the kids and coaches practice. I don’t think any of them see me, not from here, but I brought a few juggling balls just in case—always practice, Riley told me. And practicing is a perfectly legitimate reason to be out here.

“That could have been you,” I mutter to myself, tossing a few balls back and forth as I watch the kids swing and flip from the trapeze. When Branden climbs the shaky rope ladder and reaches out for the trapeze, my heart leaps with him. He moves so gracefully, so effortlessly, and when he finally lets go of the bar and flips in the air, he soars like a bird. A very attractive bird. I’m torn between being impressed with the way Branden moves and being upset that I’m not out there with him.

I should have tried harder. I shouldn’t have given up.

Branden goes up again and does another flip from the bar—a double somersault, this time—and lands effortless on the net, bouncing high in the air on the rebound. Even though I’ve already seen him do it, it still makes me a little nauseated. Face-planting toward the ground just doesn’t look like fun. He rolls over the edge of the net and gracefully drops the few feet to the ground. He glances over at me when he lands. If he notices me, he doesn’t say anything, just goes back to the group of trapeze kids and sits down in the grass.

That could have been you, I think angrily again. But you had to chicken out. It doesn’t matter that he’s going to help you at the talent show—you could have spent all this time with him if you’d just tried harder.

One of the ball tosses goes awry, and the striped ball flies away. I curse and head over to it, not taking my eyes off the grass at my feet so no one can see my face—not that anyone’s looking at me.

Which is why, when I find the ball, I’m surprised to see it’s covered by a foot.

A foot in a pale-blue flip-flop.

“Looking for something?” comes her unmistakable drawl. I look up and brush the hair from my eyes to stare straight at Megan. Her blond hair’s in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a pale-blue leotard and white shorts. She looks like something out of The Nutcracker. “Or maybe you were just looking at something?”

I grit my teeth and hold out my hand. Experience has shown that it’s never smart to try and fight back with a witty remark. Not that she’d understand wit if it slapped her in the face, I think.

“Cat got your tongue?” she says, smiling like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in ages.

“I think you’re stepping on something of mine,” I say.

“Oh, this?” She bends over—without bending her knees, of course, which just reminds me I can barely touch my toes—and picks up the ball.

I hold out my hand. “Can I have it back?”