Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
She’s attempting a joke. Checking the temperature to see if I’m ready to stop being a jackass.
My face is still in the crook of her neck. I’m too chickenshit to look up. “How’s the sky looking, Dove?”
Bailey stiffens at the sound of her new nickname. For a second I’m worried she’ll laugh at me. Say it’s a cliché. Worry I’m calling her a feathered rat. Then she relaxes against me.
Her voice floats like a bird’s song: “Blue and clear as day, Levy.”
CHAPTER 1
Bailey
Age nineteen
“Duuuuuuude. Can you believe Lauren sprained her ankle porking a tourist? I would die.” Katia, my roommate, runs a contour stick under her cheekbone, all the way down the tip of her jaw. She glides her tongue along her upper teeth to get rid of lipstick residue, her eyes glittering as she studies herself in the mirror.
Our Juilliard dorm room is smaller than my walk-in closet back home and haphazardly furnished. Two bunk beds. One rickety desk. An immeasurable amount of Broadway posters, throw pillows, and inspirational quotes scissored into hearts. Daria says trying to make this place look livable is like putting lipstick on a pig: “Only you got yourself a dozen pigs and one stick of cheapo lipstick.”
But Daria is also a high school counselor, not a world-renowned ballerina. She never made it to the Big J, so it’s probably the jealousy falling out of her mouth.
“Hello? Earth to Bailey? Should we send a search party to find your brain?” Katia dumps the contour stick on the desk, picking up a brush to blend in the makeup. “Bitch finished her career because of a Tinder date! It’s more pathetic than Kylie, who gained a bunch of weight and lost her spot at the Bolshoi.”
“Dude, Kylie has lupus.” I rear my head back. Holy mean girl.
“So does Selena, and she’s still hot shit.” She rolls her hazel eyes. “There are always excuses, aren’t there? If you wanna be successful in our industry, you gotta hustle.”
“You know I like Lauren. And that story hasn’t really been confirmed by reliable sources.” I refuse to engage in shit-talking, even if it’s my peers’ favorite blood sport.
“Not confirmed?” Katia shrieks. “Bitch has a cast and a one-way ticket back to Bumfuck, Oklahoma. What more do you need, an in-depth article in The Atlantic?”
I hug a throw pillow to my chest on our bunk bed, eager to change the subject. “Okay, but can we talk about how I love this eye shadow on you?”
“You know throwing shade is my passion.” Katia twists her head and winks, a shock of platinum-blond hair slinging over her shoulder. She straightens her posture and tosses the brush inside her makeup bag. She’s wearing my sequined Gucci minidress. A hand-me-down from Daria.
Katia is on a scholarship here. She migrated to the U.S. from Latvia with her mom eight years ago and got into Juilliard on a full ride. We got paired in the freshman dorm room and now live on a steady diet of ramen, pizza rolls, and motivation, much to her chagrin. She tried to stage an intervention when I canceled the organic, gluten-free food subscription my parents placed on my behalf when I moved in here. But I made a conscious decision to cut myself off from their bank account when I turned eighteen. So far, I’ve been doing pretty well.
Thing is, the more you swim in money, the drier your creativity pool is. Art comes from a place of depravation. In art, privilege is a disadvantage. Art is about bleeding. Dying onstage. Telling your story through a medium—be it paint on canvas, clay, dance, or song. What’s my life story? A couple bad manicures and an unfortunate braces phase?
I read a quote somewhere by an author named Amy Chua: “Do you know what a foreign accent is? It’s a sign of bravery.” I can’t stop thinking about this. About how neatly and insipidly I’ve always fit into the world around me. With my Valley-girl twang and pastel cardigans and cushy trust fund.
Until now. Until Juilliard.
“Ohmygosh, Bails, stop being such a party pooper. I like Lauren too. Even though she’s a bitchbag for hooking up with Jade’s ex.” Katia’s voice daggers through my fog-filled brain. I’m in excruciating pain. I have three stress fractures, one in each of my tibias and one in my spine, and they’re all throbbing, demanding to be acknowledged.
“He gave her a ride upstate.” I scrunch my nose. “This is all specula—”
“It’s just a shame because it was her last year,” Katia cuts me off. “She signed a Broadway contract, you know. Hamilton. Ensemble member. Now she has to go back to Oklahoma—”
“Montana,” I correct, choking on the pain.
“To like…work at her dad’s pig-racing ranch—”
“Her family doesn’t farm.”
“Whatever, Bails. You’re literally the worst person to talk shit with. Haven’t you heard? Nice women don’t end up in history books.” Katia downs the remainder of her pregame beer, slam-dunking the can in the trash.