Chapter 1Get’cha Head in the Game
“Teddy McGuire’s got his head in the clouds again.”
I snap to and offer a smile, but Sebastian, one of the guys on the tech crew, is checking something off on an iPad as he hands me my microphone and then walks away.
People say that sort of thing to me all the time. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a little daydreaming or an overactive imagination—in fact, I love having my head in the clouds.
Truly, it’s what gets me through life. As an actor, I have people literally clapping for me to indulge in flights of fancy.
I most recently wrapped my run as Troy in the spring production of High School Musical.
Well, almost wrapped. After today.
The local newspaper called my Troy a “fresh, newly inspired take on what already feels like a strangely classic role.” I’ll take it, considering I hadn’t seen it before getting the part—I wasn’t even born when that movie came out.
My favorite singer, Benji Keaton, has a whole song called “In the Clouds” from his Icarus Complex album.
And if my head weren’t in the clouds,
Crafting all these wild schemes,
I wouldn’t be flying toward the sun,
I wouldn’t be the guy of your dreams.
Enough said.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter what people think because my optimism is endorsed by the universe. Everything always works out because I have a lucky bracelet, which is—
Shit.
Nowhere to be found.
No, no, no.
It takes no time at all for me to absolutely lose my mind and nearly break out in a cold sweat.
I can’t go out on that stage without it. There’s no way.
No matter what anyone might think, that bracelet is good luck. It’s a friendship bracelet I made with Annie, strings knotted together in a multipatterned mix of blue hues. It has practically been ordained by some universe-administered powers of positive fortune. These bracelets repel things like awkward moments, clumsiness, and fear of public speaking. They magically make grades better, too, I swear.
Obviously, I didn’t always have a charmed friendship bracelet, so I know it’s not just something I’m making up. The night we made the bracelets, sitting in Annie’s room with the strings on clipboards and burning Bath & Body Works candles we saw some YouTuber recommend, Benji announced his Sunrise album after a two-year hiatus. What do you call that? A coincidence?
Of course, at the moment Annie is nowhere to be found, like my damn lucky bracelet.
I have less than two minutes before curtain to find this thing, and if I don’t, I honestly am not sure what will happen. Will I puke on the audience?
And this audience, of all audiences, is . . . different.
It’s one thing to perform the school musical for the people who want to see it. The people who buy tickets for the evening shows are at least interested to some degree, and they probably won’t boo or laugh or throw tomatoes. This audience is not interested, though. This is all upperclassmen, who all just want to skip the last two weeks of school the way God intended but are instead held captive for the end-of-the-year assembly.
It’s torture, and every year at least one mouth breather cracks a loud, hilarious joke at one of the actors’ expense.
Luckily we’re only performing one number.
I need my lucky bracelet, or I’m not going out there.
It literally goes everywhere with me. I’ve never gone on this stage without it. Even when I couldn’t wear it because of my costume, like when I had to wear a basketball jersey and shorts for “Get’cha Head in the Game,” I’d always have it in my—
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I pull the bracelet out of my pocket and slip it onto my wrist, pulling it tight as the nerves dissipate.
I realize this all sounds silly. Of course, it absolutely does. How can a bracelet be lucky? Maybe it is all in my head, and maybe there isn’t even really any such thing as good luck or bad luck. But I just don’t believe that.
Like I said, I don’t think “having my head in the clouds” is a bad thing.
Microphone in hand, I exhale and step into the wings. The slideshow is wrapping up—a Citrus Harbor High year in review that is impossibly boring and feels like it needs its own intermission.
Eden Bloom clears her throat beside me, a subtle way of announcing herself. She looks forward at the stage with a fierce determination, her blindingly blond shoulder-length hair tousled into waves that appear effortless, though nobody would ever think anything about Eden is effortless.
Since it’s only an assembly, we’re not in costume, and this is her doing casual: white Gucci sneakers without so much as a crease in the leather, along with onyx Lululemon leggings and a soft-pink crop top.
She shifts her weight, her hip popping as she cocks her head and pokes her tongue in her cheek, deep in thought. The small movement is enough to offer a fresh waft of a sugary vanilla perfume—sickeningly sweet and undoubtedly expensive.
“Do you need concealer?” she whispers, icy cobalt eyes darting over to give me a once-over.
I blink. “What?”
“You look green.” She raises a brow, and her lip pulls up a little like she smells hot garbage. “A little pasty.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “But thank you for the confidence boost.”
“You’d better not get sick onstage.” She shoots me a look. “And try not to make that one face you do when you hit the F. We have two angles to keep in mind—Briar is filming for my TikTok and Jason is filming for the drama club account. I’m sure I can cut something together either way, but if you could keep that in mind.”
I smile. “Of course.”
Eden sighs and uses her hot-pink nail to flick up the power switch on her microphone.
The slideshow has finally ended and they’re introducing us now—the stars of the Citrus Harbor spring production. For the next three minutes and sixteen seconds, we’re not Teddy and Eden, we’re Troy and Gabriella.
For the next three minutes and sixteen seconds, all I have to do is play pretend and sing.
And that’s what I do. It’s whatever, really. When I’m onstage, it’s fun. Even playing opposite Eden—she’s a great actress, after all, so her smile lacks its usual vicious, apex predator vibe, and her eyes have the sparkle of a Disney princess and not Cruella de Vil. I’ve learned to let myself believe she’s sweet
and naïve and a brainiac who got stuck singing with me after we had a chance encounter at the teen lounge on New Year’s Eve.
Once Eden and I are done circling each other in duet with outstretched arms, exaggerated grins, and make-believe heart eyes, we hold hands and bow. The spotlight makes it hard to see too far past the stage, but the drama club kids are in the front row, clapping like they’re watching the performances at the Tony Awards. And there’s Annie—she must have slipped in at the end of the slideshow like the genius she is.
Eden blows kisses and bounces around onstage like the applause is feeding her—making her grow, even, as she rises onto her tiptoes to receive the praise. She giggles and fakes humility for a moment before bringing her hands to her chest and batting her eyelashes.
“Thank you. So much. For me? Oh my gosh.”
Once the lovefest is over, we exit stage right so the band kids can do their rendition of a Taylor Swift 1989 medley that won them an award this winter.
“You did great,” Eden says once we’re far enough backstage. I stop at the table to get my backpack and she narrows her eyes as she sets down the microphone. “Though I did notice you kept hitting a D instead of the F. Are you tired or something?”
“No, I’m not tired.” I want to groan and throw my head back, but I also don’t want to give Eden the satisfaction of knowing she’s getting to me.
“You seemed tired,” she offers. “You normally hit it fine. It’s not a huge deal.” She winces. “Only, you should know it can be really jarring to your partner. Luckily, I’m more experienced so I can handle it but . . .” She raises a brow. “Something like that has the potential to throw off the entire performance.”
I nod. “Sorry, Eden.”
“It’s fine.” She smiles. “At least you always hit the note for the shows. Just a pointer for next time.”
“Thanks.”
She turns on her heel and for a moment, I think that’s going to be all, but I should know better. Hovering for a moment, she interlocks her fingers and pouts, stretching her arms straight out.
“You know, I actually was sort of looking forward to having some competition for the scavenger hunt,” she says, eyes lowering before she shrugs. “Winning is so much more satisfying that way.”
I laugh, almost too loud if it weren’t for the cellist going hard on “Blank Space.”
The girl can have her own head in the clouds, sure, but if there’s one thing she should know, it’s that Annie and I are going to win the scavenger hunt.
The seniors from
drama club leave for New York City tomorrow, and Mrs. Mackenzie has scored three tickets to an absolutely amazing after-party on Friday night. The two students who win the scavenger hunt get to go with her, and normally I wouldn’t care too much about something like this, but Benji Keaton is on the line.
Benji Keaton is a god among men: He’s a songwriter, an actor, a window into the artistry humans are only divinely lucky enough to create so many times in one generation. After hit records and winning an Oscar for his breakout acting role in This Side of Paradise, he turned to the stage. They all said he couldn’t do it, but now he’s Broadway’s darling, originating the role of Louis XVI in Versailles.
Annie and I live for Benji Keaton. Every album release, we stayed up together. And as long as we’ve been able to drive—for his last four albums—we’ve made it a tradition to listen together in the car for the first time, blaring it and driving along A1A with the sun rising over the ocean. We listen to Benji when we carpool, when we get ready to do literally anything, and we’ve drawn his lyrics in Sharpie or lipstick on just about any surface you can imagine—mirrors, scrapbooks, laptops, our own bodies.
And Benji Keaton is going to be at that after-party.
So you better believe we’re winning that scavenger hunt. There is nothing more important in the entire world than Annie and I winning that scavenger hunt and meeting Benji Keaton. This isn’t optional, and it’s destiny the opportunity would be presented like this. Practically wrapped in a bow.
“Me and Annie are going to—”
Eden raises a hand. “You and Annie?”
“Who else? You’re acting like we haven’t—”
“Wait. Are you telling me you don’t know?” She raises her brows and nods slowly, a small laugh escaping her lips before she catches herself and her voice goes low. “Teddy, Annie isn’t going. Mrs. Mackenzie told me herself.”
What the hell is Eden talking about? Is this a scare tactic? A practical joke?
“Annie is going,” I say.
Eden frowns. “She isn’t.”
“What is this? You can’t haze me again, I’m already in the International Thespian Society—”
“No, Teddy, Annie isn’t going on the trip.”
I’m stunned. This can’t be true.
Taking a step toward me, she offers a stage-friendly sympathetic smile—one the audience would buy, but not her costar.
“If you want to back out, I think people would get it.” She glances to the right. “I mean, with Annie not going and everything . . .”
And once I realize what’s happening, I can’t form a single thought. It takes everything I have to form one sentence in response.
“I’m not backing o
ut,” I say, a hot rush washing over my body. “I’ll be fine alone—”
“Oh my gosh.” Eden’s voice shifts to a high-pitched tone of aggression masked in kindness—the one she uses with teachers and baristas. “Don’t worry, Ted, you won’t be alone.”
There is sweat starting to form under my arms and on the back of my neck and it suddenly feels icy and hot in here at the same time.
“Mrs. Mackenzie says you get to room with that kid from tech,” she says. “Sebastian, I think?”
My heart sinks. Sebastian?
Just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse.
“Well, great!” Eden yanks her purse out of a swivel chair, and her overwhelming inertia will keep it spinning long after she walks away. “See you in the AM. And don’t worry”—she pops her AirPods into her ears and provides a final headshot-ready grin—“we’re all in this together, remember?”
Chapter 2Omigod You Guys
“I swear, I was going to tell you,” Annie says. It comes out quickly—slightly rehearsed, even—and she draws in a deep breath once we’re past the double doors and settling down at a table in the palm-lined courtyard. “Really, I only thought it’d be better for you to find out after the performance. I knew how stressed you were about this one.”
My best friend, Annie Taylor—don’t even get her started on sharing a name with the woman who went over Niagara Falls in a barrel—looks up at me with big, sincere aquamarine eyes, an apologetic expression I recognize instantly. Though the sun plays with the iridescent specks of her fair-skinned and highlighted cheeks to maintain a vibrant glow, her glossed lips form a frown. I can tell it’s sincere.
“It isn’t my fault, really.” She throws her head back and groans, her freshly dyed pink hair falling behind her dramatically. “Look, I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m just thinking you could have done this after the trip,” I offer, trying to keep calm.
Annie shakes her head. “I didn’t think we’d get caught. And we wouldn’t have, really, except Mr. Pritchard has a camera set up in the lab. Which I don’t feel should be legal. Do you? I think there’s something there. How is he allowed to just record us without anybody knowing?”
I groan. “Annie, still. Even if you weren’t going to get caught . . . what does your mission accomplish?”
“It’s a statement,” she says, as if she and the Friends of Nature Club are writing a letter or making a speech. Though I guess she’s not wrong. From the photos, there is absolutely a statement to be taken away from the bloody art display in the biology lab—the specimen meant for dissection gruesomely laid out in puddles of costume blood as if they’ve been freshly murdered.
Annie narrows her eyes. “Why should any animal be dissected in a biology class?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. You know I never did it. Made me queasy.”
“We don’t dissect humans to learn about anatomy,” she says, barely stopping to take a breath. “It’s so effed. I am sorry I got in-school suspension for the next week, but I am not sorry to stand up for animals that can’t stand up for themselves.” Her eyes lower and she flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Even if they’re already dead. It’s the principle. The big idea.”
“Maybe there’s something we can do. Maybe you can do ISS next week instead. After the trip.”
Annie sighs. “There isn’t time before graduation. And, seriously, this is my reduced sentence. If Mrs. Rushmore hadn’t stepped in—which, come on, we never dissected any animals in her class! Even though we had to dissect things in middle school marine biology, which, honestly, I can’t believe we even took in middle school. Such a Florida thing.” She nods, realizing she’s going on another tangent. “Anyway, if Mrs. Rushmore hadn’t stepped in for me, I seriously think I might not be walking at graduation.”
Of course, Annie was the only one willing to do the dirty work while the other Friends of Nature all cheered her on from afar, so she’s the only one on the recording. And she’s not going to rat anybody out—no pun intended, may those little vermin rest in peace.
“Thank God for Mrs. Rushmore,” I say slowly, because I know, logically, Annie needs to graduate, and that having this “reduced sentence” is a good thing. Even if my heart is ripped into shreds over her missing New York.
Having a vegan best friend is such a roller coaster.
“This can’t be happening.” I bury my face into the canvas of my backpack on the table in front of me and groan. “This can’t be happening,” I say again, this time muffled and sopping with even more
devastation. “I can’t believe you did this, Annie.”
“It’s not like I thought it’d go this way. But it’s only four days in the grand scheme of things. And then we’ll be back together. I’m sure you can visit me in the proverbial slammer.”
She opens her backpack and pulls out some of her ridiculously expensive markers, flips her sketchbook to an in-progress portrait, and acts like she hasn’t completely turned the entire world upside down. She’s acting like her protest, while noble, hasn’t resulted in a cataclysmic shift in everything we’ve ever known.
I jerk up and blink. “Annie, I don’t think you understand. I can’t go on this trip if you don’t go.”
“What?” She rolls her eyes and examines two blue markers next to each other, comparing the shades. “Come on, Teddy. You’ve always dreamed of going to New York.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
This is the part where, if this were a musical, I’d have a solo ballad—exaggerated frown, eyebrows that curve like sadness, and a single spotlight. This is the end for me, after all.
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes, though, because of course I’m going. Because I’m going to meet Benji Keaton. “Annie, we were supposed to do this together. Do you realize I now have to stay in a room with Sebastian Hodges?”
Annie shrugs and offers a smile, settling on one of the markers. “You could end up being friends!”
“Sebastian isn’t friends with anyone,” I counter. “I’m still not even sure why he did tech. Maybe he was being punished or needed extra credit.”
“Or maybe he was hoping he’d make friends,” Annie says.
I furrow my brow. “Except he didn’t talk to anyone.”
“So, he’s shy.” Annie throws her hands up. “I know, I know. It might be a little awkward at first, sure, but how would you feel?”
Annie is amazing at considering how other people feel.
On the other hand, I have a hard time stopping all my own absurd thoughts and fears and ridiculous feelings from getting in the way. The idea that Sebastian might have wanted to make friends and failed? That didn’t even cross my mind.
“Annie, maybe you can talk to Mrs. Rushmore—”
“I can’t go, Teddy.”
“But we had an entire plan,” I say. “Remember? We had the whole thing—our outfits, our BenjiToks, our playlists. We were going to—”
“You had a whole plan.” She says it like a reminder. “Teddy, we don’t even know for sure that Benji is going to be at that after-party. What even are the odds?”
This is the thing about people. Even people we love, like Annie, can sometimes have their minds set to, like, Standard Earth Mode. It’s not even reaching for the stars to imagine Benji Keaton may attend an after-party for his own show, but everyone keeps reminding me that I “don’t even know for sure.” Except I do. I know, in my bones, with every ounce of anything I am made of, that Benji Keaton is going to be at that after-party, and that I am going to meet him.
I just know it.
“There isn’t anything left for me to do,” she adds, so resolute it’s like a dagger.
I sigh, but the way she’s so nonchalant, I perk back up. “Did you do this on purpose?”
She groans. “What?”
“Did you do this because you don’t think we’re going to meet him, and you thought I was going to be too much?” I feel my cheeks go hot. Sometimes I can be too much. But I didn’t think this would be one of those times.
“No, of course I didn’t. I do want to go, but it’s just . . .”
“If you wanted to go, you wouldn’t give up so easily,” I say. “You didn’t give up for the bunnies!”
Annie lifts her palm. “They were rats. And I’m not giving up. I’m just not going to do that thing where we get all excited and then it doesn’t work out.”
“But it always works out,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Not this time.”
This is a familiar dynamic. Annie pushes back a little—she has some anxieties about logistics, like weather or transportation or hydration, and then I assure her none of those things matter. Obviously. All that matters is whatever the goal is. The rest works out. Rainy forecasts turn sunny, traffic disappears, and we find humans are able to withstand incomprehensible lack of hydration when waiting in line for anything Benji Keaton–related.
It has been a slow and steady metamorphosis beginning in sixth grade, when Annie and I first met. I pushed her out of her comfort zone and the world didn’t end.
I’ve always loved singing and making music, and I knew I could sing well enough. Enough that people constantly commented on it. In sixth grade, my mom paid for me to go to a voice coach. I’d go to the soundproofed little bungalow guesthouse in her backyard, and she’d teach me how to control my voice.
The problem, it seemed, was knowing what to do with my voice. There aren’t record labels or producers or mentors in Citrus Harbor, so my voice coach recommended a fun use of my time to hone my skills:
Musical theater.
The summer after seventh grade, I convinced Annie to sign up for camp with me at the local community theater. We ended up spending most of the time fumbling through choreography and hanging out with the counselors, because most of the other campers were in elementary school. We learned to have fun with improv and tons of theater games that I never thought I’d feel comfortable playing in front of a crowd—one full of ten-year-olds or otherwise.
It was in eighth grade that Annie and I made our friendship bracelets.
That’s when everything started to really pick up.
In ninth grade,
the unthinkable happened. Annie and I decided to audition for the spring musical, the “high school edition” of Heathers: The Musical. And I got cast as the male lead, J.D. A freshman—the male lead!
That was my intro into the drama club. I expected people to be pissed that a freshman got such a huge role, but it was the opposite. The senior girls, who played the Heathers and Veronica, all treated me like some kind of rock star.
I knew it was the lucky bracelet that was making everything happen. Suddenly, I could do anything. Without it, I probably couldn’t have gotten Pugsley in The Addams Family sophomore year, or Jack in Into the Woods junior year. People called me all sorts of things in the reviews—charismatic and like a human ray of sunshine or even a firework.
Things are going to get a royal shake-up when Annie moves to London after graduation in a couple weeks. She’s going to live with her aunt and go to university and travel around Europe whenever she can.
Annie Taylor: pre-vet and exploration; London.
Teddy McGuire: undeclared; Citrus Harbor Community College.
I love musical theater, but I just don’t see myself on Broadway or doing theater as a career. I’d love to be a musician, but let’s just say my brief foray into songwriting was . . . Well, it was brief for a reason.
I need a little more time to figure out what I want to do with my life, which is fine, I’m okay with that, but if a lucky bracelet sounds silly, get this: I don’t know what I am going to do without Annie. I know I’m the one with the ideas and the unwavering optimism, but it’ll be harder if it’s just me. I don’t know if I have all of it on my own.
Only now, apparently, I don’t even have to wait for graduation to find out.
“I mean, really, the timing here, Annie . . . But it’s fine, I have my good luck charm,” I say. I glance down at my bracelet. “I’ll meet Benji. It’ll be amazing. Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a live set. Addie Harlow is filming a movie there.”
Annie laughs. “Dream big.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I counter. “You never know what could happen in New York. Especially with the lucky bracelet. You know how—”
That’s when I notice.
Of all the terrible things that could happen—zombie apocalypse, natural disaster, supernatural disaster—this has got to be the worst possible debacle for the Tuesday afternoon right before the biggest trip of my entire life.
What is she thinking?
“You’re not wearing your bracelet.”
“Oh?” She holds up her right arm, where her tortoiseshell Apple Watch band is stacked on top of rose quartz beads, a festival bracelet from spring break, and an elastic gold hair tie. “I took it off because I didn’t want to get paint on it.”
“Very practical,” I deadpan. “Annie, no wonder you got in trouble. Hello? Lucky bracelet?”
She smiles and pulls out the bracelet from her backpack, dangling the bright blue loop before me. “I have it. Isn’t that the rule, anyway, it just has to be on our person?”
“Don’t try to blame the bracelet.”
“Look, Teddy.” She sets the bracelet down. “Maybe these are—”
I hold my hands up. “Don’t even start. ...
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