Free Almost Final Curtain by Tate Hallaway Page A

note contained. She probably wanted forgiveness and to make excuses. I so wasn’t in the mood for that, so I flipped open the cell. To my surprise, Nik’s text read: “Forget B. I need 2 see u 2 nite.”
    “What’s changed?” I wrote back.
    Two seconds later, he replied, “Everything.”
    “After auditions?” I asked, not quite believing I was agreeing to this, considering how mad and hurt I was.
    “OK.”
    Suddenly, I had a date with Nikolai again. WTF?

Chapter Four
    I was changing into my lucky audition clothes when I came across Bea’s note wadded up in the pocket of my jeans. My first impulse was to toss it in the garbage, but I was going to see her in less than an hour. Sitting down on the bed, I carefully unfolded the scrap of lined notebook paper. My fingers buzzed with the residual magic that had transformed it into unreadable code for Mr. Martinez. In Bea’s loopy, expansive cursive I read: “I know you think I’m a slut.” No wonder she didn’t want this read out loud! I continued reading. “But I have no chance with Nikolai. No one does. He’s so into you, it’s sad. He’d do anything for you.”
    Which would have been awesome if she’d left it there, but that wouldn’t be Bea—she had to add, “P.S. Doesn’t mean I can’t be a shoulder for him to cry on. You can’t blame a girl for trying.”
    Actually, I could.
    Plus, the little smiley face she drew after the last line ticked me off. Somehow it managed to look smug. I ripped the note into shreds.
    I mean, I supposed I could take the higher ground. Nik was taking me out tonight to talk about how everything had changed, so I’d kind of won the bigger argument. Still. It didn’t change the fact that Bea was unapologetically trying to steal him from me.
    Maybe Taylor was right. There should be detailed rules for situations like this. Boys were available for pouncing, but only after an appropriate time of mourning. Two weeks, maybe. Previous girlfriend gets dibs on changes of heart within twenty-four hours.
    I snorted a laugh at the thought. Mom called for me to get going if I wanted a ride back to school.
     
     
    Mom had some horrible New Age album playing in the MINI. A chorus of women was chanting about a boundless, protective goddess that I doubted ever existed. I reached for the Stop button. “How can you listen to this crap, Mom?”
    “It’s empowering. You wouldn’t know—you’ve grown up with all the advantages my generation of feminists fought for.”
    Switching to a Lady Gaga song, I rolled my eyes. “School’s out, Ma. No lectures, please.”
    Mom adjusted her glasses before taking her eyes away from the road for a moment to frown at me. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so—” She flattened her lips rather than choosing an adjective, and then continued. “If you could experience a bit of magic now and again. You should join one of my women’s groups.”
    “Magic? You’re calling your little separatist meetings magic now?”
    “Ana,” she scolded. “You of all people should know that there’s more than one kind of magic. So theirs isn’t the capitalletter kind. It still has a place.”
    I couldn’t imagine it would be satisfying to sit around a circle of mundane women wishing really hard when I knew that Bea could just point her finger and “zap” reality to any shape she wanted. “I don’t think it’s my thing, Mom.”
    “You shouldn’t judge before you try it.”
    Oh no, she used the tone . Mom had already made up her mind. I was going, like it or not. “Uh,” I said. “I might have rehearsals, remember?”
    “Do you really think there’s a part for you in My Fair Lady ?”
    That was it, then—even my own mother thought I was too weird to play Eliza Doolittle.
    As if noticing my crushed expression, Mom quickly added, “Honestly, I don’t know what that Mr. Martinez is thinking. Surely, there are plays with better roles for women. And the theme of that thing—that a woman will transform herself