The Perfectionists (23 page)

Then he jumped up. “You know, I have a book on articulating emotions that might help you. Hang on—it's in reception. Let me grab it.”

He swept out the door quickly and was gone. Parker sat back, her heart still hammering. But she felt good, too—it really felt like Elliot
got
her.

She looked around his office, thinking how little she knew about him. There wasn't a lot out on his desk—just an old-fashioned banker's lamp, an empty in-box, and a molded-plastic flower with a solar panel that wiggled its leaves in the thin sunlight. Who was Elliot Fielder? What made him tick? Did he have family in the area? Was he married? What did he like to read? What sort of music did he have on his iPod? What
was
he looking at on his computer when she came in? Wouldn't
anyone
wonder about some basic facts? Elliot knew so much about
her
, after all, it seemed only fair to reciprocate.

She glanced through the crack in the door again—he was still looking through the books on the main bookshelf. Quietly, she stood and moved to his computer. As she wiggled the mouse, the
National Geographic
nature-photos screen saver disappeared, and a log-in screen popped up.

On a whim, she picked up the keyboard and turned it over. When she worked in the attendance office her sophomore year, she'd taped all the passwords she had a hard time remembering there. Great minds must think alike because there was a piece of paper printed with small, tight print.

FIELDER_E/pr0m3th3us_b0und

Before she could think about it twice, she typed it in.

A photograph filled the computer screen. At first, Parker blinked. She immediately recognized the location. It had been taken in the Arbor Mall just outside the food court. A girl in a black hoodie sat alone at a table, sipping Coke from a straw, her long hair peeking out over the collar of her sweatshirt.

It was . . .
her.

She clicked on an arrow icon. Another picture sprang up—her again. She was sitting on her mom's porch, smoking a cigarette, her hoodie pulled over her face. Another arrow click. The next photo was taken from a vantage just across the street from the school as she disappeared through the big double doors. Another showed her in sneakers and shorts and that same hoodie, jogging by the lake.

It hadn't been her imagination at all. Someone
had
been following her.
Elliot.

“What are you doing?”

Elliot stood in the doorway, a paperback book in one hand. His face was as white as a cloud, his eyes suddenly hard. She shot up, knocking something off his desk by accident, but she didn't stop to pick it up.

“What are
you
doing?” she asked, her voice shaking with barely controlled rage. “What the hell are these pictures doing on your computer?”

“That computer is full of confidential information,” he said, slapping the book down on the couch and taking a step toward her. “Do you realize how much trouble I could get in if you saw the wrong thing?”

She gave a high bark of laughter. “The wrong thing? Like the fact that you're
stalking
me?”

He moved faster than she would have expected. Suddenly his hand was like a vise around her wrist. “You have to listen to me, Parker.”

But before he could finish his sentence, a scream tore from her throat. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. She barely knew
who
she was. Panic seized her, and all she knew was that she had to get away. She kicked Elliot's knee with all her strength. A dull crack filled the air. His hand unclenched, and she bolted for the door.

Then she ran and ran, until her lungs heaved painfully in her chest and her legs felt like rubber. If she could have, she would have run forever—away from Elliot, away from Beacon, and away from her horrible life.

OKAY. DEEP BREATHS. IT IS
all going to be okay.

It was Friday afternoon, and Mackenzie sat in a gray institutional hallway in the University of Washington's music building, cradling her cello against her chest. It was almost time for her audition—which meant that right now, Claire was in there, wowing the judges. Mac hadn't seen her go in, but Claire's audition time was branded into her brain. She wondered if Claire was nervous. She wondered if she'd feverishly washed her hands at least three times before she went in there, a little tic Claire had before every audition.

Because Mac was the last audition of the day, no one else was in the hall with her. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but panic bubbled up inside. She knew, deep in her bones, that she hadn't practiced enough. She'd been so worried about Nolan and the investigation. She'd spent so much time with Blake.

But even now, thinking about Blake tugged her lips into a smile. She pulled her phone out of her pocket to see if he'd responded to any of her texts. When she arrived on campus, she'd texted him,
Here goes nothing/everything.
But he still hadn't texted back. It was so unlike him. He knew she had her audition today. Then again he was working—maybe it was busy at the cupcake shop?

Suddenly, a change in the draft pushed the door to the recital hall open just a bit, and a familiar melody wafted out. Mac blinked for a moment, listening to Claire's precise notes and emotional phrasing. The piece she was playing was familiar, and suddenly she understood why. It was
her
piece. The Tchaikovsky.

Mac leaped to her feet. This couldn't be happening. Claire was supposed to play Popper. Blake had said she was. But did she really have to ask why she'd switched all of a sudden? Only, how did she know what piece Mac had chosen? The only people she'd told were her parents—and
they
wouldn't say anything—and Blake.

Blake.
Mac's heart stopped. She looked at her phone again. Still no text back.
No
, she told herself. It couldn't be. Blake wouldn't betray her like that. Claire had found out another way.

“Miss Wright?” An iron-haired woman in a tailored suit stood in the doorway with a clipboard, peering over the top of her glasses. “Are you ready?”

Mackenzie felt as if her cello weighed five hundred pounds as she carried it into the recital hall. The stage was brightly lit, and she could barely make out the five panelists a few rows back. The Juilliard accompanist, a balding, dark-skinned man wearing a button-down shirt and tie, sat at the grand piano on the stage with her. Otherwise the hall was empty. She started to unpack her instrument and set up her things, her hands trembling violently.

“My name is Mackenzie Wright. Thank you for your consideration,” she said, her voice wavering. But then something came over her.
Forget Claire
, a voice said.
Forget everyone. Think about your talents. Think about how much you want this.

She took a deep breath and started to play.

There was no applause after each piece, but it didn't matter. She knew she was acing it. She didn't miss a note of the Elgar or the Beethoven, and her rendition of “The Swan” soared elegantly from her fingers. Before the final song, she swallowed. “Excuse me,” she said to the accompanist. “I'd like to change my last selection, if you wouldn't mind.”

He looked surprised but smiled. Mac took a deep breath. It was now or never—and she wasn't going down without a fight. She looked at the judges. “I know I put on my form that I'd be playing Tchaikovsky's
Pezzo capriccioso
, but instead I will be playing Popper's
Spinning Song
for you.”

She raised her bow, holding absolutely still for a long moment. Then, nodding at the pianist, she launched into one of the most difficult pieces in the cello repertoire.

The song started with a frenzied succession of high-pitched notes. It was deadly fast and sent the cellist's hands flying up and down the neck of the instrument at roller-coaster speeds. Mackenzie had always thought the song was kind of annoying, but it was one of the best songs to show off with, and now, as she played, a strange thing happened. For the first time, she found the playfulness of the piece. Instead of sounding strained and manic and frantic to her, it sounded
fun
. Flippant, and careless, and energetic. She almost laughed out loud as she played. For just a moment, nothing could touch her.

When she was finished, she sat still, almost breathless. She didn't know if it would be enough to get her in, but she knew one thing: She'd just had the best audition of her life.

“Thank you, Miss Wright. That was beautiful,” said a voice from the panelists. “You'll be hearing from us soon.”

Mac almost skipped out of the recital hall. “
Yes
,” she said, pumping her fist in the hallway. She looked at her phone again, but still no text from Blake.

She barely remembered driving to the cupcake store. She parked out front and was about to push through the door and call his name. But when she saw Blake behind the counter, she froze on the sidewalk.

Another girl's arms were wrapped around him. A girl with short, curly hair, dressed from head to foot in concert black.
Claire.

“It was perfect,” Claire said, gazing up into Blake's eyes. There were two open windows at the front of the shop; Mac could hear every word. “I totally nailed it. And I saw her go in, too. She was super pale. Probably freaked that I'd done the Tchaikovsky.”

Mackenzie's blood curdled. She turned away, her hands on the door handle, when Claire's voice rang out.

“Oh, hey,
Macks
.” Her voice oozed sarcasm. “How was your audition? You weren't unprepared or anything, were you?”

Mackenzie turned to see Claire's ugly smile. Then she peeked at Blake. His eyes were lowered. He'd turned pale. All thoughts in her brain froze.

But then she blurted, “I thought you guys broke up.”

Claire unwound herself from Blake and stepped out from the back of the counter. “I knew you'd fall for it,” she sneered at Mac.

Mac blinked. “F-fall for what?”

“I told Blake to hang out with you, schedule a few extra band rehearsals.” Claire grinned. “I knew you'd drop everything. Even practicing for your audition.”

“You . . . what?” She glanced at Blake, but he still wouldn't look at her. None of this was making any sense.

“I wanted him to distract you before the audition.” She smirked. “And he did. Oh, and all your confessions to Blake? He told me everything. Including that you were playing Tchaikovsky.” She reached across the counter and clutched his hand. “And we aren't broken up. We're stronger than ever.”

Mac stared at Blake, her heart pounding fast. “Is that true?”

But Blake still had his eyes lowered. He didn't answer Mac, but he didn't stand up for Claire, either. He looked trapped and humiliated. “I . . . ,” he started, then looked away.

“Yes.” Claire spoke for him. “Every single word is true.”

Mac could feel the tears forming in her eyes. But then she realized: She could give Claire exactly what she wanted and bawl her eyes out right now, or she could beat Claire at the only game either of them had ever really cared about. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at her ex-friend. “Well, maybe Blake doesn't want me,” she heard herself say. “But I'm pretty sure Juilliard does. Good luck at Oberlin,” she said with a sniff for good measure.

Before Claire could get another word in, Mackenzie turned on her heel and pushed out the door.

FRIDAY EVENING, JULIE STUDIED THE
miniature windmill in front of her, biting her lip. She and Carson were at the Beacon Heights mini golf course, where they were playing a girls-versus-boys tournament with a bunch of kids from school. She'd have to time this shot just right to get the ball through the moving slats of the windmill and to the other side, where a tiny white flag fluttered on the Astroturf, marking the end of the putt-putt hole.

She stepped forward, squared her shoulders, and pulled back the putter to swing.

“Don't miss,” Carson teased just as the golf club made contact.

Julie's neon-pink ball went wildly off course and landed in the water hazard on the far right. “Hey!” she cried. “That's not fair.” But the words died in her throat as she came face-to-face with Carson's wry smile.

“Oh, I'm sorry, we're playing fair now?” he teased, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Julie shivered and closed her eyes. It felt
so
good.

“Come on, Wells, it's your turn,” James Wong called out from behind them. Julie stepped aside, feeling lighter than normal. She knew why: Ashley wasn't here.

She glanced over at Carson, her eyes drifting to where the hem of his pale blue T-shirt grazed the top of his Bonobos cargo shorts, revealing a thin strip of stomach. Carson caught her staring and winked. For a moment, nothing else mattered.

It was Carson's turn next. He gripped his putter and took an expert swing, sending the ball easily into the hole in just one shot. “Yes!” Carson exclaimed. The other boys fist-pumped him in victory.

As everyone started toward the next hole, Carson fell into step next to Julie, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. Her heart raced at the contact.

“I'm sorry for playing dirty,” Carson said, his voice low. “What if I make it up to you? I could help you on this hole, show you the proper technique.”

“Oh you will, will you?” Julie crooned, liking the sound of that. Then she looked up . . . and froze. Standing underneath the bright red-and-white umbrella of the snack stand was Ashley. She stared hard at Julie and Carson, her eyes blazing.

Julie dropped Carson's hand. “Um, you know what?” she stammered. “I actually need to go change out my putter.” It was a stupid excuse—all the putters were the same. “I'll be right back.”

“Um, okay?” Carson said, confused. But Julie was already halfway down the sidewalk, anger coursing through her veins.