“Jax?” Haley nudges my dad with herelbow.
He frowns. “It’s not a dress. It’s a wardrobe malfunction waiting tohappen.”
My jaw drops. “It isnot!”
“Could we not afford more fabric?” he asks Haley, who narrows her gaze at him before turning tome.
“Ignorehim.”
The black dress Pen and I picked out skims my body, has little spaghetti straps, and ends mid-thigh. It’s sophisticated and fresh, especially with strappy sandals. I left my hair down, taming the waves that tickle the bare skin between myshoulders.
I feel older, grown-up. Moreconfident.
I stare out the window and hum under mybreath.
“Is that from the musical?” Haley asks me. “It’s soundinggood.”
“Thanks.” I look at my dad, but he’s on his phone. “Don’t forget to line up security for the night of theshow.”
Assuming I still have a role, I think, but I’m not about to saythat.
He glances up, blinking. “Annie, it’s on thelist.”
I shake myhead.
When we pull up in front of the venue, my dad grunts, adjusting his tux. “It’s not too late to turn around,” he mutters. “We can grab the bourbon, head home, and fund this entire projectourselves.”
“That’s not the point. The point is to collaborate.” Haley pauses. “If you’ve never heard of it, a collaboration is where you compromise and work as ateam—”
“Funny,Hales.”
The charity event is a fundraiser for music education at some gallery in Fort Worth with a bunch of people my dad knows. Sophie’s at home with Uncle Ryan playing babysitter, which I think he secretlyloves.
The frustration I felt in the car ebbs as we make our way around the event. My dad glad-hands people. It’s not in his nature, but despite Haley’s joke, he’s come around to it. Usually, he doesn’t invite me to these things, but tonight, he introduces mearound.
"This is my daughter, Annie. She’s a junior at Oakwood,” he tells one producer. “And taking two APcourses.”
“One, actually,” Isay.
My dad frowns. “Sincewhen?”
I shift, twirling the drink in my fingers. “Since I’ve decided to dropcalculus.”
“Excuse us.” He stalks toward a spare room and yanks the door shut behind us. “You can’t dropcalculus.”
“I can. I checked the school’s drop policies, and even though it’s late in the semester, they’ll allow it. And I wouldn’t be losing a credit. I can get one for the musical. I have to turn in an assignment, but basically, it’s as good asdone.”
“You're not dropping calculus for amusical.”
His commanding tone sets my teeth onedge.
“Calculus isn’t a prerequisite for Columbia. Even if it was, I still have time to take it nextyear.”
“You’re in school to learn, not to mess around on stage.” He spreads his hands. “You can do that anywhere. Anytime. The education you’re getting right now isimportant.”
I want to blurt that I can’t think about proofs and second derivatives when I’m trying to hang onto the lead of the musical, but I know if I tell him, he’ll just tell me it’s better that way. Or look at me as if it’s obvious that I could never command a stage like he could, like Tylercan.
“Do you even get the irony?” I ask. “You’re telling your own child music isn’t important at a music education fundraiser you’rekeynoting.”