Havoc

An image immediately enters my mind, but it’s not of the past—it’s of the future. I imagine a scenario I’ve imagined a thousand times: having to move back to Indiana. I picture leaving school, saying goodbye to my new friends, never seeing Mike again. That last part chokes me, and I nod my head.

“Great! Okay, so tell me about it.”

“Uh—” I panic, unwilling to surrender my secrets. “When my puppy died,” I lie, chewing on my bottom lip.

“Perfect!” Paul says, and I’ve never seen someone so happy to hear about the death of a puppy. “I want you to remember how you felt when your puppy died. I want you to remember feeling like you’d never recover from that loss. And then I want you to imagine that freedom from that pain is within reach. Happiness is waiting for you on that platform over there—”

He points, and my eyes lift to see Mike standing on the platform, arms crossed over his chest, watching me. Rowan waves, and the rest of the band watch me too. But it’s Mike that I focus on when the director says, “Imagine that you’re walking toward that feeling. Maybe happiness is a color. Maybe it’s a sound. Maybe it’s your puppy. In the video, it’s going to be a song. That song is going to make you love life again, Hailey. You just have to walk through the darkness to get to it.

“Okay?” he asks, and I pull my eyes from Mike to nod.

One last squeeze of my shoulder, a few last words of encouragement, and then the director takes his place behind the big rolling camera again. His fingers count three, two, one.

A clapboard slaps shut.

My eyes lock on Mike.

And I walk.

Chapter 32

It’s insane, how much filming goes into a three-minute-long music video. We cut after every shot, every angle. Paul films shots of me standing in the woods, emerging from the woods, walking toward the pond. Fifty zillion takes, from at least a gajillion different cameras. Then he gets shots of me walking through the crowd that’s rocking out around the pond. “Be a pebble through water,” he instructs me, and I try to be a freaking pebble.

The moon gets higher and higher, and not all of the shots include me, thank God. Paul gets plenty of shots of the band playing onstage, and I enjoy just watching them as their new song pours out of the speakers hung around the clearing. Even though the prerecorded song will be in the final video, the band scraps the production team’s plan and insists on playing it live for the fans, and the fans’ enthusiasm is authentic. Hands in the air, wild excitement on their faces. Paul gets shots of them jumping up and down to the song, of the band playing it, and then we do it all over again for the drones that fly overhead.

The final shots are of me walking onto the dock while the band is playing, and then of me walking onto the platform after everything has been cleared off of it. It’s just me walking out into the middle, and then spinning around and around with my arms spread wide and my red dress twirling out around me.

“Let it all go,” Paul had instructed me. “You’re in school, right? Just open up as you spin, and let your homework go, let your finals go, let your student loans go . . . Anything you can think of that’s been weighing you down, just twirl around and let it all go.”

With thousands of people watching me, I spin round and around and around on that dock, the night air kissing my skin as I lose myself in the feeling I’ve been chasing after all night. I close my eyes and turn my face to the night sky, doing as Paul directed: I let my classes go, I let my debt to my uncle go. Twirling faster, I let Danica’s crushing presence go, I let her ultimatum go, and then I let her go completely. I remember Mike telling me he loves me, and this time, Danica isn’t there. It’s just me and him, and I feel what I should have felt when I heard him say those words. I smile at the moon, and I spin, and I spin, and I spin.

“Cut!” Paul shouts, bringing me down from starlit clouds. I slow to a stop, laughing as the world continues spinning without me. The trees blur and I struggle to find my balance, expecting Paul to bark orders for another take, but instead, he stands up from his director’s chair at the end of the dock and shouts, “We got it! That’s a wrap!”

He gives me a thumbs-up as thousands of people burst into cheers and applause, and I plop down on the platform, lying back while I wait for my head to stop spinning. I’m smiling at the moon when Mike’s face appears in its place, and then I smile at him instead.

“You killed it,” he praises, offering me his hand. I reach up to grasp it, but instead of letting him help me up, I surrender to impulse and tug him down beside me.

Mike lies on his back, his shoulder pressed against mine.

“I leave in ten hours,” he says, and I reach down and link my fingers with his. I hold on, even when I know I have to let go. He was never mine to hold on to.

“I don’t want to go,” he confesses, and I finally look over at him. He should be happy—his band just finished shooting an epic music video, a massive party is about to start, he’s going on an international tour tomorrow . . . but I find none of that in his eyes as he stares somberly over at me.

“Why?” I ask, and he holds my hand tighter.

“I haven’t even gotten to take you out yet,” he says, and my heart doesn’t know if it wants to cartwheel or simply curl up in a ball and cry.

“Fancy restaurants are overrated.”

At my failed words of comfort, the corner of Mike’s mouth kicks up. “I wasn’t going to take you to a fancy restaurant.”