&quot;You were great at Leo&quot;s last night.&quot; I look up from my notebook the next afternoon at the Vanier library to see a slender blond guy from class leaning over my chair. &quot;Jorge,&quot; he volunteers. &quot;We survived acting intensive together with Ms. Miranda Tamayo.&quot; &quot;Right.&quot; I smile back. I don&quot;t remember seeing him at Leo&quot;s, but most of the night I was distracted&mdash;by my need to prove myself and by the one guy who could ruin my chances of doing that. &quot;Homework?&quot; Jorge nods to my notebook. &quot;No, actually. Just writing.&quot; I used to force my brain to work in logic and answers and solutions. Getting good grades meant everything needed to fit in

&quot;How nervous are you?&quot; Andie asks me on the way out of Entertainment Management Friday. &quot;It&quot;s going to be great. I didn&quot;t even know Frank was on the faculty list until the fall,&quot; I admit as we start down the hall. &quot;He wasn&quot;t when I auditioned.&quot; &quot;Frank Harvey?&quot; I look up to see Jorge, the guy from the library, fall into step with us. &quot;Lucky,&quot; he goes on. &quot;The guy&quot;s a rising star. But I don&quot;t know anyone else who got Frank. It&quot;ll be cool to work with someone who knows how to bust in.&quot; Excitement works through me. &quot;Exactly.&quot; Andie jerks her head toward the dining hall. &quot;I&quot;m this way. Emily,

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 <div id="quillEditor" class="episode-content ql-editor">&quot;What&quot;re we celebrating?&quot; I call over the music as Jacob slides a shot down the bar at Leo&quot;s. &quot;Landed an audition.&quot; He lifts his glass and clinks mine, and we both drink. The alcohol burns down my throat, welcome and bracing at once. The first two days back to school are turning out to be a rude awakening but not for the reasons I expected. Our fridge is broken, ruining the food I bought on the weekend. Our landlord is dodging me, and the guy I called today to fix it said he&quot;d come by tomorrow between eight and whenever he feels like it. I had my first weekly guitar lesson this afternoon with my intensive professor&mdash;the guy who&quot;s assigned to oversee my development&mdash;during which he wan

&quot;You were great at Leo&quot;s last night.&quot; I look up from my notebook the next afternoon at the Vanier library to see a slender blond guy from class leaning over my chair. &quot;Jorge,&quot; he volunteers. &quot;We survived acting intensive together with Ms. Miranda Tamayo.&quot; &quot;Right.&quot; I smile back. I don&quot;t remember seeing him at Leo&quot;s, but most of the night I was distracted&mdash;by my need to prove myself and by the one guy who could ruin my chances of doing that. &quot;Homework?&quot; Jorge nods to my notebook. &quot;No, actually. Just writing.&quot; I used to force my brain to work in logic and answers and solutions. Getting good grades meant everything needed to fit into a cogent argument. Now, I think in feelings. Emotions. I don&quot;t know if it&quot;s an evolution

CHAPTER 25