Page 52 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Her hand slid into her pocket as she felt for the key. It gave her instant comfort, instant resolve, instant—she slipped her hand out again, realizing just how much she sounded like Bilbo Baggins before the One Ring mental breakdown.

She dropped that key back into her pocket and fished for another.

A car key.

“And happy birthday,” Chip said.

“It was two weeks ago,” Bree replied, unmoved by kind words. Oh no. She wouldn’t be falling for any of that again. Especially now when she was on a mission. A specific, critical mission.

She slipped into her car and five minutes later was pulling into the Barter Inn dorms, then banging on Birdie’s door.

The door opened. Everything from the damp tendrils escaping Birdie’s braid to the nude tights beneath athletic shorts said she had come to the right place.

“I need you to teach me to tap-dance,” Bree blurted. “And maybe sing.”

Birdie’s eyes widened. “I thought you were out. I thought you didn’t even want to try.”

“I’m back in.”

Birdie hesitated, clearly counting the days in her head. “But you’ve only got—”

“Eighteen days until the audition. I’m aware. And awareness is the first step toward success, right?”

“And you have a . . . skill level of a . . . what, would you say . . . ?”

“Level zero, Birdie. I’m at a solid level zero.”

There was a short pause.

Then a longer one.

Bree’s face softened. “Please.”

“Perfect,” Birdie said, swinging the door the rest of the way open, her tap shoes clicking as she stepped back to make room for Bree’s entrance. “Absolutely perfect. You’ll have nowhere to go but up.”

Bree stepped inside, squeezing Birdie’s hand as she entered. “Thank you.”

* * *

Four and a half hours later, with “Good Morning” playing on repeat through her head, Bree pulled back into her driveway. Her aching foot complained as she pushed the brake pedal and turned off the engine. She put her head on the wheel for a moment. Breathed. Finally, she pushed the door open with protesting muscles, and the door creaked at the pathetic attempt and shut again.

“Oh, come on.” The words tumbled out of her hoarse throat and she pushed again. No wonder Cam and Nate—Birdie’s downstairs neighbors and their District One tap-dancing competitors—banged on the ceiling so much. She couldn’t even stand her own voice.

She stood and used her body weight to shut the door. Locking it, she considered how she would have to do this again tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next.

Birdie was a good friend. She had spent a considerable amount of time showing her the basic moves of tap and song. She kept saying it was good accountability to be doing it together, that Bree’s presence strengthened her, but even Bree knew Birdie’s time would be better spent singing her own songs and practicing her own steps. Still, Birdie insisted. And frankly, Bree didn’t have the option to turn her down—

“Russ!” She heard Chip’s hiss from his porch the millisecond before the dog collapsed into the back of her knees and threw her forward. She fell to her hands and knees on the gravel, then, in a blind moment of fight-or-flight, ignored the screaming muscles in her body as she scrambled up and over her side of the line.

Panting, hands on knees, she turned.

There stood Russell, wagging his tail, well over the soil line her neighbor had claimed was the new Invisible Fence. Where he had obediently stayed behind when her parents were in view. But now, the second they were gone . . .

From the porch, she heard the chuckle. He put up his hands in surrender. “I really tried that time, Bree. I promise—”