“You’re hiding,” he says.
I shake my head, but the accusation makes me want to hide.
“No, you are.” He shakes his own head like he’s trying to shake out the solution to a problem. “I thought it was where I was sitting at last week’s tournament, but as you speak, your script inches up until no one can really see you. I guarantee the judges will score you higher if they can see your face and believe you want to be here.”
Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t want to be here. Tory knows it. The judges know it. And the way Sam is looking at me now?
He knows it too.
“The thing is—” He breaks off, tugs at his bangs in frustration. “I don’t understand. You used to be so...”
“What?” The single word is more air than question. What? I used to be so ... what?
Sam stares like he’s waiting
