by Emily Lowry
Ugh, why did that smirk always make my heart skip? Focus, Hailey.
“It’s better than anything you’ve come up with,” I snapped back. “But I guess the bar is low.”
DeAndre snorted, and Leo stifled a laugh. It was my turn to smirk, satisfied.
Trey pressed his lips together and glared.
I took a seat in a folding chair and pulled out my phone. “Ok so, your songs, your lyrics — they come from your life, right?”
“What is this, Sixty Minutes?”
“Is that your dream?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. I figured the only way to get anywhere with Trey was to give everything back as good as I got it. You couldn’t step into the lion’s den and play nice or you’d get eaten alive. “To be interviewed about your music so you can tell everyone how deep and meaningful you are? How mysterious you are?”
Leo was barely attempting to stifle his laughter anymore, clearly enjoying the show.
“What about you?” Trey snapped. “You have any dreams bigger than being on the top of the pyramid so some jock can drool on you?”
Leo and DeAndre exchanged a glance. They probably wished they had a gigantic bag of popcorn to share.
“How did you know?” I asked. “Pyramids and jock drool, the absolute ceiling of my ambition.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything different, Rich Girl.” He shrugged. “At least the jocks’ll be smarter after your dad buys your way into a good college.”
Trading barbs wasn’t getting us anywhere, and unlike Trey, I had other things to do with my evening. Staying late after school on a Wednesday wasn’t my idea of a pleasant time.
“Ok, look. Here’s the plan. Evermore High — for some reason — considers you cool and mysterious. They’re obviously wrong about the coolness, but the mystery? We can use that to promote you. So. I will take a short video of one of your songs, post it on Click, and caption it so it sounds like it ties into your life.”
“No one will buy that bull—”
“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” I cut Trey off.
I matched his glare with one of my own. We held eye contact for what seemed like forever, the rest of the world disappearing in a haze. Instinctively, I knew that whoever blinked first would lose. I was determined — it would not be me. No. That was not happening.
I felt heat creeping up my body, threatening to turn my cheeks red. Why wasn’t he looking away? Why wasn’t he backing down? Most high school boys couldn’t hold eye contact with a pretty girl for over three seconds. Except for Trey. Worse, it didn’t even look like it was bothering him.
I felt a brief panic. I’d started this fight, but could I win it?
A drumstick bounced off Trey’s head. It made a loud thunk that echoed through the studio. Trey grabbed his skull, swore, and turned his blazing glare to Leo. Just like that, the spell was broken. I had won — with a little assist from the drummer.
But my victory hadn’t stopped my knees from shaking.
“I think you’ve found one even more stubborn than you,” Leo said. He collected his drumstick before Trey could return fire. “Plus, I like her idea. We may as well try it. You’re the one who wanted to give the cheerleader a shot.”
I just loved that. Being referred to as ‘the cheerleader.’ It was only marginally better than ‘rich girl.’ Always defined by my ability to do gymnastics and having a rich step parent I hadn’t asked for.
“This Cheerleader has a name. Ha-il-ey.” I spelled it out slowly, enunciating each syllable.
Trey snorted with laughter that he quickly tried and failed to disguise as a cough.
Got ya.
I crossed my arms. “So, Trey. Yes. You’re giving ‘Hailey the Cheerleader’ a shot. At least she knows how to drum up enthusiasm.”
Trey looked like he wanted to be anywhere except on the stage. Finally, after what felt like months of waiting, he spoke. “Whatever.”
That was close enough to a yes for me.
The thing about being captain of the cheer squad — or the captain of anything, really — was that you had to learn how to direct people and keep them in line. You had to project confidence even when you weren’t entirely sure things would work. If people felt like you were unsure, they’d be unsure, and then you were sunk. With that in mind, I immediately took over the rehearsal space.
“Trey, stand at the front, toss the stool,” I said.
He didn’t move.
I shrugged. “Fine. But it makes you look like a sensitive beat poet who performs on open mic nights at coffee shops. The kind where people snap their fingers instead of clapping.”
Trey lurched from the stool like something bit him. He kicked it and it rolled off the stage.
Good enough.
“DeAndre, post up a few feet away. Leo, can you move your kit to the side? I’ll shoot from this angle. If you’re right behind Trey it’ll look weird, you need to be staggered.”
The boys did as they were told. Trey pouted more than the rest. Not used to being told what to do, I gathered.
I played with the stage lighting until I found something that worked. I crouched near the stage and angled my phone up, capturing them from below. It made the band appear larger than life. “We’ll probably need a few takes,” I said.
“Only need one, Rich Girl.” Trey strummed his guitar. “Lone Mountain Road.”
Trey tapped his foot once, twice, three times, and played. The song started with a haunting melody that felt like driving through a blizzard with one headlight and stripped tires. It felt somehow dangerous, the car sliding across the road, nearing edges and slopes, almost slipping off the side before the melody pulled it back to center.
Goosebumps pricked my skin.
DeAndre came in with the bass, Leo driving with the drums.
Then Trey sang. The voice of the rough rogue was gone, replaced by something beautiful, a voice I’d walk across the ocean to hear. It was so unlike what I’d expected that I initially thought they might be playing a prank on me. But they weren’t. That was Trey’s voice.
13
Trey
I ignored the Rich Girl and her camera, keeping my eyes shut to focus on the lyrics. We rolled through the first verse like a thunderstorm across the prairies, but when the chorus hit, everything fell apart. I hit a false note and stopped playing.
The magic of the music was gone.
“It’s not right,” I said. I swore. “It’s still not right.”
“It’s fine,” Leo said.
“Fine is not good. Good is not great.” I adjusted my fingering and strummed a chord. Why couldn’t I get this part of the song right? It had frustrated me for the better part of a month. Normally, music came easy. But not this song. Why? I felt the overwhelming — and admittedly stupid — urge to break my guitar, to see the splinters of wood fly across the stage.
That’s right, Trey. Blame your instrument for your inadequacies. Smart.
I exhaled, tried to release the pressure in my chest.
“What about this?” DeAndre played the lead in to the chorus, making a slight adjustment.
“Better,” I said. I echoed the adjustment. “Still not right.”
“Dude, are you sure there even is a right?” DeAndre asked. “We’ve been working on this for weeks. All I’m saying is maybe it’s time to settle.”
“I don’t settle.” My voice was harsher than I would have liked. Sometimes in your life you could settle, but not with music. I glanced at Rich Girl, annoyed she and her stupid camera were getting to witness this.
But she’d turned her phone off. Her hands rested on her jeans. No, not rested. Her fingers were bent, moving slightly. Like she was playing something. I followed her gaze —
She was eyeing the keyboard.
“You,” I said. “You know something.”
She realized what she was doing and laid her hands flat. “Why would I know anything?”
“I saw you in Notes. I saw you pick out a metronome. Strange thing to pick ou
t for someone who knows nothing about music.”
“I thought it looked cool.”
“Then you’ve got the same taste as my grandma.” I motioned to the keyboard. “Play.”
“Play what?” she asked defensively.
“Whatever it was you were just thinking.”
“It’s nothing.”
“We play for you, you can play for us.”
She frowned, rolled her eyes, then went to the keyboard. She sighed, tucked her hair behind her ears, and put her fingers on the keys. First, she played the lead in to the chorus. Not perfectly — a few of the notes were off — but not bad for someone who was playing by ear. This was now the second time Hailey Danielson had completely surprised me.
“You were doing this, right?” She played the chorus that wasn’t working.
I nodded. What did Rich Girl have up her sleeve?
“What about…” She made a change and played a variation of what we had. The sound was soft as a snowfall in the mountains. It felt cold, too. An icy cold that would be perfect for a song about a mountain road. She’d cracked the chorus.
Now I really wanted to break my guitar. How could some spoiled girl come in off the street, sit in on one session, and crack the song I’d spent the last month banging my head against? It had to be luck. Had to be. She wouldn’t know good music if it blared through her designer headphones. She was a cheerleader. A social media princess. She wasn’t supposed to be anything more than that. And there was no way — NO WAY — I would ever tell her she’d figured out the song.
“That’s perfect,” DeAndre said, betraying me. “What do you think, dude?”
What was I supposed to say? There was no way I was admitting that the cheerleader figured out how to play a song the musician couldn’t. “Whatever,” I said. “I’ll figure it out later.”
Before I turned to put my guitar away, I glanced at her.
There was a slight smirk on her face.
She knew.
She knew she had figured out the song.
And it was worse than that:
She knew that I was impressed.
14
Hailey
I lay on my bed, watching the video clip again. Trey, on stage, strumming his guitar and singing. DeAndre behind him with the bass. Leo at the very back, bobbing his head and cracking his drumsticks against each other to keep rhythm.
Trey looks seriously hot.
The thought popped in my head, unasked for, unwanted. It came from that inner voice that was always shouting the most obvious yet least helpful facts you could know. But, as much as I hated to admit it, the voice was right. Trey looked hot. He had a natural charisma that drew my attention. Even when I tried to focus on DeAndre or scrolled through my filters, my eyes were pulled back to Trey. Trey, and his stupidly incredible voice and his annoyingly good looks.
I finished editing the clip and sent it to my phone. I created a caption that suggested the song was about Trey’s mysterious ex-lover. Earlier that day, when I told Trey my plan, he complained vehemently.
“What ex-lover? I’ve never been in love,” he said, closing the latches on his guitar case. He said “love” like it was a dirty word.
“This is publicity, Trey, not reality. If girls think you have an ex-lover you’re writing songs about, that makes you just a little obtainable — while still keeping you out of reach.” I slipped my phone into my pocket. “So, we play pretend. We ask: who was so incredible that Trey Carter wrote a song about them? And by doing that, we raise another question: what do I have to do to get him to write a song about me?”
Trey lifted his case, his familiar glare settling on me. “I don’t write songs about people. I’m not Taylor Swift.”
“Obviously,” I said. “She’s actually likable.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m telling you now — the way to a boy’s heart is through their stomach. The way to a girl’s heart? Thinking she can make the idiot in front of her change.”
“People don’t change.”
“I’m well aware,” I said. “Right now, you’re viewed as this mysterious, dangerous-but-hot guy. We show a hint of a softer side? Evermore will eat it up. You want fans? You need people to fall in love.”
“Dangerous-but-hot? Are you listening to yourself?”
“They’re deluded, obviously,” I said. “But if they’re deluded enough to think you’re hot, this’ll work.”
“Sounds like a way to get stalkers,” Trey said. Before I could reply, he was out the door.
Whether or not he agreed, I was certain that I was right. The girls at Evermore knew Trey was hot, and they knew that he was — supposedly — the right kind of dangerous. That made for a good gossip sesh, but it didn’t drag people to concerts. But show the world that he’s a musician, and promise that the answer to the enigma that was Trey Carter was in his music? Tickets would sell out in an hour.
That was the plan, at least.
I watched the video one more time. “All right, Carter. Time to make you famous.”
I uploaded the video to Click. Done. The rest would be history.
Satisfied with my evening’s work, I flipped on my TV. Nobody else was home, as usual. My mom was off at some social event, my stepdad was in Denver for the week for work, and my stepbrother Jacob was at his mom’s. It was just me, rattling around in this massive house alone.
I was already in my pajamas, and I figured it was a perfect night for an ANTM marathon rerun.
Tyra Banks had barely given out her first insult when my phone buzzed.
Trey: Come outside.
Hailey: Where?
Trey: Your house. Come out.
Wait, what?
Hailey: You are outside my house?
Trey: Yes, COME OUT.
Hailey: How do you know where I live? Stalker, much?
My heart pounded. Trey Carter was outside?
No, surely not.
One benefit of having a wealthy family was the abundance of security cameras. I grabbed my laptop, logged into our live feed and scrolled through the cameras. Sure enough, Trey Carter’s van was parked on a side street near one of the privacy hedges. The light from his phone lit his face.
What was Trey Carter doing at my house so late on a Thursday night?
Excitement and anticipation clashed with a delicious spark of fear. Not sure how else to handle this one, I decided to have some fun.
Trey: I want to show you something.
Hailey: Take a picture.
Trey: Can’t.
Hailey: Why not?
Trey: You’re so annoying.
Hailey: Thanks :)
Trey: Seriously, just come outside.
Hailey: Say please.
I watched Trey on camera. He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, made obscene gestures with his hands, then picked the phone up. I imagined a string of four-letter words filling the air and laughed. So what if Trey Carter got under my skin from time to time? Two could play at that game.
Trey: Are you kidding?
Hailey: A lady does not respond to strange callers in the night.
Trey: You’re hardly a lady, rich girl.
Hailey: Ooo rich girl. I’ve changed my mind.
Trey: THANK YOU. I’m parked out front.
Hailey: Instead of just saying please, now you have to say ‘Would you please come outside, Hailey Danielson?’
Trey: I am not texting that.
15
Trey
Girls were the worst. This one, in particular, was the very worst. I was trying to get Rich Girl out of her comfort zone. I was trying to take her to a place where she could learn what it took to be a music promoter. I was trying to HELP her. And what did I get for it? Sarcastic slaps to the face.
Hailey: I don’t want you to text it.
If she didn’t want me to text it then why even reply? What did she want from me? This was so stupid. She was probably used to being able to bat her eyelashes and get a guy to do whatever
she wanted. Throw in a fake laugh at one of his jokes, touch him lightly on the shoulder, and I bet guys melted like butter during a heat wave.
Well, maybe that’s how things normally worked in her world. But that’s not how I operated.
Trey: Come outside.
Hailey: Not until you say it.
Trey: Say it?
Hailey: Look up.
I did. There was a blinking red light peeking between two privacy hedges. A security camera. Of course, a security camera. A mansion like this? I was surprised her butler didn’t come out to greet me and offer me a spritz of cologne.
Trey: Screw off.
Hailey: It has audio.
Trey: I’m trying to help you.
Hailey: Maybe I’ll just go to bed.
Trey: Whatever. Your loss.
Hailey: Good night.
16
Hailey
I was playing a dangerous game. My stomach flipped as I watched Trey read my last text message from the comfort of my living room. My phone vibrated once. Twice. I didn’t open it — I didn’t want him to see that I had read his message, whatever it was. It was incredibly hard to resist, and honestly, my curiosity was killing me just a little. Why had Trey Carter showed up at my house on a random Thursday night in February? What did he have planned? Had he seen the Click blast? No, he wouldn’t have. Trey didn’t believe in things like Click or a social life.
My phone buzzed again.
“Not answering,” I sang.
The van sputtered to life. The brake lights flared.
My stomach dropped. I’d played too hard and now he would leave. Should I—
The brake lights died as the van turned off.
The driver’s door opened.
Trey got out, grumpily slammed the door, then stood in front of the security camera. He glared directly into it. Fortunately, the security camera was immune to his seething hatred. He swore a couple times, gritted his teeth, winced like he was being forced to eat the worst food in the world.
