That’s all we manage. We get lost in lips, miss the opening two numbers.
“You all right?”
I bite my lip and nod. “I better go back, though, before Terri sends Meadow for me.”
He grins. “Anything but that. She scares the hell out of me.” The oo in his out is so delicious.
“You’re not into high-maintenance hotness?”
He laughs. “Come here—one more time.”
We miss the third number, too.
“I gotta go.”
“Meet me tonight. I’ll hang outside your hotel until you can get out. We can go back to our bench by the lake.”
Is Meadow right? Does he expect that already? “I don’t know if—”
“This isn’t about sex, Beth. I wouldn’t disrespect you like that.”
I’m flaming red. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Trust me. I just want more time with you. We can walk and talk. Sarah told Blake you write, too.”
I’m going to kill her. “I scribble lyrics. Bad ones. Nothing like what you do.”
“I want to hear them.”
“No way.”
“Please.” He kisses me.
“No.”
He kisses me again—lingering and utterly persuasive.
“I’ll go out with you, but no lyrics.” I’d die if he ever heard that thing I made up last night. And no one will ever hear what I composed sitting on that bench this afternoon. But that was before. Before Derek found me and kissed me and changed me.
Derek smiles, gets ready to kiss me again. “Bet I can get you to sing them for me.”
“You’re welcome to try.” I close my eyes, ready to get lost in him one more precious time.
“I’ll bring my best tune.”
“Are your lips tired yet?” he whispers into my ear.
I’m in Derek’s arms, draped across his lap, knees bent, feet up on our bench. There’s a fresh breeze blowing so it’s cool. I snuggle into his warm hockey jersey-clothed arms, glad that he wore it. “I could kiss you all night.”
He props me upright and stands up. “Let’s take a walk.”
I don’t want to stop making out. “No.” I grab his hand and tug.
He pulls me to my feet and kisses me one more time. “I need a break—or it will be about sex.”
Why doesn’t that scare me? Crap. I have a massive urge to shove him back down on the bench and see what happens. The Beast wants loose. Who knew I could be this skanky? Maybe those dumb doctors do have something to worry about.
Derek takes my hand, and we walk along the paved pathway that skirts the lake. He points across it. “Those lights are France. Evian, where the water comes from.”
“How do you know?”
“I looked it up to impress you. The lake is a thousand feet deep.”
I stop walking. “I don’t want a tour right now.” I try hard to sound sexy. Me. Sexy.
He turns and points to three large tufts of feathers, bluish white in the moonlight. “Those are swans—should I wake them up?”
I shake my head and let him tug me forward. “Why are little boys like that?”
“I’m a little boy?” He glances sideways at me and frowns.
“No. Most definitely not.” We come to a grayed statue and turn our backs to the lake to look at the frozen woman. “I’m trying to figure out what you are.”
“Dazzled.” He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses it. I’m surprised the statue doesn’t melt. I am. So melted.
We stand like that, breathing each other in, eyes sinking, sharing the miracle of feeling like we do. I think he’s going to kiss me again, but he turns away, coughing, gets out a fresh packet of tissues.
I sigh. The evening is cool for summer, especially here by the lake. This air can’t be good for his voice. “I don’t like the sound of that. Are you getting a cold?”
He coughs again.
“You’re singing tomorrow. You should get back.”
“Don’t worry.” He tugs on my hand, and we wander toward our bench. “I’m allowed to sleep in.”
“Star treatment?”
“This from the diva.”
“I’m so not a diva.”
“I know.” He wraps his arm around my back without letting go of my hand—so my arm goes with it, and he can pull me in close. “I can tell from the way you sing.” He speaks quietly, his breath warm on my earlobe. “A diva couldn’t come up with the purity and emotion you get. You’re an artist.”
“Coming from you—that’s huge. Thank you.”
“Simple truth.”
“I like the way you see the world.”
“I’m seeing it differently today.”
“You make it sound like I’m the first girl you’ve said that to.”
He stops walking. “I’ve had a huge crush on you—” He bends his arm and holds me tight to his chest, buries his lips on my neck.
I stroke his soft, perfect hair and whisper, “With my voice. You don’t even know me.”
He raises his face, lets go of my hand, so he can cup my face between his palms. “I know your soul. It’s there in every note.” He brushes my lips with his. “You can’t fake that. You can’t hide it.” He holds my lips a long time. “I was dying to meet you.” He’s breathing faster.
It all gets too unreal. I pull away. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Very funny. You know what the guys back in the choir call you?”
I can imagine.
“The goddess.”
His eyes are so full, so deep—I drop mine, stare at the chipped pink polish on my toenails. “I’ve been called a lot of things but never that.”
He puts his index finger under my chin and gently raises my eyes back to his. “Thanks for hanging out with a mere mortal.” He tucks a sticky hair-sprayed dyed-blonde lock behind my ear and moves in to kiss me again.
“You know how fake I am?” I turn my face away. “This hair. My face. If you saw me back home—”
“But we’re not back home. We’re here. We don’t have to be who we are back home.” There’s a fierceness in his voice that frightens me. Is he running from the realities of back home as much as I am? That is what I’m doing—with him, to him—substituting how I feel when he kisses me for the empty desolation that tries to creep back as soon as he stops. I cling to him. Need him. He grips me tight. Can he need me, too?
We stand there holding on, trying to stop time, compress it into this moment so we can drift on this feeling forever.
I raise my head off his shoulder. “What is it—for you—back home?”
“Let’s walk.”
I keep expecting him to start telling me, but he’s silent.
It gets uneasy—at least for me. I want to ask him about drugs—is that what he’s in therapy for? Or is it something else? Musicians aren’t particularly stable. Even perfect ones like him. Instead, I just say, “When did you start composing?”
He swings my hand then, ready to pretend with me. “I’ve been arranging for the choir a couple years. I play the piano—guitar, too. Of course, there’s the choir stuff, but I like Marley, and folk. Jazz it up sometimes. Not much pure pop or rock. But sometimes I can get down. Guess I’m a musical omnivore.”
I look out at the black lake and the lights winking on the other side. “Me, too. I’m no expert on Marley, but the folky stuff works for me. And then, I do listen to most of those divas.”
“Do you play?”
I shake my head. My dad played the guitar in his band, left an old acoustic behind. Mom still has it. Strange. I don’t know why she didn’t burn it.
We stop walking, stare out at the lake. A ferry goes by, all lit up with music playing. Derek squeezes my hand. “Let’s hop on one of those. Run away.”
I like that idea. “But it’s a lake.”
“A big lake.”
“We need to go back. You’ve got to go to bed.”
“Sing me something you wrote first. I need a lullaby.”
&nb
sp; I shrug my shoulders. “You first.”
He puts his arm around me and starts to hum, breaks into Ooohs. This voice is rich with texture—not that pure choir voice he used at the concert. The melody is entrancing, winds into my heart, makes me want to smile and cry at the same time. It fades away. “That’s all I have.”
“I love it. What do you call it?”
“‘Beth’s Song.’”
chapter 13
ROCK STAR
Derek keeps his eyes on his conductor all through their competition performance until he starts his solo. His delicious chocolate eyes find me in the fifth row breathing in every note. Somehow he turns an “Ave Maria” into a love song. I’m lost in the power of it—overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotion that pours out of him. Tears form in the corner of my eyes. What is this? How can I feel like this?
I take everything back that I said about divas and love. If love is anything like the way I feel this moment, sign me up. Singing makes me happy, alive, but this is unbelievable.
His solo finishes, and the rest of the choir joins Derek. He focuses intently on the conductor again. We stand and applaud with everyone else when they’re done.
Leah frowns. “I think they beat us.”
Meadow stops clapping. “They’re kind of professional. It’s not really fair.”
I’d forgotten that we were competing with them. Gold medal. Right. Best youth choir in the world. I’m sure we’re looking at them.
Sarah watches Blake step down the risers. “Even with you, Beth, we’re not in their league. No one is.”
I lose the thread of their conversation as the next choir files onto the risers. I get up and go outside. They are in the foyer, shaking hands. Derek sees me and starts to head in my direction.
When he gets to me, he takes both my hands. I stare at him. What can I say after that?
He squeezes my hands, leans forward and whispers, “When’s your free time today?”
My throat is so dry I have to swallow. “Two hours, after lunch.”
“It’s mine.”
We wander, slowly, around the center of Lausanne, holding hands. Derek seems tired. He jerks away when I put my hand on his forehead to check if he has a temperature. “I thought I wasn’t a little boy.”
The rest of my choir is touring the cathedral. We avoid it. Too many stairs, according to Derek. There’s a big market set up in front of the tiny shops in old stone buildings. Tables of fresh fruits, veggies, honey, and carts selling cheese make the narrow winding streets even narrower. Derek buys some nasty dried-up sausage and makes me try it. So salty. I buy some fresh strawberries to get the taste out of my mouth—and his. The city center is a maze. We get totally lost, head downhill until we pick up the metro signs. We take it down to Ouchy and end up back on our bench.
He sits down, and I take up my position. Instead of kissing me, he pulls me into a hug.
I bury my face in his neck. It feels like coming home. “One more day and the fairy tale ends.”
“Don’t remind me. I want to stay here with you forever.”
“Sign me up.”
“Okay. The guys and I are staying on a couple weeks—backpacking, trains. Stay.”
“Two solid weeks with no distractions?”
“Blake would be around.”
“Even that would be so much better than”—emotion catches at my voice—“saying good-bye Monday morning.” I curse the bane of nonrefundable group airline tickets.
He strokes my hair. I washed it three times to get all the gunk out of it and hot oiled it before breakfast. It’s gorgeous today. As long as it doesn’t rain and spoil the flattening job the girls did on it. Keep touching it, Derek. Please, keep touching it.
He does. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo like the one I cried on. I notice small red scars on the inside of his arm. Tracks? I don’t want to see them. All the drugs in the world won’t change how I feel about Derek. I close my eyes.
His fingers comb through my hair. “It won’t be good-bye. Just see you later.”
My eyes fly open. “Really?” Take that, Meadow.
“Like Meadow said, we’re neighbors. London is only a couple hours from Detroit. How far is Ann Arbor?”
An amazing, tingling sensation goes through me. I tip my head back and laugh.
“What?”
“I’m up in Port.”
“You’re kidding? That’s like a half hour from my house—if you go fast.”
Then I’m afraid. This can’t be real. He can’t be saying this. I clutch the front of his shirt. “You really want to keep this—happening?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
I nod my head.
He frowns at me. “What did you think?”
“I don’t know. That you were passing time. Being nice. That it doesn’t mean to you what it means to me.”
“That’s cold.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this. Nothing like you has ever happened to me before.”
“Good.” He shifts his hold so he can kiss me. “Let’s keep it that way.”
We get lost in lips and hands and hair and faces. It feels different this time—now that I know it will last. Less physical. More emotional. With every kiss, the way I feel about him deepens. With every touch, he is more and more precious. I’ll be his high. I’ll be his therapy. If he has me, he won’t need anything else. I so want to take care of him.
His lips flow over every inch of my face, promising me.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Of moments like this.
My official Bliss Tour Itinerary is fat as a book. The gala celebration tonight, the awards-ceremony thing tomorrow morning, shopping all afternoon, and our flight home the next morning are all that’s left. The schedule says we have to board the bus at 5:00 a.m. Derek and I better say our see you laters the night before. He doesn’t do mornings.
We, meaning me and eighty girls, not me and Derek, arrive at the sports arena, where the closing concert will be held. We’re lucky it hasn’t rained. Clouds rolled in this afternoon, but so far it’s been dry. They didn’t have to move the concert indoors. Terri hands the usher the plastic card with our seat assignments. Instead of leading us to nosebleed seats in the rafters, they take us to a couple of long, empty rows on the field.
The orchestra starts the evening off. Derek told me they are all Hungarians. The Choral Olympics couldn’t afford the Swiss. After a couple of stirring classical pieces and a piece from a recent movie soundtrack, a Hungarian tenor comes out and sings. He’s good-looking for a guy in his thirties.
Meadow flips out over him. “Next summer—Hungary.” Give me Canada. Just across the border. And soon.
An adult choir from the Philippines sings “The Circle of Light” from The Lion King. They sit in a giant circle with one side open to the audience and make all those animal sounds using only their voices.
The evening wears on. Lots of choirs. I love the Scottish men’s chorus—especially the kilts. The Amabile guys need to get some of those. Derek would be so hot in one. A Hungarian soprano sings a striking aria. I wish I knew how to make my voice do that. The tenor joins her. Standing ovation. The first of the night.
Leah nudges me. “They’re next.”
I glance down at my program. I knew the Amabile guys were closing the show, but I didn’t realize it was so close to over. A shiver goes through me and I’m not cold. I’m hyped to see Derek on the stage, but when this is over, we’re that much closer to going home. I hope they sing all night.
They file out. There’s Derek in his tux again. My Derek. How can that gorgeous creature be with me? He held me, kissed me, and wrote me a song. Me. Maybe it isn’t real. At dinner Meadow was eager to confirm he has a girlfriend in the Amabile Girls’ Choir. Meadow said his online relationship status is single now, but the girlfriend’s profile picture is a pretty cozy one with him. Her status is “Complicated.” I ignored Meadow. My lips were soft and pink from making out wit
h Derek. My head full of his promises.
They start to sing and a nasty voice whispers inside me, He didn’t promise you anything. He just wants to see you again. No commitment. The thought consumes me. I barely hear the two numbers they perform.
The lights go down. A spot shines on Derek walking out, lots of girls squeal. He sings the opening lines of “We Are the World.” It’s a tradition to sing it at every Choral Olympics. The real Olympics are about peace through sports. We’re about peace through song. Derek sings, slowly with lots of feeling. My heart jumps around inside my chest. I struggle to inhale.
A half dozen of the older guys, the core of Primus, follow him off the riser to the edge of the stage. More screaming from the audience. The other guys join Derek’s voice. The tempo picks up. Derek and the guys clap over their heads, getting everyone on their feet. Thousands of voices from all over the world sing about brighter days. Derek leads, in the center of it all. A total star.
So far, far away from me.
The place goes pretty wild after that. Choral decorum out the window. And it’s all because of him. He made that number the highlight of the night. He truly is infectious. Intoxicating. I’m not the only one who feels him. He managed to get to everybody in this sports arena.
When the audience calms down, Derek takes the mike. Major screaming. He smiles and waves. Then he announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow choristers, families—we’ve got a unique treat this evening to close the show.” The orchestra starts playing the tune of a guy-girl pop duet—way romantic, way popular last winter. I’ve sung it to my mirror with my eyes closed a thousand times. I can’t wait to hear him sing it.
But he’s still talking. “I’d like to introduce you to a new voice that made this festival heaven for everyone who heard her sing. Will Beth Evans, the soloist from Bliss Youth Singers, please join me on the stage.”
I am so glued to my chair. Leah and Sarah get me on my feet and push me out into the aisle. I have to force myself to stand up straight and fake a confident walk. A spotlight follows me up the stage. Derek hands me a mike and whispers, “You know this one right?”
Sing Me to Sleep Page 11
