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Copyright © 2015 by Miranda Kenneally
Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover images © plainpicture/Cultura, Michael Blann/Thinkstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kenneally, Miranda.
Jesse’s girl / Miranda Kenneally.
pages cm
Summary: On Career Shadow Day, Maya gets paired with pop star Jesse Scott who rose to fame at a young age and has no real friends, and although the last thing Maya wants is to be reminded of how music broke her heart, she and Jesse might be just what the other needs, but can they open up enough to become real friends—or even something more?
(alk. paper)
[1. Love—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Music—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K376Je 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2015000025
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Side A
The Space Between
Where Is the Love?
Welcome to the Jungle
Teach Your Children
I Knew You Were Trouble
Live Your Life
Crash Into Me
Our Song
Story of My Life
Side B
Bad Day
Don’t Dream It’s Over
Love Is a Battlefield
Dare You to Move
Seasons of Love
On the Road Again
Water Runs Dry
Help!
Bonus Track
Take Me Home, Country Roads
Jesse’s Girl Playlist
Acknowledgments
An excerpt from Catching Jordan
About the Author
Back Cover
For Don and Brady
Side A
The Space Between
Backstage, there’s so much security, you’d think it was the White House.
I’ve been to plenty of concerts, but I’ve never had a backstage pass, so I follow Dr. Salter’s lead and keep flashing my all-access badge over and over. My principal squeezes between two beefy men in security jackets and knocks on a door stamped with a red star.
A man in a tailored black suit and shimmering blue tie opens the door. He’s got better skin than any girl I know, and I bet his haircut cost a small fortune. “Oh good. It’s you,” he says to Dr. Salter, giving him a bright smile. The man takes my hand. “You must be Maya.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on in.”
Inside the dark dressing room, I spot a vintage Gibson guitar, three flat-screen TVs all showing the Braves game, and a table piled high with burgers and corn on the cob. I thought nothing could smell more delicious than my mom’s cooking, but I was wrong.
“Maya, this is Jesse’s manager, Mark Logan,” Dr. Salter says.
Mr. Logan pats my back like I’m one of the good ole boys. “Jesse will be out in a minute to meet you. Why don’t you get yourself a drink?” He gestures at the bar, which appears to be booze-free. Seems like a good move, considering Jesse got drunk and fell off that yacht a few months ago. The press had a field day with that, because it was totally out of character for Jesse Scott. Yeah, he’s a famous country star, but everyone thinks of him as this sweet, quiet boy from down on the farm.
“Could I have a word next door in private?” Mr. Logan asks my principal. “Jesse’s telling the crowd tonight.”
Dr. Salter’s face goes from happy to anxious, and they step back into the hallway where the security guys are buzzing around in their yellow jackets.
All alone now, I gaze over at Jesse’s guitar. I’m itching to try it out. What I wouldn’t give to throw the strap around my neck, charge out of the dressing room onto the stage, and rock out to Queen. But would I do “Somebody to Love”? Or “Another One Bites the Dust”? It’s a silly idea—I wouldn’t make it three feet before the beefcake security guys tackle me. I’d bite the dust. Literally. And if I sang, it’s a one hundred percent possibility my voice would crack. Playing onstage at the Opry…wouldn’t it be great, though?
I love playing guitar and performing more than anything. Before I started The Fringe, which was originally an eighties tribute band but has since become heavy metal only, I even went to church on Sundays just to sing with the youth choir. All the crotchety old people would whisper and point their walking canes at my bright red lipstick, but I doubt God cares about that or the diamond stud in my nose. God only cares that I sang “I’ll Fly Away” at the top of my lungs.
That was before I gave it up to focus on my band. I also used to be a proud member of my school’s show choir, which isn’t anything like the cool groups in Pitch Perfect. You know, that a cappella movie? We sang songs like “When the Saints Go Marching In” and wore billowing green dresses, like you’d see on the cover of a historical bodice-ripper romance novel. If that doesn’t tell you how much I love music, I don’t know what will. If the choice had been mine, we would’ve worn leather pants and tight tanks, but my director said that isn’t proper attire for our school’s most distinguished arts program.
However, as much as I love music, I am generally not a fan of country. I don’t like banjos. I don’t like sappy lyrics about trucks and hauling hay. Dolly Parton is my mortal enemy—my mom plays “Jolene” over and over and over and over, and it makes me want to chop my ears off like van Gogh. Yeah, yeah, I’m from Tennessee, where it’s a crime if you don’t love country, but I like deep, rumbling beats and singing loud and fast and hard. I do not like closing my eyes and crooning to a cow in the pasture.
Yet here I am at a Jesse Scott concert, getting ready to meet him and to see if he’ll let me shadow him next Friday. My school requires every senior to “shadow” a professional for a day. It’s their way of helping us figure out what kind of career we want. Like, if you want to be president when you grow up, you might get to shadow the mayor. Want to be a chef? Have fun kneading dough at the Donut Palace.
When I said “I want to be a musician,” I figured they’d send me to work in the electronics section at Walmart.
I certainly never expected to shadow the king of country music.
It turns out that Jesse Scott is my principal’s nephew. Jesse won TV’s Wannabe Rocker when he was ten and has gone on t
o become very successful. In sixth grade, every girl in class—myself included—took the Teen Beat quiz: “Would Jesse Scott Like Your Kissing Style?” (Obviously the answer was yes.) In middle school, I had a Jesse Scott poster on my ceiling. It’s hard to believe he’s only eighteen, because he’s already won three Grammys. When he was younger, his songs were about family, fishing, and playing baseball, but lately they’re about love and making love and all things sexy.
I wouldn’t say I’m a fan anymore, but I would never give up an opportunity to learn from a professional with such a gorgeous, pure voice. I want to learn what it’s like to perform day in and day out. Despite what everyone and their mom says—that I’ll struggle as a musician—all I want is to play guitar in front of a crowd and hear people cheer for me.
I can’t believe I’m backstage at the Grand Ole Opry! I bounce on my toes. Jesus, is that an archtop Super 4, the model Elvis played? I’ve never seen one in real life. It probably cost more than my house.
I’m ogling the guitar when Jesse Scott comes out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. He pads across the room to the couch, wearing nothing but a pair of rugged jeans with more holes than Swiss cheese.
The lighting is dim, and he doesn’t seem to notice I’m here, which is good, because I’ve moved from ogling the guitar to ogling him. Who wouldn’t? He was one of People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People,” and it is a truth universally acknowledged that you should stare at people who’ve made that list.
The guy’s gorgeous. Like in the boy-next-door way. His wet, wavy, brown hair curls around his ears and nearly hits his shoulders, and while he doesn’t have a six-pack or anything, his body is fit. I wish he’d look my way so I can see his famous brown eyes. They always remind me of those caramel chews Poppy gives me when I visit. Jesse has some sort of Celtic symbol tattooed on his left shoulder blade. I want to reach out and trace the design.
God, get ahold of yourself, Maya. Don’t be a horndog. Besides, he’s so not my type. I don’t do pretty boys.
Jesse grabs a black T-shirt from his bag and pulls it on over his head, then heads to his personal buffet. Humming to himself, he piles a bun and a burger onto a plate and scrunches his nose at a plateful of pickles, which is just crazy, because pickles are what make the burger. Instead he grabs a bottle of ketchup, unscrews the lid, and tries to shake some onto his burger. It’s not budging. Must be a new bottle.
“Try hitting the little fifty-seven on the side—”
He startles. “What are you doing here?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did the Opry arrange for a ketchup expert to be at my beck and call?” he snaps.
“Clearly you need one.” I stride over, grab the bottle out of his hand, and tap the little fifty-seven with the heel of my hand. Ketchup pours out.
“Thanks,” he says calmly. Then he yells, “Security! Another girl snuck in,” as he strides to the door in his bare feet. Jesse yanks open the door, revealing Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan. “I’m beginning to think you guys are letting them in just to torture me.”
The manager claps once. “Oh good. So you’ve met Maya? Have you discussed the possibility of her shadowing you next—”
“I’m sick of these groupie meet and greets,” Jesse says as if I’m not here. “Can’t I eat my damned dinner in peace?”
“You can now that you’ve got your damned ketchup,” I reply. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Mr. Logan and Dr. Salter gape at me. Throwing Jesse a look, I squeeze past Beefcake 1 and 2 into the hall.
I can’t believe how rude he was! Dr. Salter invited me to the concert so I could meet Jesse, and since I’ve already had the pleasure, I see no point in staying. I don’t want to shadow a spoiled pretty boy who sings about making love on tractors anyway. It’s still early. If I drive back to Franklin now, maybe I could meet up with Nate, and my Friday night won’t be a complete bust.
As I charge down the hall, pulling the all-access badge off from around my neck, a bunch of screaming girls rush my way. What in the world? A hand grabs my elbow. I go to shake it off and find Jesse, still holding the ketchup.
“I’m sorry—can you come back inside?”
Before I can answer, the horde descends on him. It’s scarier than a zombie apocalypse.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“Oh my God, I love ketchup too!” a girl squeals at the bottle in his hand. “We have so much in common!”
“Want to come to my house, Jesse? My parents are out of town.”
A girl screeches and grabs his wrist. Another gets up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and he jerks back.
“Jesse, Jesse! Can I sing a song for you?”
“Jesse! I want you!” This one yanks her shirt open.
I snort at her hot pink bra. Jesse smirks at my reaction as security breaks the group apart.
Jesse pulls me through security back into his dressing room, where he drops my arm and scans me. I’m wearing a great outfit—black ankle booties, skinny jeans, the belt I made out of duct tape, bleached blond hair, black tank top, the silly glittery bracelets I wear ironically, and a bronze military star medal from World War I that hangs from my necklace. Kids at school often make fun of my clothes, but I don’t care. I feel so Madonna right now.
Jesse shakes his head at me, then goes to give Dr. Salter a side hug. “Hey, Uncle Bob.”
Dr. Salter pats Jesse’s floppy hair and takes in his freckled face. “I’m looking forward to the show, son.”
“Thanks for coming,” Jesse says quietly.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dr. Salter says. “Where’re your mom and dad? Will they be here soon?”
“They blew me off again. What else is new?”
Until a couple of years ago, my dad was a truck driver and often missed my performances because he was on the road, so I understand how Jesse feels. But my parents have always been supportive. It shocks me that his parents aren’t at every show.
While Jesse speaks in a low voice only Dr. Salter can hear, I decide to check my phone. My best guy friend, Dave, texted: I need a play-by-play of how hot Jesse is. Do we think he’s bi?
I also received a text from my bandmate, Nate. His reads: Hannah told me where you are. Did you really sell out and go to a Jesse Scott show?
Groan. I love hooking up with Nate, but jeez. Why are guys so dramatic?
“What’s the girl doing here?” Jesse asks.
“Remember I told you about shadow day?” his manager asks.
“Remind me,” Jesse replies through a big bite of burger.
“You agreed to meet with Maya. She’s pretty talented on guitar,” Dr. Salter says.
Jesse stares at me, chewing. “So you play, huh?”
I ignore him. When he realizes I’m giving him the cold shoulder, he turns to Dr. Salter. “Seriously? I’m missing the Braves for this?”
My principal gives me the glare he reserves for kids who cut class. “I’d like you to consider letting her shadow you, Jess.”
Jesse just shrugs.
I should’ve known this would be a bust. Shadow day assignments always are. Students never get paired with professionals who can actually teach them something. Last year, Rory Whitfield said he wanted to be a movie director and ended up at the infant portrait area at Sears.
Dr. Salter says, “You should’ve seen her play guitar in the school talent show last spring. She’s amazing.”
“Did you win?” Jesse asks me.
I shake my head, cringing at the memory. Why did Dr. Salter have to bring that up? After my band declared the school talent show “lame,” I decided to perform on my own, adding a hard edge to one of my favorite songs, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and had a great time rocking out. That is, until I started to sing, and my voice cracked under the pressure. Kids at school called me the siren for weeks. People have always said I have a great v
oice, but when all eyes are on me, something usually goes wrong—like the time I fainted during a solo.
I wish their eyes had somewhere else to focus. That’s why I prefer being part of a band.
Jesse takes another bite of his burger and gives me a bored stare, and I feel like the pickle he turned his nose up at. What a letdown. I figured People took personality into account when developing their beautiful people list. Apparently not.
You’d think Jesse would be as sweet as his songs.
Okay, okay. I’ll admit it—even though my musical tastes have evolved, Jesse wrote this one song, “Second Chance,” that I’ve loved since middle school. When Dave, my first crush and now best friend, wasn’t interested in dating me because he was too busy liking other boys (I didn’t know that at the time), “Second Chance” helped heal my broken heart.
So it kind of sucks meeting the real Jesse. I’ve seen more life out of mannequins. Granted, I haven’t smiled at him, but he was incredibly rude after I helped with his ketchup. I had really been looking forward to this opportunity, but he’s nothing more than a beautiful voice and a hot body with a cool tattoo.
Dr. Salter must sense our meeting is going downhill real fast. “Jess, you really should see Maya on guitar.”
“Hmph.”
Spoiled ass. Two can play. “My Martin’s much cooler than your Gibson,” I say, even though it’s a total lie.
Instead of taking another bite, Jesse turns his head toward me, wide-eyed. “Shut up. My archtop is the best guitar there is.”
I gesture at it. “What year is it? A ’67?”
Jesse nods.
I can’t help but ask, “A Super 4? Like Elvis had?”
“Right…” A smile forms on his face, but a second later, he winces.
“So is it okay, Jess?” Dr. Salter asks. “Can Maya shadow you?”
Jesse studies me. “Mom and Dad’ll love that I’m hanging out with a sexy punk girl. So whatever you need, Uncle Bob.”
“Jesse!” Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan blurt simultaneously.
What a jerk.
Wait. Did he say sexy?
Jesse's Girl Page 1
