When my dad pulls into the driveway, we all shuffle out of the car. I can already hear the screaming through the open windows.
“I said take them off!” Jordan yells.
“It’s my house too,” my brother hollers back.
My parents look at each other and roll their eyes. Dad knocks on the front door, and as soon as Sam lets us in, Jordan storms out of their bedroom with a set of Detroit Lions bedsheets, wrinkling her nose like she’s holding a dirty diaper.
“Those are three-hundred-thread-count sheets,” Sam says. “Who cares what’s on them?”
“You are a traitor not only to the Titans, but to the entire state of Tennessee!” Jordan throws the sheets onto the rug.
Dad lets out a low groan. When Sam and Jordan aren’t making out, they’re screaming at each other about sports. Growing up, they were both Titans fans, but during the time my brother went away to college in Michigan and Jordan went to school in Indiana, he became a Detroit Lions fan.
“The Titans are still my team,” Sam will say, “but I root for the Lions when they’re playing. Unless they’re up against the Titans, of course.”
Jordan’s response is usually, “It’s sacrilege!” She refuses to let him watch the Lions on TV. She even canceled their DirecTV package so he could only watch local games. One time, Sam snuck out to watch a Detroit game at a bar, and Jordan showed up and made a scene, dumping a beer on his head before storming out. My brother has a job working for the Titans, so I don’t think he’s actually a Lions fan. He just likes riling Jordan up.
I honestly don’t see what the big deal is, because I’ve never understood the appeal of sports. Growing up, Sam was a football and baseball star. He even got a scholarship to play football in college. My little sister, Anna, who is tall and buff like Sam, is the best player on her elementary school basketball team. I’m barely five feet two, and the only muscles I have are from holding my guitar and plucking the strings.
My family always shows up for my performances, and I know they love me, but I get the sense that they would rather be tailgating at a football game. Then again, I’d rather be listening to music than watching a game on TV with them. And don’t even get me started on how Mom tries to make me wear clothes that were made this century.
It wasn’t until I formed my band that I felt like I really belonged. At first, anyway. Now I know I didn’t fit in at all. Friendships come and go—I don’t hang out with the same people I did in elementary school or even junior high. But I know that other people have managed to keep their friends. What am I doing wrong? Why don’t I belong anywhere?
The minute my brother sees me, he knows something’s up. “What’s wrong?”
“Just tired,” I lie, and he furrows his eyebrows. Sam has always been a protective big brother, and I know if I told him what happened with Nate today, Nate would get an ass-whooping. And as enjoyable as that sounds, I can’t take any more drama this weekend.
We all head into the kitchen and sit at the breakfast bar while Sam and Jordan start fixing supper. Sam hands Mom and Dad beers, which they take readily following the Detroit Lions Sheet Incident, and Dad turns to his phone to check the Braves’ score.
Jordan cracks an egg and lets the yolk plop into a mixing bowl. “We’re having breakfast for dinner.”
“In Michigan, we called it brinner,” Sam says.
“Well, in Tennessee, we call it breakfast for dinner,” Jordan snaps back. “And if you want some, you better call it by its proper name.”
“Brinner,” he teases.
Jordan throws an entire egg yolk at him, and he flips pancake batter at her. Then they kiss in the middle of their food fight with egg and batter on their faces.
Gross. I shift uncomfortably on my bar stool.
“You’re disgusting,” Anna tells them, and Mom doesn’t even scold her.
Now that Jordan’s teaching and coaching football at Hundred Oaks, I have to watch her being all lovey-dovey with my brother and then go to school and listen to her talk about safe sex in health class. Cringe.
We all usually sigh at Sam and Jordan’s craziness, but secretly, I’m jealous. I hope I have a relationship like theirs one day. A relationship where there’s love and happiness, but also the freedom to fight and say what’s really on your mind. And, most important, trust.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, My?” Sam asks. “You’re not usually this quiet.”
I shrug. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“And you probably spent all day practicing, right?”
“No, not today…”
“I didn’t think you could go longer than five minutes without playing guitar,” Jordan says as she grabs a package of hash browns from the freezer.
“Yeah, Maya not playing would be like if you didn’t sleep with your football for one night,” Sam teases.
“I’d rather not hear about your sleeping habits, thanks,” I say.
“Maya was out late last night,” Anna says in a sneaky tone. “That’s why she’s tired.”
“A date?” Jordan asks with hopeful eyes, and Sam gives her a death glare. Like I said, protective big brother.
“Tell everyone about the concert, Maya!” Mom drums her hands on the counter. “Sam and Jordan are going to love this.”
“It’s nothing,” I say quietly. I was so excited about the opportunity to spend time with a famous musician, but Jesse Scott is a certified country-boy ass.
“You won’t believe what Maya gets to do for shadow day,” Mom adds, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
Sam licks pancake batter off his thumb and makes a face. “Are you shadowing somebody at Middle C?” He means the shop where I buy sheet music.
“No…I’m shadowing Dr. Salter’s nephew.”
“Who’s his nephew?” Jordan asks.
“Jesse Scott!” Anna squeals.
Sam freezes in the middle of flipping a pancake, and it plops on the floor. Jordan stops stirring the eggs in the skillet. They look at each other, then at me, then at each other again.
“You’re shadowing Jesse Scott!” Jordan shouts.
“I don’t think so,” Sam says. “Dad, you’re allowing this?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Dad replies.
“Jesse Scott got drunk and fell off a boat,” Sam explains. “I saw it on TV. That kid’s a train wreck.”
“A hot train wreck!” Jordan exclaims, and Sam’s eyes might roll out of his head. “I want to come with you! Can I?”
“I’m not even sure if I want to go.”
“That’s crazy,” she replies. “This could be huge for you and your music.”
I ignore the mention of my music. They don’t know that I got kicked out of my own band, and I really don’t feel like facing a Sam and Jordan intervention.
“Jesse is kind of a jerk,” I say. “And when I went backstage to meet him, he called me a ‘sexy punk girl.’”
“You met him?” Jordan screams. She drops an egg on the floor, and it splatters everywhere.
Dad rips his eyes away from the scores. “What did that boy say to you?”
“I’ll kill him!” Sam says, and pancake batter joins the egg.
“Will you get his autograph for me?” Anna asks, and I tell her I’ll try.
“I love that song of his,” Jordan says, looking wistful. “‘Don’t Cry for Me, Tennessee.’”
“I hate that song,” Sam mutters. “Jordan sings it all damn day. I can’t get it out of my head.”
Jordan sighs dreamily. “Wow. I didn’t know Dr. Salter is related to Jesse Scott.”
I’m surprised that Jordan didn’t know either, considering she works for the principal. “Dr. Salter asked me not to tell other students—he probably doesn’t want girls storming his office every day,” I explain. “And Scott is Jesse’s stage name.”
&nb
sp; “Makes sense. The name Salter isn’t near as sexy as Scott,” Jordan says.
“Can we stop talking about how sexy Jesse Scott is?” my brother asks.
“Can you stop watching Detroit games already?” Jordan asks back.
Brinner is officially a disaster. Half-cooked pancakes are splotched on the floor. I can smell the eggs burning.
“Maybe we should order pizza,” Dad mutters to me.
I whisper, “Mushrooms, please.”
“If Dr. Salter arranged for Maya to shadow Jesse Scott, I’m sure he’ll be on his best behavior,” Jordan says.
“The school planned a whole schedule,” Mom says. “Maya will be visiting Jesse’s studio, going to lunch with him, and doing some educational tours at the Country Music Hall of Fame. His manager will be there the whole time.”
“It sounds boring,” I add.
“I wish I could go,” Anna says, and Mom rubs her back. It probably would be more appropriate if Anna went, given that she’s ten and has a Jesse Scott screen saver.
“If that jerk does anything to hurt you, My,” Sam says, “I’m gonna rip his arms from his sockets, and then we’ll see how sexy he is all armless.”
Ignoring Sam’s loud speech, Jordan starts cooking again, cracking a new egg into a fresh bowl. “I remember my shadow day. I said that I wanted to be an NFL player, and the school arranged for me to shadow the manager of the Athletic Superstore at the mall.”
“And I said I wanted to become an exotic dancer,” Sam says, “but I got detention.”
My lips twitch.
Jordan points at me with a spatula. “I saw it! Maya smiled.”
“If telling you about my most embarrassing moments will make you feel better,” my brother starts, “I’ll tell you about the time I fell asleep at a party and woke up butt-naked in a cow pasture with—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I wave my hands. “No more, please.”
Anna is cackling hard, and my mom’s face is red with laughter. Dad pushes buttons on his phone, lifts it to his ear, and says, “Delivery, please.”
Being with my family makes me feel better, but I can’t stop thinking of what happened this afternoon. I put my all into building The Fringe for an entire year, and it was for nothing. I won’t fight to win my band back after they all made it perfectly clear what they thought of me and my musical tastes. I quit both the church and show choirs after I started my band, and since my voice cracks, it’s not like I can go solo. How am I going to find a new group in time to record an audition video for Wannabe Rocker? It’s due in less than three weeks! I already recruited the best musicians at my school for The Fringe. The only person left is Albert Cho and his upright bass, and he’s told me a hundred times he only plays classical.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not trying out for Wannabe Rocker, because that show is all about identity—about showing America why you are a talented, unique musician.
Without my band, I’ve got nothing.
Welcome to the Jungle
Showtime.
On Friday morning, Dr. Salter drives us up to a whale of a brick home surrounded by iron gates and lush green hedges in Brentwood, the Bel Air of Nashville. A sedan idles by the curb. I peer through my window at the unshaven man hunkered down in the front seat. Another guy leans against the passenger side door and snaps pictures of us.
“Paparazzi?”
“Always,” Dr. Salter says as he steers the car to a security booth.
A beefy guard—he must weigh three hundred pounds—pokes his head out and tips his hat. “Dr. Salter,” his deep voice rumbles. “He expecting you?”
“Yes.” Dr. Salter sighs, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I guess he didn’t tell you we were coming?”
The guard shrugs. “You know Jesse. Let me call and get clearance.” He shuts the sliding-glass window and picks up a phone.
“Clearance?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word used that way.
“Jesse’s not—” Dr. Salter starts. “He doesn’t have visitors often.”
“Oh.” I wipe sweaty palms on my dress. The corset top is black leather and red lace, the short skirt poufy black tulle. It looks awesome with my ankle booties. I wore my favorite outfit, because spending time with Jesse will probably be uncomfortable. Might as well feel good in my own skin.
Ten seconds later, the steel gates slide open. A paparazzi guy rushes to follow us in on foot, but the guard steps out to stop him from entering the property.
We park the car in the semicircular driveway, and I climb out, staring up at the ivy-laced brick façade. The brick is just like my house, but his is about ten times larger. We only moved out of a trailer two years ago, after my parents finally saved up for a down payment on a small house. By comparison, this place looks like Buckingham Palace.
I unfold today’s schedule—I’ve read it so many times the paper is soft as a piece of cloth—and scan it one last time:
9:30 a.m. Arrival
10:00 a.m. Tour of Grand Ole Opry
11:00 a.m. Tour of Studio B
12:00 p.m. Lunch with Jesse and Mark Logan
1:30 p.m. Tour of Ryman Auditorium
2:30 p.m. Tour of Country Music Hall of Fame
3:30 p.m. Depart
“Come on,” Dr. Salter says, clapping a hand on my shoulder and steering me toward the door. “Jesse won’t bite.” My principal pushes the doorbell.
Seconds later, Jesse Scott opens the door wearing nothing but a pair of sky blue boxers.
Holy mother!
“Jesse,” Dr. Salter scolds him. “Put some pants on for God’s sake.”
Jesse stifles a yawn. “Hi, Uncle Bob.” He turns and goes back into the house, leaving the front door wide open. A woman with a tight bun, plain black dress, and fingers clamped over her mouth is left standing in the wake of Jesse’s greet and run.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Salter,” the woman rushes to say. “I tried to get here first.”
My principal pats the lady’s elbow. “It’s okay, Grace.” He gives me a reassuring smile as we enter the sunlit foyer filled with leafy green plants. “Don’t mind him. Jesse’s not a morning person.”
“Based on how he treated me last week, he’s not an evening guy either,” I mutter.
The woman, Grace, disappears down a hallway, and Dr. Salter and I follow Jesse and his Celtic tattoo into the living room, where he flops down in a cushy brown armchair made of cowhide. I set my purse on the floor and take a seat on a leather sofa across from him. This room could be featured in the Pottery Barn catalog that Mom gets in the mail. I want to slip my boots off and dig my toes into the plush beige rug. Guitars of all makes and colors—including a double-neck Fender Stratocaster!—hang on the walls. Over by a huge picture window sits a gorgeous, walnut-colored Steinway grand piano covered by sheet music.
His Grammys are on the mantel, but I don’t see any pictures of family or friends like at my house. Instead there are tasteful black-and-white portraits of the countryside: horses, cows, trucks, and tractors.
The only evidence that a person actually lives here is a drained coffee mug sitting on a glass table and sections of today’s newspaper, the Tennessean, strewn across the couch.
“You didn’t forget about Maya, right?” Dr. Salter asks Jesse.
“Nope.” He leans back and closes his eyes. “How could I forget I’m giving up my day off to hang out with a groupie?”
“In your dreams I’m a groupie,” I snap, shocking my principal.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Dr. Salter asks his nephew.
Jesse shrugs. “Maya wanted to shadow me, right? Well, this is what I do on Friday mornings. And Thursday. And Wednes—”
“Stop being rude.” Dr. Salter shakes his head at his nephew. His cell phone dings. “Don’t let him fool you, Maya. He works harder than anybody I’
ve ever met and has a good heart too.”
Jesse keeps his eyes shut.
My principal looks at his phone. “I need to get back to the school. Mark Logan just texted to say he’s two minutes out. Mr. Logan will stay with you two the entire day, and Grace, Jesse’s housekeeper, will be here until Mark arrives. Call my office if something comes up. Otherwise, Jesse and Mr. Logan’ll make sure you get home. Okay, Maya?”
“Got it.”
“Put some clothes on, Jess.” Dr. Salter pats his nephew’s cheek before leaving. As soon as the door clicks shut, Jesse checks me out.
“Wanna have sex?”
I gasp and glance at his boxers. And that line of hair on his stomach that leads down to places I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“No, thanks. You’re not my type.”
Jesse looks surprised. “That’s a first.”
What the hell have I gotten myself into? I mean, someone who writes such sweet lyrics can’t actually be such an ass in real life. Right?
“Everything okay?” Jesse asks. I look up to find him raising an eyebrow at me.
I shrug.
“Sorry—I shouldn’t be talking about sex. We just met. Wanna get drunk?”
Why is he asking such weird questions? “Didn’t you learn your lesson after you fell off that yacht?” I ask snarkily.
“You don’t know anything about that,” he snaps.
Ugh, I knew shadow day would be a stupid waste of time. Jordan probably learned more about being an NFL player from the Athletic Superstore manager than I’ll learn about music from Jesse. I swipe my phone on and look up the Hundred Oaks phone number. Maybe Dr. Salter hasn’t left the neighborhood yet. I push dial, and the school receptionist answers. “This is Maya Henry. Can you please connect me to Dr. Salter?”
Jesse jumps to his feet, snatches my phone from my hand, and says, “Wrong number.”
Jesse's Girl Page 3
