Jesse's Girl

by Miranda Kenneally

I reach to get my phone back, but he holds it way above my head.

  “Give me that!” I leap up at my phone. “I want to leave.”

  “Already?”

  “I didn’t know it was your day off. I don’t want to waste your time. Or mine.”

  He gives me a withering look. “Your time?”

  I glare at him. “You know, before we met last week, I was really excited about this.”

  “A punk rocker chick was excited to spend the day with me? Yeah, I believe that.”

  “First of all, buddy, I wouldn’t call myself a punk rocker. I’m into the eighties—I was going for Madonna. And second, I got my hopes up about meeting you. I thought it would be cool to watch you practice. Hell, I thought I might even get some pointers, learn something from you.”

  That’s when I realize I’ve been shaking my finger at him.

  After he looks into my eyes for several beats, he hands me my phone. “Last Friday, you said you play a Martin.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Let’s hear you play.” He sits down and rests his elbows on his thighs. My eyes have a mind of their own and glance at his boxers again. He totally catches me.

  “I didn’t bring my guitar.”

  He purses his lips. “Why would you show up unprepared?”

  “Well, why didn’t you prepare by putting on pants?”

  “You’re not wearing any either.” His eyes trail up and down my legs.

  Some girls would’ve jumped him already, but not me. Even if he has a nice set of biceps and the cutest freckles I’ve ever seen, he doesn’t deserve me after acting like a man slut.

  “Where are your parents, anyway?” I ask.

  “I dunno. Work? They don’t live here.”

  “This is your house?”

  “Yup. I bought it with my allowance.”

  That makes me laugh. But how is he ready to live on his own? I mean, Mom still has to remind me to set my alarm so I wake up in time for school.

  He carefully lifts an acoustic guitar off the wall and hands it over. “Play a song for me.”

  I sit down and get it situated in my lap, studying it. My fingers tremble and itch to strum the strings. It’s a Martin, just like mine, only a lot older and more valuable. “Is this from, like, the 1930s?”

  “Yeah…it was Pa’s—my great-grandfather’s—before he died.”

  “You had a cool Pa.”

  His mouth twitches. “I know. Now play a song for me.”

  I run my fingers over the wood and bite my lip. If my own band ditched me, do I have any business playing for a Grammy winner? Despite my different musical tastes, I thought my guitar skills were top notch and that I would be a huge asset to any band. But they wanted that guy Bryan instead of me. Maybe I’m not as good on guitar as I thought I was.

  He must sense my hesitation. “I’m gonna give you a bad grade if you don’t play.”

  “You’re not in charge of my grade.”

  “My uncle is, and if I tell him you didn’t do what I asked, you’ll probably fail.”

  I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’m not willing to risk it. If I don’t complete shadow day, I won’t be allowed to graduate in the spring.

  I pull my lucky pick (it’s made of quartz and shaped like a teardrop) out of my purse. Taking a deep breath, I start plucking the first song that Jesse put out after he won Wannabe Rocker. He wrote “Mi Familia” when he was eleven. I played this song over and over in fifth grade.

  After the first chord transition, I get nervous, my fingers tremble, and I accidentally mute the D string, then miss the next transition. Jesse and I cringe at the same time.

  “Crap—I never screw up,” I say.

  “Maybe you haven’t been practicing enough.”

  That’s true. I haven’t played much this week. Without a band to jam with, my heart hasn’t been in it.

  “Go on,” Jesse urges, settling back into his armchair.

  I start playing “Mi Familia” again, but after a measure, he waves a hand at me to stop. “Play something else. Know any James Taylor?”

  “Obviously.” I’m more of an eighties girl, but any serious guitarist should know the classics. I start strumming “Carolina in My Mind.”

  After I play two verses, Jesse holds up a hand again. “Are you gonna sing or not?”

  I drum my fingers on the Martin’s tuners. “I don’t do solos.”

  He shakes his head at the ceiling. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “I thought you have all the time in the world. You’re quitting, right?”

  The expression on his face could kill. “If you won’t sing for me, you should leave right now.”

  “Fine, I’ll sing,” I shoot back.

  “I promise I won’t laugh at you,” he replies.

  “I’m not that bad a singer.”

  “Then prove it.”

  Game on, pretty boy, country jerk, I think.

  I start in on the first verse, and I make it most of the way through before my voice cracks. Normally I’d be embarrassed, but I don’t really care. A week ago, this would’ve been my big chance to show what I’ve got, but considering I don’t really respect Jesse, I don’t have anything to fear.

  So I just keep belting out “Carolina in My Mind.” Playing guitar feels so good, I find myself sinking further down into the soft couch, relaxing, and not wanting to cry. Which is good, because lately, I’ve been on the verge of breaking down. I don’t want to waste a single tear on Nate or my band, but it’s been getting harder and harder.

  On the second verse, Jesse leans back and closes his eyes. He joins me in singing the chorus.

  When we’ve finished the song, we sit in silence while he chews on his lip. Enough time goes by to play the song again before he speaks. “You could use some training. You’re singing out of your throat, and it’s making your voice crack, but you have a nice tone.”

  “So do you.” What a stupid thing to say. “I mean, obviously.”

  He moves over to the couch, hip-checks me, and takes the guitar carefully by the neck, lifting it from my hands. I hold my breath and pretend I’m a mannequin.

  “Watch.” He places fingers on four different strings. “Your hands are super small. So when you’re playing the key licks, don’t play an open B7, because that makes the transition too tough. You should bar the B7 at the seventh fret, which’ll leave your hand in perfect position to start the lick. That’ll make it easier.”

  He demonstrates a riff, moving his fingers up the board.

  “I’ll do that,” I reply, and we look at each other. If those caramel eyes weren’t attached to Jesse Scott, I could get lost in them.

  A phone beeps, and we both startle.

  Jesse swats the newspaper out of the way and fumbles for his cell on the couch cushion. He swipes the phone on and checks the screen. “Mark got caught up in contract stuff. He says he’ll be here in two minutes.”

  “Which is what he said five minutes ago.”

  Would Dr. Salter have left us alone with the housekeeper if he’d known Mr. Logan would be so late? I don’t think Mom would mind me spending time alone with a cute guy—I’m seventeen, after all, and everyone knows that a huge part of being a seventeen-year-old girl is spending time with cute guys—but Dad and Sam would freak. My brother would beat up the three-hundred-pound guard outside, scale the fence, and put Jesse in a headlock just for looking at my legs.

  “Have you eaten breakfast?” Jesse asks.

  “Yeah. A strawberry doughnut.” Dave made it especially for me when I dropped by the Donut Palace, where he’s spending his shadow day. He used icing to spell “Rock it out” in squiggly letters.

  Jesse makes a face. “That’s so unhealthy. Come on.” He places the guitar back on the wall and gestures for me to follow him into the kitchen
. It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, but it’s cozy with wooden cabinets and cast-iron skillets hanging on the wall. An old-fashioned butter churn sits next to a woodstove.

  “Jesus.” I stare up at the vaulted ceilings dotted with skylights. “You really live here by yourself?”

  “Yeah…well, except for Grace and my cat. Casper doesn’t like strangers though, so you probably won’t see her.”

  He has a cat?

  Jesse pulls the fridge open to reveal shelves chockfull of energy drinks and fruit and vegetables and milk. He takes out a carton of eggs, a pepper, and an onion and lays them on the marble counter. His fridge has more produce than the Quick Pick. Why would a health nut get drunk and fall off a yacht?

  Grace hurries into the room, brandishing a pink feather duster. “Get out of my kitchen, young man!”

  “It’s my kitchen,” Jesse fires back. “And your omelets are too salty.”

  “Last time you cooked, you burned chicken. It took days to get the stench out of here.”

  “I promise not to scorch the frying pan this time.”

  Grace mutters something in Spanish and feather-dusts her way out of the room. And I thought Sam and Jordan living together was drama.

  I walk over to the French doors to check out the backyard. “Your pool is shaped like a guitar?”

  “Big-time, isn’t it?”

  “I bet it would be fun to play Marco Polo in it. You swim?” I ask, thinking of the boating incident again.

  “No. But I like guitars.” As he slices up the pepper, he asks, “So why’d you wanna shadow me today? I mean, you’re already a good singer and guitarist.”

  “Yeah, I’m being showered with record deals,” I say sarcastically. “I can’t keep the producers away.”

  He stops slicing and sets his knife down. “So you’re after a record deal? Is that it?” he asks quietly. The sadness on his face surprises me. “It’s always something,” he mutters. “If you think you’ll get a record deal from me, you’re wrong. So if that’s what you want, leave. Stop playing this ‘I don’t do solos’ game with me, trying to make me feel sorry for you or whatever.”

  “Of course I want a record deal, but I want to earn it, not beg for it.”

  “Hmph.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Well, you don’t know anything about me.”

  Talk about being guarded. I could barely follow all of his accusations. If he’s this quick to judge, no wonder he doesn’t get many visitors.

  He uses the counter to crack an egg open, and the yellow yolk falls into the frying pan with a neat little plop. Unlike last week at my brother’s house, it’s quiet and orderly as Jesse cooks breakfast, and that makes me a little sad.

  In an awkward silence, Jesse prepares two omelets and scoops them onto plates. He passes one to me. I pick at mine while he shovels egg into his mouth like there’s no tomorrow, which softens me a bit: even though he’s a big star, he still eats like a regular boy.

  I say, “I thought Mr. Logan was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “He’s been busy trying to get me out of my contracts. He must’ve got held up. So you didn’t answer my question before. My uncle said you quit the school choir, so why’d you still wanna shadow me?”

  Dr. Salter told Jesse I quit show choir?

  The director spent weeks trying to change my mind, but I told her I couldn’t commit to after-school practices anymore, not when I had a band to practice with. But it shocks me the principal knows, let alone cares.

  I don’t feel comfortable talking about my decisions with Jesse though, especially not the bad ones. Even if it wasn’t my kind of music, I miss putting on my ugly green bodice-ripper gown and singing with my choir. Giving it up for The Fringe wasn’t worth it.

  “I wanted to shadow you because I was interested in learning from a professional,” I finally say.

  He chews. “A professional, eh?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I haven’t taken any lessons, except from my choir teachers. And there wasn’t much one-on-one instruction there, because I learned along with the whole class.”

  “Really?” he asks, surprise in his voice. “Where’d you learn to play guitar?”

  “My dad and uncle. It’s a hobby for them though, so they only taught me the basics. I taught myself the rest using online videos.”

  “Wow,” Jesse says. “I can’t believe you haven’t had any formal training.”

  I focus on his castle’s tiled floor. “I wanted to take lessons.”

  “But?”

  I decide to tell the truth—it’s not like I’ll ever see Jesse again after today. “We couldn’t afford them.”

  I used my dad’s old acoustic Martin when I was growing up, and I wouldn’t even own an electric guitar if not for my brother. One of the first things Sam did after he graduated college when he got a job working for the Titans was buy me my own guitar for my birthday. That meant I didn’t have to use the crappy one in the music room at school or go sit at Middle C and play the floor samples until they kicked me out, which happened more frequently than Diddy changes his name.

  “What do your parents do?” Jesse asks.

  “Dad manages an auto repair shop, and Mom cleans down at Cedar Hill Farms, this big estate.” Being poor must sound so foreign to the boy who lives here, but his expression never changes. I give Jesse a small smile, and he nods back, and it’s a nice moment.

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans against the counter, holding his plate up by his mouth. “So what do you want to do today then?”

  “Mr. Logan gave us a schedule, right?”

  “I’m not following a schedule on my day off.”

  I pause. “So we’ll do whatever you do on your day off.”

  “I usually play guitar and write.”

  “We can do that,” I say eagerly.

  “Nah—that’s not good enough. My uncle asked me to give you a good day, and I don’t want to upset him.” He grabs up the phone and punches a button. “It’s me. Meet me at the studio at ten thirty.” Jesse rolls his eyes and raps his spatula on the marble counter. “No, no, you don’t need to pick us up… I know we’re supposed to be following a schedule. Mark, she’s already seen the Opry—she doesn’t need a tour… I wanna do something else.” He pauses. “Can you call Holly and have her meet us there? Great.” He hangs up. “I’m gonna show you what real voice lessons are like.”

  “That’s really nice of you,” I reply, not wanting to ruin his sudden about-face in attitude.

  “Let me just get ready real quick.”

  He starts to jog up the stairs, giving me this great view of his Celtic tattoo, but stops and turns to smirk.

  “Wait. Did you want to shadow me while I shower?”

  Teach Your Children

  Jesse comes back down the rear staircase, spinning a beige cowboy hat on his finger and wearing a plain white T-shirt and ripped jeans. Patches of tan skin peek through the holes.

  “Those red cowboy boots,” I say, shaking my head.

  He looks down at them. “Most of the groupies think they’re sexy.”

  Yes, they are. “They’re not bad.”

  I’m fixing to stand up from my seat at the kitchen table when a ball of white fur lands on my lap from out of nowhere.

  “Oh, hello,” I murmur, petting the pretty white cat. “You must be Casper. Aren’t you beautiful?” I scratch her ears, and she stretches her neck so I can get under her chin too. “Good girl,” I whisper.

  When I look up from petting the cat, Jesse is staring at me with his mouth slightly opened. He shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then asks, “Ready to go?”

  I nod. He gently picks up the cat from my lap, kisses her head before setting her on the floor, and leads me out to the garage.

  The garage t
otally baffles me. It has six spaces, but only two are filled. I stare at a truck—a rusted ancient white Dodge, probably from the seventies—and a motorcycle, a black Harley-Davidson with orange flames licking its sides. He truly is a country boy.

  “Where’re the rest of your cars?”

  “This is it,” he replies, jingling his keys. “We taking the truck or the bike?”

  Even though I’m wearing my black dress, I say, “The Harley, obviously!” Humming, I drag my hand across the leather seat, squatting down to check out the rear fender. “Love the dual exhaust.”

  “You like bikes?”

  “Oh yeah. My Poppy—my grandfather—has an Indian.”

  “Big-time,” Jesse says. “I’d love to see it. You ride it a lot?”

  “He lets me take it out every time Halley’s Comet flies by.”

  “So never?”

  I stand up, dusting off my hands. “Last spring, I bought a ’95 Suzuki 750 down at the junkyard for fifty dollars. Some guys at the shop helped me fix it up. That’s what I ride.”

  “You fixed it up?”

  I lean over to check out his transmission. Six-speed. “Well, I needed help, but I did a lot of it myself. A few years ago, my dad started running Caldwell Auto Parts in Franklin, and I work there as a receptionist part time. Sometimes I get to do oil changes, which is a lot more exciting than running a cash register.”

  “You like cars?”

  “Love them. But not as much as guitars and bikes.”

  I tell Jesse about how when I was little, I’d hang out with Dad and Sam while they were tinkering around under the hood. Even before he quit his job driving a semi and started working at Caldwell’s so he could spend more time with our family, Dad always loved fixing junk cars and bikes in his spare time and turning them for a profit. At first, I was interested in cars and bikes because it was a way to hang out with my dad when he wasn’t on the road, but over time, I really started loving them. In a way, engines, carburetors, and transmissions are like individual guitar strings: each plays a part in creating a beautiful sound.

  “So you’re close with your family?” Jesse asks.

  “Yeah. I mean, they drive me nuts, and we have nothing in common, but I love them.”