Bwirling Hearts
By the end of the day, I’m still reeling that Ten asked me to homecoming. I mean, the fact that he talked to me in the first place is shocking enough, but asking me to be his date to the school dance … that’s got my heart spinning. Or like Steffi would say—she loves naming her choreographies—bwirling.
By the time I reach my coaches’ house, I resemble a sewer rat from all the puddles I biked through, but I don’t even care. I leave my shoes by the door and go change into leggings, a workout bra, and a T-shirt with a Buddhist quote that would make Mrs. Larue proud, then go straight to the piano parlor.
“I’m sorry about Monday,” Lynn says, ushering me inside.
The shy girl with the smoky voice supplants Ten’s image inside my mind and squashes my high.
“I didn’t mean to be so … nosy.” Confessing this out loud makes me realize that Ten wasn’t totally wrong about me. “I was so mesmerized by the girl’s voice that I wanted to put a face to it.” I study a patch of discolored velvet on the chaise where the sun bleached the deep teal. “And maybe I was a little jealous.”
“You have nothing to be jealous about, Angie.”
I’m sure she says that to reassure me.
“And I’m not saying this to stoke your ego.”
Okay, so maybe she isn’t.
Instead of the chaise, I look at the bun that puffs up from the top of her head like an atomic mushroom cloud.
“Someone once said that comparison was the thief of joy, and it truly is,” Lynn says, stroking the varnished wood of her piano. “Never compare yourself to anyone else in this life.”
Easier said than done.
“So, you wrote the lyrics to your song?”
“Yeah.”
She sits on the bench and begins playing a melody. “Let’s warm up first.”
We start the usual way: I hum a sound that sounds like mniam to soften my palate. The second exercise is a smooth, soft legato oo-o sound, then a louder ee, then staccato. The series of short, sharp notes pumps my diaphragm and heats my already flushed skin. At the end of the warm-up, energy crackles through me.
I chug down half a bottle of water, then pull the sheet music I wrote on from my bag and set it in front of Lynn. The soft but frenetic tempo kicks up my pulse. I ball my fingers into fists, then stretch my jaw wide and fit the verses to the notes, adding a deep hum to the bridge. My palate vibrates with the song, and blood rushes and gushes against my eardrums, drowning out my own voice. When I’m finished, sweat beads on my upper lip. I swipe it away with my tongue.
As Lynn’s fingers slide off the keys, I massage my corded neck and yawn to loosen my cramping jaw. I feel drained, like I’ve just finished a triathlon. I stretch my arms over my head, roll my shoulders, crack my fingers. I bet the dance studio’s ceiling is vibrating from my frenzied pulse.
“So?”
My voice coach shakes her head, and the colors around me smear together in a dark, gloppy mess.
She hates it.
I pick up my bottle of water with shaky fingers and lift it to my mouth again.
“The chorus sounds great.”
I assume the other pieces of the song must not sound all that great if she’s singled out the chorus. “But the rest isn’t as strong?”
“The rest is good. But do I think we can make it better? Yeah. I think we could even give Lady Antebellum a run for their money. Want to work on it?”
“Hell yeah, I want to work on it!”
Lynn laughs. We spend the next half hour piecing the verses in a different order, and then I sing everything from the top. When the last note peters out into a gentle, exhausted hum, clapping sounds from the doorway. Steffi’s eyes gleam with admiration. She steps into the room and lays her hands on her wife’s shoulders.
I feel like a mouse intruding on a private moment. But then Steffi puts her hand on my shoulder and connects me to them. “Angie,” she murmurs. “Angie. Angie. Angie. Lynn said you were working on something, but she failed to mention how incredible it was.”
I beam, because Steffi knew Mona, and Lynn is a seasoned musician, so their approval means everything to me. I don’t even care that Mom thinks it’s crap.
13
Operation Inanimate Object
“What about this one?” Rae steps out of the changing room and twirls. The burgundy dress billows around her legs.
“Um … why didn’t I see that one?” Mel smooths out the pearl-gray fabric of the dress she’s modeling in front of the full-length mirror.
“I. Love. Yours. The color really makes your eyes pop.” Rae walks over to me to see the selection of dresses I plucked off the racks. “Ooh, leopard print. Nice.”
I grimace. The off-the-shoulder neckline drew me in, but I’m not sure about the print.
“Try it on.” She shoves me into a changing room just as Laney comes out of hers in a glittery sapphire number.
The same model hangs from my finger. No way am I even trying it on now. Attending school dances dressed identically is social suicide. A couple of years ago, a popular senior demanded that another girl go home to change.
I close the curtain and try option one first—a white dress with feathers sewn into the short hem.
Rae scrunches up her nose. “You look like you fought with a swan, and it won.”
Mel smirks. “I think it’s great.”
Like I’d ever take her word.
I return to the changing room, yank off the dress, and pull on the leopard print.
Rae whistles when I exit. “Sexy.”
“You don’t think the print’s a little loud?”
“I love the split skirt,” Laney says. “You have such great legs.”
Rae checks out my legs as though she hasn’t seen them a million times before. “It’s from all her dancing.”
“I used to dance,” Laney says. “Ballet. What sort of dancing do you do?”
“Mostly modern. I have an amazing teacher,” I offer.
As I tell Laney about Steffi, Rae scrutinizes my dress. “It’s missin’ something.”
Barefoot in her burgundy gown, she traipses through the aisles of clothes, stopping at a display of accessories. She returns holding a wide black belt and a hot-pink glass necklace. As I fasten the belt around my waist, she hooks the necklace around my neck, the burst of color taming the print.
“You’d make such a great stylist,” Mel says, admiring Rae’s work.
“She’ll make an even better cardiologist,” I volley back.
“Cardiologist?” Mel’s nasal voice sounds uncharacteristically high-pitched.
Laney cocks one of her black eyebrows up. “Is that what you want to do, Rae?”
I’m secretly pleased neither of them knew this.
“That’s the dream. But I need the grades.”
“You already have them,” I say.
“Actually, I’m sliding in math. I was thinking of askin’ Ten to tutor me.”
As though bees were poking me with their stingers, my skin begins to burn. “Why would you ask him?”
Rae gathers her blonde hair in her fist and rolls it up, holding it atop her head, then lets it unravel. “Mrs. Larue commended his math skills and thought it could help him fit in if he tutored one of his peers. Her words, obviously. Not mine. And then she told me that the Buddha once said, Helping one person might not change the world, but it could change the world for one person.”
I toy with the belt that feels as though it girdles my lungs instead of my waist. “The year just started. How can she even know if Ten’s all that good in calculus?”
A smile curves Melody’s berry-lip-balmed mouth. “Is someone jealous?”
“I don’t care about being the best student,” I shoot back.
“I don’t think she was talking about grades,” Laney says softly.
I can feel Rae watching me but don’t meet her gaze. Instead I look around the store. By a mannequin stands a girl in oversized sweats and a baseball cap.
What draws me in is the cap. It’s bubble gum pink.
Without realizing it, I’m fording the store straight toward her. I circle the mannequin, feigning great interest in the crop top. I think I’m being subtle, but the girl’s body goes as rigid as the shiny white dummy. Scared she’ll run before I can get a look at her, I speed-walk around the display, but trip over the square base. I latch on to the dummy that isn’t attached to the base. I squeeze my eyes shut as I crash, dummy-first, to the floor.
On the upside, from this vantage point, I can now see the girl’s face.
And yep, it’s the same one I glimpsed at Lynn’s house. It’s even sporting the exact same expression—undiluted shock with a side of horror.
“Hi?” I venture. Not my most impressive overture.
Eyes shiny like shaken snow globes, the girl backs away but bumps into a broad body. Hands settle on her shoulders. Long fingers crease her heather-gray sweatshirt, steadying her.
My gaze scales the length of the body. When it reaches the person’s face, my jaw slackens. Like rubber bands, my eyes snap back to the girl’s face. I expect her to spring away from the person touching her, but she doesn’t.
I wonder what my odds are of passing for a plastic dummy. Maybe if I lie perfectly still—
“Angie, are you okay?” Rae asks.
There goes operation inanimate object.
14
Ovaries Can Apparently Melt
“Hiya, Ten.” Rae flips her hair.
Sucking in a sigh, I peel myself off the mannequin. I don’t bother righting it. Two salesgirls have already flocked over to do just that, exceedingly concerned for the fiberglass figure and not the least bit for me.
If only I could blink out of existence—
Rae winds one arm through mine. “You okay, Angie?”
Nope. I’m not okay. I probably will never be okay. I just face-planted at Ten’s feet while clutching a mannequin.
I’m animated by a very real desire to race into a changing room and hide until Tennessee leaves the store with this girl, whom I assume is the owner of the princess Band-Aids, but Mom is their decorator. I don’t want them to fire her because I behaved like a lunatic stalker, so I level my gaze on the girl who’s still nestled against Ten’s chest and swallow my pride. “You have a real awesome voice. That’s what I came over to say.”
She doesn’t respond. Just gapes at me.
“Nev”—Ten sighs roughly—“meet Angie.”
Nev’s eyebrows are as dark as Ten’s, and her nose is a smaller version of his, complete with the slight bump.
“And I’m Rae,” my friend says brightly, giving Nev a small wave.
“Hi.” Nev’s voice is adagio soft.
“So that’s how you ended up at Lynn’s? My mother…” It’s not a question as much as a realization.
Nev glances up at her brother, who explains that I’m Jade’s daughter.
“You sing too, Nev?” Rae asks.
Even though Nev appears spooked, she nods.
Suddenly, I realize why Ten told me I was a danger on my bike. I almost ran into a car when I was fleeing Lynn’s … his car. He must’ve been on his way to pick up his sister. “How can you hate music when your sister has such an incredible voice?” I ask him.
Even though Nev’s face is shaded by her cap, it seems to darken. She cranes her neck to look up at her brother. Her brother who still hasn’t released her. Whose fingers are crimping his sister’s sweatshirt.
“Ten doesn’t hate music,” she says.
Ten’s fingers appear to dig even harder into the gray fabric. “Nev…”
“What? You don’t,” she says in a chirruping voice that clashes completely with the deep, raspy sound of her singing voice.
Why did Ten lie to me?
He lowers his gaze to the bill of his sister’s cap. “We should go. We still have to pick up Dad’s shirts.”
Mel trots up to us. “Why were you groping a dummy, Angie?”
Wow. I shoot her the stink eye, while Rae grins.
“Sorry”—Rae tries to iron out her smile—“but it was sort of funny.”
“Hi, Ten.” Mel’s eyes stray to Nev. “This must be your little sister. You guys look exactly alike. Like, exactly.”
I can’t imagine that being compared to your brother—however handsome he may be—is all that flattering.
“You’re not in Jenny’s class, are you?” Mel asks. Jenny is Mel’s little sister, even though there’s nothing little about the twelve-year-old.
Their father, Mr. Barnett, a former Memphis Grizzly, is one heck of a tall man. I met him at the school fair last year, and no joke, he’s twice my height.
“I am,” Nev says almost hesitantly. I take it Jenny isn’t her friend. If Jenny’s anything like her sister, I understand why.
Rae elbows me. “You should go change.”
I’d forgotten all about the dress. “It was nice to meet you, Nev. Sorry if I freaked you out. I was just … well”—I raise a smile—“starstruck.”
Her eyes go wide again, and then she whirls, pushes up on her tiptoes, and whispers something into Ten’s ear. I’m guessing that whatever she’s saying is about me from the way Ten’s gaze strays to me.
“I don’t know,” he says in a low voice.
“See you around,” I mumble, adding a “maybe” when I behold Ten’s suspicious gaze. My smile, which had already started to fall, flattens. I’m not sure what in my character merits such suspicion.
Without so much as a goodbye, Ten drapes an arm over Nev’s shoulders and tows her away. Soon they vanish in the steady stream of mall shoppers.
“How protective is he of his little sister?” Rae lets out a little sigh. “I think my ovaries just melted a little.”
He is protective, but it felt as though he was protecting Nev from me.
Laney hoists a shopping bag onto her shoulder. “Are you all right, Angie?”
“I’m probably riddled in bruises.” Especially on the inside. “But yeah, I’m all right.”
Laney shoots me this strange look, which I don’t even try to decipher. I finally turn back toward the changing rooms, enter mine, and yank off the accessories and then the dress. I thought that once I removed the belt, I would breathe a little easier, but my torso still feels compacted. I try to hang up the dress, but it keeps slipping off the hanger.
Grumbling, I wrench my clothes back on, pick up the pile of leopard spots and the rib-crushing strip of leather, and shove them on the stool wedged in the corner.
Rae pokes her head through the curtain. “Jasper’s asking if we want to go get pizza with him and Harrison.”
“Harrison?”
“The new quarterback. Mel just saw them come out of the Apple Store and waved them over.”
“Is our entire school at the mall today?”
Rae’s lips quirk up.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re in a mood.”
“And that’s funny?”
“A little. You did knock over a mannequin, because you were starstruck by a kid.” Rae combs her hair back. “So? Pizza? Mel really wants to hang with Jasper.”
As though that’ll sway me …
“Come on, grumpy. Grab your things, and let’s go.”
Sighing, I walk past Rae.
“That was way too hot to leave behind.” She sweeps up the dress along with the necklace and belt, and jams all three into my arms.
And that’s how, after dropping my shattered cell phone off to get it repaired, I end up with a dress I don’t want to ever wear again, at a lunch I don’t want to be at. The only silver lining of the meal is Laney, who tells me about her courses at the Nashville Ballet and her dashed hopes of becoming a prima ballerina (skiing accident).
“But you’re healed now,” I tell her, over Harrison’s loud chewing, which seems to bother only me.
“My knee never healed properly.” She blots her mouth, then scrutinizes the transparent patch left by the grease
from her mushroom slice. “It’s okay, though. I have other dreams. I want to become a kindergarten teacher. Do you have a backup plan if singing doesn’t pan out?”
Backup plans are like safety nets—if you feel like you need one, then you don’t have much faith in yourself.
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.” I slurp some soda from my giant foam cup. “For now,” I add, because I sense Laney wants to give me advice, and I don’t want advice. Advice is nothing but nicely packaged doubts. “So kindergarten teacher, huh?”
15
Red, White, and Super Bluesy
Homecoming week used to be my favorite week. Five days uniform-free. One big football game. One epic dance.
Today is ’Merica Monday, which means everyone will be dressed in red, white, and blue. I wear jeans, a white tank top, and red canvas lace-up shoes, but my heart isn’t in it like previous years.
Glumly, I scoop up cereal and eat it.
I’m still wondering why Ten acted so weird the other day. All of Sunday, I toyed with the idea of sending him a message but never ended up clicking SEND. Our run-in did a number on my nerves, though—my balance was so screwy throughout yoga that I toppled over during tree pose, then fell flat on my face during crow.
I spent the rest of the class curled up in child’s pose to avoid Mom’s questioning gaze and then faked a stomachache so we could go straight home. Mom’s concern was palpable, but she didn’t push me to tell her what was going on.
The same way she’s not pushing me this morning, even though her forehead is furrowed.
“I don’t feel good, Mom. Can I stay home?”
She presses her palm against my forehead. “Is it Rae, or is it a boy?”
“Huh?”
“Obviously something’s bothering you. I’m assuming it’s either trouble with a friend or with a member of the opposite sex.” She scoots her chair closer to me, and her long, beaded turquoise earrings swing. “Want to talk about it?”
I slurp down some more cereal. “Nope.”
She sighs. “You’re as stubborn as your daddy.”
This isn’t meant as a compliment, yet I soak it right up. I like it when Mom compares me to him. Makes Dad a little less of a stranger.
Not Another Love Song Page 6
