“What is?” Nev is studying my framed poster. Her upper lip isn’t hiked up in disgust, but her eyes, which peek through her tangled hair, glitter quietly.
I tell her about my dream, that the birds were bluebirds. She’s still frowning, so I say, “As in the Bluebird Café.”
“The place where Mom got her start?”
It hits me that she doesn’t refer to her as Mona.
She scoots up in bed, then smooths out a wrinkle in the duvet cover. “Have you ever sung there?”
“Me? No way. But Lynn’s a regular.”
Last month, Steffi, Mom, and I went to hear Lynn play. She tried to get me to sing with her, but I froze. I’m well aware that someday, if I want to be a real vocal artist, I’ll have to actually sing in front of an audience. I’m hoping the new song I wrote will be the mallet that shatters my stage fright.
I swing my feet off the bed and head to the bathroom, while Nev picks at a piece of goose down sticking out of the comforter. The pale sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains limns the white feather.
I pause next to her. “Speaking of singing, I meant what I said at the mall … you have an incredible voice.”
She twists up her lips. “Thank you.”
“Is that what you want to do? Sing professionally like your mom?”
Her gaze settles on Mona’s poster again. “Dad would never let me. And Ten would never talk to me again.”
“Mom hates my choice of career, but it’s my dream,” I say, before going into the bathroom, leaving Nev to contemplate her mother in peace.
When I come back out, Nev’s gone. I pull on a pair of ripped denim shorts and a white tank top, then head down to the kitchen. In spite of our late-night snack, I’m ravenous and dig up an energy bar in the pantry. After guzzling a tall glass of water, I plod toward the living room and sit at the piano. The keys are cool and stiff like my fingers, which I stretch before trying—unsuccessfully—to re-create the song from my dream. I end up playing the one I’m submitting to Mona’s contest. I don’t sing, though, just work on the melody. I add a little bridge right before the chorus, then hum my lyrics to see if the bridge adds anything.
“That’s really pretty.”
My fingers stumble, then disengage from the keys. I turn around and find Nev sitting on the couch, hands folded in her lap. She’s wearing gray leggings and a black T-shirt, which tents over her bony upper body.
“Thanks. Do you play the piano?”
She shakes her head.
“The guitar?”
“No.”
“The harmonica?”
She smiles a little, then shakes her head again. Her hair seems more tangled than yesterday, which does have me wondering if she has an aversion to brushes and combs.
“Want to sing something?”
Her face turns as red as Mrs. Dabbs’s hair.
I pat the bench. “Come.”
Her knees seem to wobble as she approaches. I half think she won’t make it all the way to me, but she does.
After she sits, I ask her, “What do you want to sing?”
“Um. I like Amy Winehouse.”
I smile, not surprised by her choice. From what I remember, Nev’s timbre is real close to Amy’s. “‘Valerie’?”
She nods enthusiastically.
I was so obsessed with that song when I first heard it that I spent hours at the piano mastering the tune. At first, Nev doesn’t sing. Only I sing and I butcher the song, because my voice isn’t deep, but I keep singing anyway, hoping Nev will jump in. I glance sideways at her, find her nibbling on her bottom lip.
Just as I’m thinking I’ve pushed Nev too hard too fast, she lets out a breathy sound that surges across the room like a gush of steam. She snaps her mouth closed, her cheeks two flaming dots.
Afraid she’ll clam back up, I let out a wrong note, then mouth, Help! She swallows, and then her lips part. This time the sound that comes out of her mouth is perfection. It ripples and sways through the air. As her singing gains power, goose bumps scatter over my arms, lend vigor to my frolicking fingers. The air becomes electric and jaunty, a jungle of violets, oranges, and blues. The colors tinge the piano keys and edge the pale furniture, highlighting every angle and curve around us.
Little by little, I lower my voice to a mere hum and listen as Nev gives a performance worthy of a great … worthy of her mother. Possibly greater because there’s nothing commercial about Nev’s sound. The second the song ends, I segue into a new song—a recent hit by Kelly Clarkson. I’m afraid that if I stop playing, Nev will stop singing, and I don’t want her to stop. I could listen to her for hours.
I sing with her this time. Although an octave separates our voices, we somehow manage to braid them into something thick and dazzling. When I play the last chords, a low whistle sounds from the doorway. Mom’s leaning against the doorframe, hair slicked back and shiny like the gold hoops speared through her lobes.
“What a voice, Nev.” She slow-claps.
Nev smiles sheepishly at me, then at Mom, freckles ablaze.
Mom pushes away from the doorframe. “Your range is startling.”
The bright colors in the room darken. Mom’s right—Nev’s voice is startling, but what about mine?
It’s silly.
So silly.
But couldn’t she have said my voice was nice too, even if she didn’t mean it?
Nev wrings her hands. “Thanks, Jade.” Her voice is wispy and unremarkable again.
I lower the cover over the piano keys, trying to slug away my stupid jealousy. “Are we going to brunch?”
We usually brunch on Saturdays before I go off with friends. This weekend is a rare exception where I have no plans for the rest of the day. Rae is busy with Harrison, and Laney hasn’t answered my message, so I’m not sure where we stand.
Not that Laney and I ever made plans before …
“I booked a table at the country club,” Mom says. “I thought we could go swimming afterward since it’s so nice out. Nev, did you bring your bathing suit, sweetie? I told your daddy you might need one.”
At least she didn’t call her baby.
I stand and stick my hands in the back pockets of my cutoffs. Seconds ago, I was surfing on waves of psychedelic colors and now I’m drowning in murky waters.
“It’s upstairs,” Nev says.
“Well, go grab it. You too, Angie.”
Nev trots up the stairs. There’s a spring in her step that wasn’t there last night. I follow her slowly, having left my spring somewhere underneath the fallboard.
Nev pauses at the top of the staircase, fingers gripping the steel railing. “Are you okay?”
I give her a tight nod.
“Did I … did I do something?”
“What?” I paste on a frown. “Of course not.”
She draws her hand off the banister and murmurs, “Okay.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
I grab my bathing suit and stuff it inside a bag along with a pair of sunglasses, my earbuds, and a book. Knowing Mom, she’ll run into some friends at the club, and we’ll be sitting by the pool a long time. Not that I mind if I’m listening to music. I just hope she’s not expecting me to babysit Nev.
28
Back in Sync
After scarfing down an entire hamburger, I don my bathing suit. Thank God it’s stretchy, because I feel like a snake who’s just ingested an egg. I come out of the changing room at the same time as Nev. Her beach towel is wound so tightly around her diminutive frame she resembles a burrito.
We didn’t talk much during lunch. Well, I didn’t. Mom and Nev discussed the Dylans’ mansion decoration at great length. Even though Nev asked me for input on a color scheme and furniture for her bedroom, I was vague with my answers, afraid residual jealousy might tint my feedback. I don’t want to be the reason she ends up with green shag carpeting on her ceiling.
Mom’s already outside when we emerge from the locker room. She’s managed to secure three lounge chairs in th
e sun. I drop my bag on the glass side table, then lay my towel out. Nev climbs onto her lounge chair, still shrink-wrapped in her towel. Maybe she’s chilly?
I stick my earbuds in and close my eyes. After the third song, I lift my lids and stare at the blazing sun until my eyes water. When did I become the girl who needs her mommy to pat her back? Ugh … Mom doesn’t even like the type of music I like, so her praise wouldn’t mean all that much.
The only person’s recognition I need is Mona Stone’s. Thinking about her has me glancing over at Nev. It’s not fair that I’ve taken my insecurities out on a twelve-year-old. I pull out my earbuds and sit up, a drop of sweat slinking down my spine.
Mom’s on the other side of the pool, chatting with an elderly couple. If I’m not mistaken, she redid their ranch house last year.
“Want to go for a swim?” I ask Nev.
She looks at me, anguish lacquering her gray eyes silver.
“Do you not know how to swim?”
She keeps her gaze on the bracelet glinting on her wrist. Like Ten’s, it reads I ROCK. Unlike Ten’s, hers is yellow gold instead of silver.
Even though I’m dying to hear the story behind the matching bracelets, I stay on topic. “Nev?”
I think of the image of the swing suspended over the pool that Mom showed me a couple of weeks back. Nev must know how to swim. If she didn’t, a swing would be incredibly unsafe.
Her lips finally pull apart. “What did I do?” she whispers.
“What?”
She’s staring down at her knees, which peek out from her towel, round and knobby like a newborn foal’s. “You haven’t talked to me once since we got here.”
I tip my head to the side, seeking out her downturned eyes. “Okay … I’m not proud of what I’m about to tell you.”
Am I really about to admit to a twelve-year-old that she made me feel insecure? I glance at her stringy hair and skinny form, and they remind me that she, too, is full of insecurities.
“Iwasjealousofyou.” I say this the same way I rip off Band-Aids—fast, because speed makes things less painful. In this case … less shameful.
She jerks her shiny gaze up. “What?”
It also makes things less intelligible. “I was jealous of you,” I repeat slowly, cheeks hot, but that’s partly due to the sun beating down on me. I pick at a cuticle, stripping off a tiny piece of skin, flinching from the quick burn. “Mom’s never complimented my voice.”
Nev is silent for a beat, then: “Angie, your voice is so pretty.”
I heave a sigh, then roll my taut neck, finding relief in the whisper-soft series of cracks.
“No one’s ever been jealous of me,” she adds.
I straighten my neck. “I doubt that’s true.”
“I mean, back in New York, my friends were jealous we had a pool in our house, but no one’s ever been jealous of me for me.”
“You had your own pool?”
“Yeah.” She hoists one shoulder as though having a pool inside a house in Manhattan is a completely normal thing. Maybe it is?
“So you really love swimming, huh?” I say.
“Not especially. Ten and Dad do. Especially Dad.”
“Was it his idea to put a swing over your pool?”
Her eyes flash. “All mine.”
“Can I come over and try it once it’s set up?”
“Yes!”
I smile. She smiles.
Even though we’re not singing, Nev and I are in sync again.
“I think you could fry an egg on my thigh right now.” I toss my sunglasses on the lounge chair and stand, gesturing toward the pool. “Come with me?”
Nev fiddles with the hem of her purple towel, but finally peels it off her legs. Together, we race to the edge of the pool and leap in, making a great big splash.
Once we come up for air, I ask, “Why do you and Ten have matching bracelets? And what’s with the inscription?”
“Oh.” She blushes. “Ten had them made two years ago.” She strokes the etched gold plaque. “He said that if I ever feel lonely or down, it’ll remind me that I’m not alone, and that I am cool.”
I grip the rough edge of the pool.
Nev makes a face. “I should probably take it off.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s silly.”
“No, it’s not.”
The red on her cheeks deepens. “His ex thought it was weird.”
I push my wet hair out of my eyes. “Well, his ex is stupid, because it’s not weird. It’s supersweet.”
Nev seems to float a little higher in the glittery water. “She was stupid. I don’t even know why he went out with her for so long.”
My pulse jackhammers in my chest. I don’t want to talk about Ten’s ex, and yet I want to learn every sordid detail about her. But I don’t ask. Instead, I challenge Nev to a race, which she happily agrees to. I desperately try to get rid of thoughts of Ten as I swim, but in the steady, liquid swoosh, he’s all I can think about.
I race harder, giving it my all. Unfortunately, the only thing it saps is my energy. It doesn’t even put a dent in my infatuation with Nev’s brother. Why did I have to develop feelings for someone who hates everything I love?
29
The Short Stranger from My Cookie
On our way home, Mom tunes in to her favorite classical station and explains to Nev how she designs each house while listening to a specific composer.
“Which one’s inspiring our house?” Nev asks.
“Debussy.”
Nev sits on the edge of the backseat. “I don’t know him.”
Mom slaps a palm against her chest. “What?”
“I … uh, don’t listen to classical music, Jade.”
“Hang out with us a few more weekends, and you’ll be well-versed in everything instrumental,” I tell her.
“Do you like classical music, Angie?” Nev asks.
“She hates it.” Mom says this with a smile. “I drive her crazy with it.”
Which is true. The driving-me-crazy part. I don’t actually hate classical music. If I did, I wouldn’t play it for fun on our baby grand. “I’d rather listen to music with words. I think voices are the most special instruments.”
Even if you don’t agree with me, Mom.
Even if you don’t think my voice is all that special.
My heart sways with the insecurities that tarnished most of my morning. Stupid, stupid insecurities.
“I agree with Angie. I mean”—Nev points to the radio—“it’s pretty, but it’s not as pretty as a song,” she adds, as the purple notes slink around us like yards of chiffon.
Can she, too, perceive the thick dark-violet spool of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 3? Lots of people on forums claim music shows itself to them in color.
Mom’s smile stretches, dimpling her cheeks. Sometimes I wish I’d inherited her cheek dimples instead of my father’s chin one. “Gang up on me, why don’t you?”
Nev flushes.
“Maybe when we’re old, we’ll get your fascination,” I say.
“Old? Old! Oh, you’re going to pay for that.” She reaches over the center console and tickles me until I’m bent double.
I bat her hand away, trying to catch my breath. She used to tickle me all the time when I was a kid. Did Dad ever tickle me? I don’t dare ask, because talking about him will sour her mood, and I like to see Mom happy. It reassures me that all is right in the universe.
Once we’re home, Mom heads down to start on dinner. She’s making lasagna from scratch. I tug Nev into the living room and turn on the TV. As we watch a series about witchy sisters, she tucks her long hair behind her ears and pulls her knees against her. Unlike Ten and Mona, and Jeff for that matter, Nev’s face is heart-shaped.
“You should wear your hair up,” I say.
Her entire body turns as rigid as the marble console in the foyer. “Uh. I … Uh. My cheeks are so round.”
I frown. “No, they’re not.”
&nbs
p; “Carrie says my head looks like a bowling ball,” she adds.
“Who’s Carrie?”
“The daughter of Dad’s best friend. She’s a year older than me, but everyone thinks she’s sixteen.”
“Well, Carrie’s an idiot. Your head does not look like a bowling ball.”
Her forehead pleats as though she’s unsure whether to take my word or Carrie’s.
“Nev, you’re, like, the prettiest twelve-year-old I’ve ever met.”
Her freckles turn as pink as the modern painting on our wall.
“And I’m not saying that to pump up your ego or anything. Although I think your ego definitely needs some serious pumping.”
A smile forms on her lips, as blinding as the beams on her brother’s car.
“Whoa!” I sit up ramrod straight.
Nev’s expression warps with concern. “What?”
“The fortune cookie!”
“Fortune cookie?”
“Before school started, I got a fortune cookie that told me a short stranger would come into my life this year. It’s you!”
For some reason, her level of confusion escalates. Unless she’s perplexed that I inadvertently called her short. Or maybe she thinks I’m mental. Probably the latter.
“Look, I don’t really believe in fate or fortune cookies—well, I didn’t used to—but isn’t it sort of weird—funny-weird—that a scroll wedged into a piece of cooked dough forewarned me that you’d pop into my life?”
Finally, her lips ease back into a smile.
“For a while there, I was worried I was going to have a short boyfriend,” I say.
Nev laughs, and the sound is wispy, as though she’s trying to catch her breath but can’t.
I crack up too, until she says, “Good thing for Ten that fortune cookie was about me.”
I sober up so quickly I let out a very unladylike snort.
Her laughter teeters. “Um. He likes you.” She twirls the end of a still-tucked lock around her finger. “You know that, right?”
She might’ve felt like a sister for a second, but Nevada’s not my sister—she’s Ten’s.
Ten who’s leaving.
Not Another Love Song Page 13
