After three episodes of our favorite witchy show, we head to the kitchen. There’s a Tupperware filled with giant meatballs in tomato sauce. We boil pasta and then mix it with the sauce.
As we slurp down our meal at the gigantic island, I ask Nev about school, about the girls who make fun of her. Apparently nothing has happened since the cafeteria standoff, which is unexpected and comforting.
“Actually. That’s not true,” she says.
I put down my fork, appetite on hold. “What happened?”
“This boy … Charlie … he asked if I wanted to go to the movies with him.”
Not what I was anticipating at all.
She tucks her hair behind her ears. “He’s like the most popular boy in our grade.”
I pick my fork back up and twirl some pasta around the tines. “What did you say?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“Do you like him?”
“A lot, but I’m not sure why he asked me out.”
I point my fork at her. “Because he likes you?”
“You don’t think it’s a”—she sticks her fork in a meatball, crushes it—“a trick?”
“A trick?”
She shrugs. “To embarrass me.”
“I don’t follow…”
“What if Crystal put him up to it? What if I say yes, and it’s all a joke? Everyone will think I’m desperate.”
“First off, that’s crazy, but exceedingly creative of you. Second off, do you want to go out with him?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe yes or maybe no?”
“Maybe yes.”
“Then say yes!”
A smile flits over her lips. “Dad will never let me go to the movies unchaperoned.”
“I’ll go with you. I’ll sit in the back.”
“That won’t be weird at all.”
I smile. “What if I drag your brother along?”
“You mean as your date?”
“What? No! As a friend.” I stuff a huge meatball in my mouth, feeling like all the radiators in the house have suddenly turned on.
“You’re red.”
“Shut up.”
Nev giggles.
I glare at her.
She just laughs some more.
I pinch her side. “Stop it. It’s really not like that between your brother and me.”
“Uh-huh.”
She finally stops laughing, but her shiny eyes stick to me as we rinse our bowls and slot them into the dishwasher.
“Want another blondie?” Nev asks before we return upstairs.
“Maybe later.”
Stomach full of pasta and butterflies, I trail her back to her girlie den. We watch two more hours of TV, and then I play grown-up and tell her she needs to go to bed.
“Can you stay in my room until I fall asleep?” she asks after climbing into her canopy bed.
“Won’t budge from the beanbag.” I pull out my phone and browse Mona’s Instagram feed until I’m all caught up on the happenings in her life, and then I read the millions of messages on the senior WhatsApp.
When Nev’s breathing slows, I pry myself out of my seat and stretch, then tuck the comforter around her small body. As I turn to go, my heart lurches into my throat.
A broad figure darkens the doorway.
41
Easy Come, Easy Go
Palm flat against my still-careening heart, I inch toward the door. “I think I just had a stroke,” I whisper to Ten, picking up my tote and hoisting it onto my shoulder.
He chuckles softly, moving out of the way so I can pass around him. Then he draws the door closed, but not completely.
“How’d it go?” he asks, pushing the sleeves of his forest-green hoodie up his forearms.
“Oh, you know … painfully boring, but hey, we got through it.”
“Let me guess. You two watched six hours of Netflix, ate pasta with meatballs, and inhaled half the pan of blondies.”
“Did Nev text you a play-by-play of our night or was that a wild guess?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Nev texted me.”
“How was the competition?”
“Good.”
“Did you win?”
“Maybe.”
I raise my hand for a high five, which he delivers. His palm lingers on mine. I swallow and take a quick step back, move my hands to my jean pockets but can’t get more than my first phalanx in. Albeit stretchy, the denim is a little tight.
“I should go home.”
“Right away?”
“Um. Well … it’s a school night, and it’s ten thirty.”
“I’ll drop you off.”
“I biked over.”
“Angie—”
“Your sister would totally freak if she woke up to an empty house.”
He sighs. “Do you have your earbuds?”
“Please don’t tell me not to listen to music while I bike. Rae’s always on my case about that.”
His lips quirk up. “I just want you to talk to me during your ride home.”
“This is Belle Meade…”
“If you don’t, I’ll drive you home.”
“Ten—”
“Angie.”
“God, you’re so freakin’ stubborn.”
A smug look settles on his face. “Pot calling the kettle black.”
“Fine,” I mutter, digging my earbuds out of my bag.
He lets me go ahead of him down the stairs.
As I untangle the pink cord, I ask, “What do you think of my mother’s taste?”
“It’s … interesting.”
“Whenever someone says interesting, it’s never good.”
He shakes his head, smiling a little. “The reason I said that is because she’s managed to make it sleek yet homey. I think it’s all the colors she uses. Our house back in New York was gray. Not a single touch of color. Well, except Nev’s room, which was pink.”
I grin. “Don’t doubt it.”
He opens the front door, then walks me to my bike, which I parked alongside the Dylans’ garage door. As I shrug on my denim jacket to counter the nippiness in the air, Ten runs a hand through his mussed hair.
“I’m not sure how to thank you for babysitting my sister.”
“Better not use that term in front of her.”
“She’ll always be my baby sister. Even at thirty, or fifty.”
I think my heart just melted a little. “Believe it or not, I enjoy spending time with her. She’s extremely mature, or maybe I’m incredibly immature, but we totally click.” I clip on my helmet, stick my earbuds in, then plug them into my phone. “Besides, you made blondies. Consider that payment enough.” I wink at him and then roll my bike down the driveway, when my phone rings shrilly.
Ten’s name flashes on the screen. I look over my shoulder and pick up the call. He’s still standing there, one hand stuffed in his low-riding sweatpants’ pocket, the other cradling his cell phone. “You didn’t tell me what you thought of the blondies.”
“They were awful. Absolutely terrible.”
He must hear the smile in my voice because he chuckles softly. “Glad you hated them.”
The gate creaks open, and I climb onto my bike’s saddle. “So, you really won that track meet?”
“I really won.”
“What happened to Bolt?”
“He came in second.”
“Cool. And Archie?”
“Sixth. Wasn’t his night.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
We talk about it while I bike, then about the TV show I watched with Nev, about the food he’s cooking for himself. God, it’s so easy to talk to him. It almost feels like I’m talking with Rae, except when I talk with Rae, my pulse doesn’t perform insane sprints.
We keep talking long after I get home, only stopping when I notice it’s almost midnight. I dream of Ten that night. He’s a warlock in my dream—a darn sexy one—who casts a spell using a magical whisk (no joke) to make
himself vanish, and even though I canvass an enchanted forest in search of him, I can’t find him.
And he never reappears.
42
My Rae of Sun
I’ve tried to shake off my dream all morning, but it clings to my subconscious like an earworm, forever on repeat.
“Angie, did you hear a word I just said?” Rae is trying to shove a book into her overstuffed locker.
“I did.”
“So you agree that leprechauns are cooler than unicorns?”
“Wait, what?”
“Ha. You were so not listening to me.”
“Okay. Fine. I was distracted. I had this weird dream last night, and it just won’t go away.”
“What about?”
I don’t want to tell her about it, not because she’d judge or make fun, but because I’m afraid that voicing it will make me sound pathetic. Plus Mel and Laney are right next to us. Granted, they’re discussing the Halloween party at Brad’s house, so they’re not really paying attention.
Rae shuts her locker door. “Out with it,” she says as we walk toward home ec, the only class we have together.
Sighing, I give in and recount my dream but leave out the identity of the warlock.
“Classic fear of abandonment,” she says, once I’m done talking. “Not that I’m a shrink or anything.”
She might not be a shrink, but she has a point … I do fear abandonment. More so now that I’m aware of my parents’ history.
After Mel and Laney vanish into their classroom, I tell Rae about Dad turning his back on us. She stares at me, brown eyes wide with shock. At some point, her hand wraps around my arm, as though she might keel over. Or maybe it’s to hold me up?
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I whisper.
“I would never, hon.”
I feel a teeny bit lighter after that. Hopefully, it’ll last.
We’re late for class, but Mrs. Rainlin doesn’t comment on it. Probably because she doesn’t even realize it. Our one-hundred-year-old teacher can’t hear anything. Okay, she’s not a hundred, but she’s half-deaf and seriously old—she taught Rae’s grandmother, a Reedwood alum.
Rae and I whisper back and forth during the entire class. About Dad at first, and then about Mona’s contest.
“I’m gonna have to forge Mom’s signature,” I tell her.
“She’s still saying no?”
I twist my arrow earring. “Yep.”
After the bell rings, Rae asks, “Want me to talk to her?”
I shake my head.
“How about I sign it for you so I get in trouble in case you—I mean, when you win?”
I shoot her a grateful smile. For her wording, and for having my back. “I don’t want to involve anyone else. But thanks, Rae.”
She latches on to my hand. “Always, hon.”
I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a good friend, but I must’ve done something right. I think of Nev then. I hope she finds her Rae. Everyone needs a Rae in their life.
“And in case you were wondering, I’ll never abandon you,” she says, squeezing my hand.
43
Leaving My Mark
“From the top.” Lynn’s voice pops into my headset.
This is my fourth take, and I’m starting to sweat through my Mona Stone T-shirt. The piano music, which I recorded earlier, comes on again, and, heart bouncing around like a tennis ball, I snap open my mouth and start singing, and it’s okay until I reach the chorus. My neck and face grow hot from a blend of annoyance and humiliation. I may not have a huge audience, but I do have an audience: Steffi, Lynn, the sound engineer, and Mom.
Yep … Mom’s here.
Lynn phoned her yesterday, because Mom apparently had to sign a waiver form for me to record. I doubt it’s true, because I haven’t seen any form. Then again, I haven’t asked to see it, because neither do I want to put Lynn on the spot, nor do I want to appear ungrateful.
Lynn steps into the vocal booth and readjusts the height of the mic—as though that will fix my awry singing. “Forget she’s there.”
My lids pull up real high.
“I had Pete cut your mic. They can’t hear us.”
I look at Mom, who’s sitting beside Steffi on the brown leather chesterfield covered in Sharpie scribbles—autographs of all the artists who’ve recorded here.
“Did you know that vocal cords are actually folds that vibrate hundreds of times per second to create sound?” Lynn asks.
I frown. “Um. Yeah.”
“And that whispering is terrible for singers because it doesn’t require using our vocal folds, so if you only whispered, they could potentially atrophy?”
“Okay…” I hadn’t heard that, but I can see how it would be alarming.
“Another fun fact for you. A man in Missouri has a vocal range of ten octaves, while Mariah Carey can only sing in five. How astonishing must his voice be?”
“Pretty astonishing.”
“Now, forget she’s there. Close your eyes if you need to, but forget she’s there.”
I blink at her. Did she just spout out all those weird facts to distract me?
Lynn pats my shoulder, and that small gesture injects courage into my spine.
As she walks back out and the door shuts with a sucking whoosh, I square my shoulders. Roll my neck. Stretch my jaw.
I think of the man with the extraordinary vocal range. Did he ever record a song? Was his mother supportive?
The instrumental music clicks on.
I close my eyes, tap the beat out on my thigh, and then I sing. Soon, I’m fording through the chorus. Once. Twice. Three times. The piano begins to decrease in tempo and in volume. And then it fades completely. And I stand there a little dazed because no one interrupted me.
Slowly, I lift my lids and look at Lynn.
She shoots me a thumbs-up.
I am so disbelieving that I don’t lower the headset.
Steffi’s clapping, effusive as always. Although her appreciation means a lot, I’m looking at Mom, I’m looking for her approval. Which is torture … Will there ever come a day when I won’t yearn for it?
She sits rigidly, hands in her lap. She doesn’t clap. Doesn’t whistle. Doesn’t smile.
My short-lived exhilaration melts into a giant, grim puddle.
Finally, I take off the headset and hook it to the mic. On legs that feel leaden, I tread into the control room.
Mom’s studying the tiny silk knots between the white pearls of her lariat necklace.
Lynn grabs me in a quick hug. I plaster on a smile for her sake. I even manage to whisper a pitiful, “Thank you.”
While she discusses editing with the sound engineer, I walk toward Mom and Steffi. My dance coach must sense the tension, because she pulls out her phone and steps away.
“Why did you come? You hate my music…” My voice catches on a sob. I seal my lips, because I don’t want to cry. It would be completely childish and unprofessional.
Mom’s hand jerks, and the necklace clinks as it settles back against her white linen blouse. “What?”
“Oh, come on, Mom.” I roll my eyes, but that’s mostly to get rid of the tears. “Every time I sing, you look bored.”
I try to decipher the signature scrawled underneath her skinny jeans. I can’t tell vowels from consonants, so I have no clue whom it belongs to.
She shoves her hair back. Twice. “It does pain me to listen to you,” she finally murmurs. “Because … because you’re good. Real good.”
I blink. Parents are genetically engineered to praise their children, and although Mom has always praised me on other achievements, she has never complimented my singing.
She stands up and hugs me. “And that song … that song is insanely gorgeous. And I hate that it was so gorgeous.”
My eyelashes bat away tears. “Why?”
“Because … I might lose you to that world after all.”
“You really think I’m good?” I croak.
“Oh,
baby.” She presses me away and holds me at arm’s length. “How can you doubt that you are?”
“Because you’ve never told me before.”
She looks at me long and hard. “I was afraid that if I did, you’d let everything else—school, college, friendships—slip.”
“I would never.”
She bites her lower lip and nods, but her crinkled brow and shiny eyes tell me she’s still worried.
“I promise I won’t.”
Steffi digs a pack of tissues from her black leather vest, then hands one to Mom and another to me.
“Your daddy would’ve been real proud.” Mom sniffles.
I look at her, my heart squeezing. What she’s just said burnishes my fragile ego like a flame warming metal, hardening it into full-body armor.
“It’s for Mona’s contest, isn’t it?” she asks.
That knocks the smile right off my lips.
“That’s what I thought.” Her chest rises with a long breath. “You’re going to enter it whether I give you my blessing or not, aren’t you?”
I don’t say a thing, because I don’t want to tarnish this moment with a lie.
“When’s the deadline?”
“Halloween.”
“I’ll make you a deal. If you still want to participate on October thirty-first, I’ll sign the form.”
Even though she’s probably agreeing because she senses I won’t win, I squeal and throw my arms around her neck and chant, “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.” I say it a hundred times, yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Lynn catches my eye over Mom’s shoulder, and I finally understand why she invited her here today—to show her how much heart and work I’ve poured into this song. I mouth a thank-you. She answers me with a gentle nod.
The sound engineer hands me a Sharpie. “You can’t leave before signin’ the couch.”
I stare at the pen, then at the man, then back at the pen. I don’t reach for it. “But I’m not famous.”
He gets off his springy chair and props the marker between my rigid fingers. “Yet. But I got a feeling that’s just a matter of time.”
I’m so devastatingly happy that I want to cry and yell and laugh and pump my fist in the air. I don’t do any of these things. What I do is crouch, uncap the pen, and draw my name in large, wobbly, loopy letters.
Not Another Love Song Page 19
