I elbow her, and she jumps. “Now,” I murmur, right before launching into the opening verse. But she doesn’t sing.
People say take it slow but they forget it’s a race.
So I run, and run, and run, I give chase.
“You know this song. Come on,” I murmur.
She still doesn’t unbolt her lips.
“What does your bracelet say?” I whisper.
She frowns, then stops twisting her fingers long enough to read the words on it. She needs to trust in them.
Gotta leave behind my demons, to go after my dreams,
Gotta forsake my inhibitions, to step under the beams.
But I run so fast, I stumble and fall,
Collapse against pavement and crash into walls.
My fingers rush over the keys, warm up to the chorus. This time, instead of singing alone, I repeat the bars, willing Nev to accompany me.
Her lips remain immobile.
Playing the chorus over, I murmur, “I’ll stop and walk out of here if you don’t sing.”
Her head jerks, and then her eyes finally unglue themselves from the keys and focus on me. I bob my head in time to the beat, grounding her with my gaze, forcing her to forget that her mother is in the audience.
My fingers roll into the chorus again. This time, the cage of Nev’s lips opens to release a mesmerizing sound that flocks into the void around us.
I’m a dreamer made of love. A dreamer made of thoughts.
An arrow made of feathers, and a rope made of knots.
I’m a girl made of dreams. A girl made of hopes.
A story made of rhythm, and a song made of notes.
Her voice thunders out of her, spreading like velvet and ink through the old theater, coating everything and everyone in its wondrous, raucous darkness.
My chest is on fire. Electric, a live wire.
Stand and dust myself off. Get back on the road.
I blink, I breathe. Adjust my aim, reload.
To run or to walk? Or to shout or to talk?
Oh …
I will get there, fast or slow,
’Cause I know where I need to go.
I’m a dreamer made of love. A dreamer made of thoughts.
An arrow made of feathers, and a rope made of knots.
I’m a girl made of dreams. A girl made of hopes.
A story made of rhythm, and a song made of notes.
I feel like we’re back in my living room, singing together for the very first time, our voices overlapping and plaiting.
No one’s ever caught a dream sitting down.
No one’s ever sang a song without a sound.
I keep going,
Stop at nothing,
I will make it.
I breathe in deeply, greedily. My fingers dance over the smooth keys, moving toward the last chorus, which rises like a storm—slow, steady, powerful. I look at Nev and feel something fierce. She is so young, yet so brave. So tiny, yet everywhere. Her fingers are balled into tight fists, but her spine is straight and her jaw soft. I loosen my own jaw.
Together we deliver the ending.
I’m a dreamer made of love. A dreamer made of thoughts.
An arrow made of feathers, and a rope made of knots.
I’m a girl made of dreams. A girl made of hopes.
A story made of rhythm, and a song made of notes.
Oh … a song made of notes.
And a song made of notes.
Like in a game of red light, green light, the world holds still around us. And then Mona, shaking her head, stands and claps. And then Mom, too, stands. She claps but keeps having to stop to knuckle tears from her cheeks.
I shade my eyes to see Ten. He doesn’t clap, but nods to me, and that subtle show of approval is more meaningful than any clap.
Nev’s hand wraps around mine. Devastating delight spreads over her face and falls in streaks over me. This is all she’s ever wanted … to be heard by the one person who’d never even tried to listen.
61
My Time
Nev walks off the stage, her head held so high and straight that her hair flutters off her face. I don’t follow her. I wait on the piano bench. When she reaches our moms, it’s mine who hugs her first.
But then Mona extends her arms, and Nev walks into her mother’s embrace. Mona’s red mouth moves, glinting in the stage lights. I hope she’s telling Nev that she’s proud; I hope she’s making plans to see her again now that they have something in common.
Ten hasn’t moved from his pew in the back, features tight. He’s worried, but will he ever not be? He raised his sister. He cares for her in a way that no one, not even his father, let alone his mother, does.
After another moment, Nev and Mona pull apart, and then Kara is tapping Mona’s shoulder, gesturing to the camera crew. Mona tips her head to the bench she was occupying, an invitation for Nev to sit, but Nev springs down the aisle before flouncing into the seat next to Ten. He seems as surprised as Mona that Nev decided to sit back there.
I’m not.
Their heads come together, and then he slings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her against him, and the tension blighting his beautiful features finally slackens.
I hope he realizes that Nev will always choose him.
A calmness envelops me, as though the buildup of adrenaline is finally draining away, drip by slow drip. I play my song again, pouring everything I have into it this time.
I play it for all the young dreamers out there, those who dare to want something out of reach.
I play it for Lynn, and for my mom, the two women who got me to where I am.
I play it for Nev, to thank her for propelling me forward when I’d stopped moving.
And I play it for Ten.
Especially for Ten.
To prove to him that music can bring about emotions other than rancor and spite.
62
The Dotted Line
While Mom ushers Ten and Nev toward the buffet set up in the back, Mona and I take a seat to discuss the contract. I’ve already read through it with Jeff and Mom, so there are no surprises, just fancy, frightening words that make it sound as though I’m selling my soul instead of just words and an accompanying melody.
After I append my signature, my song will belong to her. I’ll receive a lump sum as an advance on royalties. If it does well, I’ll earn more. A couple of cents on the dollar for each listen.
“I’m jealous.” Mona crosses her legs. Like me, she wears jeans, but her jeans are adorned with grommets and mine are as plain as they come.
“Jealous?”
She hooks her hands around her knee, her plethora of rings spangling the contract before me. “I choked during my first performance. I was the openin’ act for Shania and got so nervous I forgot the lyrics. I ended up hummin’ the rest of that song. I thought that would be the end of my career. My agent was furious, but Jeff said it was the best darn hummin’ he’d ever heard.”
A smile bends her lips—not for long, but long enough for me to see affection existed once between Mona and her ex. I’m not sure why I find this surprising. After all, they had children together. Two of them. One could’ve been a mistake or an accident, but not two.
“You’re a very passionate girl, Angela.” She glances over at the buffet, at Ten and Nev and my mother. “Passions can be devastating. Especially when you’re a woman. While men are forgiven for not tuckin’ their kids in at night, women aren’t. Just like we aren’t always thanked for bringin’ home the bigger paycheck.”
Is that what happened between Jeff and Mona? He resented her for prioritizing work and earning more than him?
“A few weeks before I gave birth to Nevada, I was offered my own show in Vegas. I couldn’t turn it down. So I signed on the dotted line, and then her daddy signed on another dotted line, decreeing I was unfit to be a mother and took both my kids away.”
I’m utterly confused. I can’t pick apart the lies from the truths. Mona makes herself sound like th
e victim, but is she?
“Did you fight for them?” I find myself asking.
She returns her gaze to me. Although her face glows from the rose-gold powder dusted on her lids and cheeks, her eyes are somber. “Divorces are messy and painful. Fightin’ means makin’ it all harder and more painful. For everyone. Besides, Jeff was right in a way. I preferred being on a stage in front of thousands than sittin’ at a dinner table with my babies and husband.” She gazes around the auditorium. “So I let them go, and it tore me apart, but at least it kept them together.”
Her sincerity thrusts me back to that deserted, dusky classroom where Ten cracked the pedestal on which I’d placed Mona. “Do you regret it?”
“I could never have gotten to where I wanted to go if I’d stayed.”
“But do you regret it?”
She tows a hand through her hair, rings sailing over the golden-brown waves like twinkling ships. “You want me to say yes, but I’d be lyin’. Just like you said in your song, I chased my dreams. And people tried to pull me back. Some even made me stumble. One made me fall.” She glances at Ten, though I doubt she means her son. I think she’s talking about the man who looks so much like him. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was Ten who made her fall. “But I got back on my feet. Fallin’ hurts, Angela, as does lookin’ back, but only stoppin’ will truly harm you. I’m very curious to see what you’ll do. You have what it takes. Talent. Looks. Presence. You owned that stage.”
I hate how deep her praise reaches within me.
“You need a little more trainin’ and a lot more opportunities, which are two things I can provide.”
Weeks ago, I would’ve squealed, but that was weeks ago.
“You don’t have to give me an answer now. Take some time to think it over.”
“What about Nev?”
She frowns. “What about Nev?”
“Are you going to offer to train her?”
Mona stares at her daughter. “No.” Her answer is short, devoid of doubt. “My daughter doesn’t need a mentor; she needs a mother. And I’ll never be that for her. If I offer to mentor her, lines will blur and hearts will break, because she’ll expect more than I can give her.”
“Will you give her something?”
“My time. I can give her some of my time. If Jeff will allow it.”
“She’d like that.”
“You think so?”
How could she doubt her daughter’s hunger for her attention? “I know so.”
Mona nods.
Ten shifts, flicks his eyes to me, then to his sister, then back to me. I sense he’s getting antsy. I lower the pen to the paper and etch my name on the line, then off the line, the letters taking up more room than they’re given.
This is as much as I’m willing to give Mona for now, but perhaps someday … one day, I’ll be able to give her more. I put the pen down and stand, extending a hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stone.”
“Mona.” She takes my hand and shakes it. “So you know what to call me the next time we meet.”
When our fingers disconnect, she walks away first. She doesn’t head toward Nevada and Tennessee. Doesn’t even spare them a backward glance. And it saddens me. Not for myself, but for them.
I don’t move for a long time, but then Mom calls my name, and I start back toward her. Ten holds out his hand, and even though Mom’s standing right there, I take it.
On our way out, Nev tosses one last, longing look behind her.
I don’t.
I keep going.
I keep staring ahead.
No, that isn’t true. I keep staring around me, at the people who are moving in the same direction as I am, because unlike Mona, I don’t want to lose sight of them.
Outro
A month and a half later
I’m sleeping over at Rae’s tonight, because the adults are heading out of town for a friend’s wedding—one of the women from the book club who divorced a couple of years back. I vaguely remember her because of her makeup: she always wore this orangey foundation. Not only was it the wrong shade, but she also never seemed to blend it in. I never got why no one told her it looked awful. I mean, I wouldn’t let Rae step out of the house with clown makeup on.
As I unstrap my seat belt, Mom says, “Have fun, baby. Not too much, though…”
Rolling my eyes, I grab my overnight bag and race toward my friend’s house. Before I can even ring, Nora swings the door open, impatient and ready to go. After dropping a kiss on my cheek, she reminds Rae to be good, then yells for her husband.
He comes out of his study, shaking his salt-and-pepper head and muttering, “Do I have to go to this wedding?”
“Because you think the girls want to have you at home?” Nora asks with an eloquent smile.
“Fine, fine.” He gives me a one-armed hug. “Rae, honey, no parties, okay?”
“Of course, Daddy.” As soon as the front door shuts, she says, “So we’re having a party.”
“What? But—”
“Didn’t you check WhatsApp? I sent everyone a memo.”
She loops her arm through mine and leads me up to her bedroom, where she heaves out two huge cardboard boxes from under her bed. They’re filled with snowflake-print cups, striped paper straws that look like candy canes, garlands of glittery stars, packs of white and red balloons, and spools of shimmery ribbon.
“Where’s the mistletoe?” I ask.
“In the box with the helium tank.” Rae bends over and pulls another box from under her bed.
“You’re serious?”
“Deadly.” She opens the flaps and pushes the box across the carpet toward me. “You blow up the balloons while I set up the garlands.”
I heave the helium tank out and rip open a packet of balloons. “I didn’t bring anything to wear.”
“Good thing I have a closet full of incredible stuff.”
The doorbell shrills a couple of minutes later.
“That must be Laney. Can you get it?”
Does she know about the party? Given her sparkly red dress, I take it she does.
I text Ten on my way back up the stairs.
ME: Party at Rae’s tonight. You knew about it?
BEAST: Party, huh? I had other plans.
I still haven’t changed his name in my phone. I don’t want to. He’s still in the dark about it, which amuses me to no end, God knows why.
ME: Cancel them.
ME: Please.
BEAST: I don’t want to cancel them.
ME: Please. Please. Please.
BEAST: I’ll delay them, but I’m not canceling them.
I’m relieved, albeit a little bummed he has plans. Then again, it’s selfish of me considering I jumped on a sleepover at Rae’s when we learned our parents were going out of town.
People start pouring in at seven o’clock sharp. None of them are Ten. I keep hoping he’ll show up any minute, but lots of minutes pass, and he still isn’t here.
“Yo, Conrad!” Jasper yells from the makeshift DJ booth he set up on the mother-of-pearl console Mom helped Rae’s parents pick out when she redid their place. “This song’s for you!”
My heart snaps to attention. At the first drumbeat, at the first violin stroke, I recognize my song. It’s different from the original, better I think. Ten and Nev disagree, but I think their love for me clouds their judgment.
Mona Stone’s voice overpowers the instruments.
A group of girls start singing along to the chorus, and then one whips her hands in the air, and beer splashes all over my borrowed dress. She doesn’t apologize. In her defense, I don’t think she noticed.
It’s crazy how popular Mona has made my song. Not everyone likes it, of course … Nothing in this world is universally liked. I got my share of hate tweets proclaiming “Made” is “sappy,” “the worst song ever,” “grating.” But I also received an outpouring of love from strangers. A couple of my new fans even started calling out the haters using the hashtag #Harshville.
>
I think the hashtag deserves a song.
The twins pop up around me and snap a selfie. I barely have time to look at the camera before they’re captioning the shot: The Next Mona Stone.
They’re wrong, though. I don’t want to be the next Mona Stone anymore. I want to write the music that artists like Mona Stone will play. I’m about to correct them when Ten steps into the living room.
His gaze roams over the room before settling on me, and then he’s fording across the room, elbowing people out of his way.
“You came,” I whisper, feeling overwhelmed by the sight of him.
It’s been two months, and my reaction to him hasn’t lessened.
He shakes his head, then encloses me in his arms. “Never doubt it.” He presses his mouth against my nose, my eyelids, my jaw, my forehead, not leaving a single millimeter on my face untouched. “But I really do have other plans.”
My heart sinks like a stone. “You said you’d delay them.”
“I decided I didn’t want to.”
I rest my cheek against his chest, heat slickening my eyes. I don’t speak for a while, just listen to his heartbeats melt into one another. When Mona’s song ends—yes, he can now stand the sound of his mother’s voice—he presses me away.
His eyes widen, then narrow. “Are you crying?”
“You just got here. I don’t want you to leave yet.”
“Angie.” His voice is low, serious. So very serious. He clasps my hands tighter. “I’m leaving with you.”
I blink.
“The plans I made. They’re for us.”
He gathers me back in his arms and holds me until he senses I’m not about to break apart. Then he kisses my temple. “Now, let’s go find Rae, so you can wish her a good night.” A sly grin overtakes his face. “And don’t worry. She’s aware you have another sleepover to attend.”
It takes me almost a minute to manage the very eloquent response of: “Oh.”
We’ve discussed sex, come close once, so I’m not surprised, and yet I’m surprised. It’s the same emotion that gripped me the day I learned I’d won the contest. An emotion I still have no name for.
Not Another Love Song Page 27
