I’m not sure exactly when it happens, because of my music-induced mind-buzz. During a chorus—when Anders’s shout pulls me out of my thoughts again—I see her. She’s leaning against the doorway, a white binder in her hands and a purple messenger bag hanging from her shoulder. My stomach bottoms out at the thought that it might be her. I recognize this girl. She’s in a couple of my classes.
As the song ends, Logan waves the girl over. “This is VA. She’s our official manager. And unofficial groupie.”
VA Day.
“You know I hate that word, Logan.” Her hands go to her hips and she’s glaring at him, but her voice is still friendly. “It makes it sound like I’m here to have sex with everybody.”
“Well…” A giant smile spreads across Logan’s face and he’s ducking away from her before she even moves.
They move in sync like stuntmen. She aims low, anticipating him, landing a smack across his shoulder. “Logan Samuel Hart.”
Logan throws his hands up in the air. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Settle down.”
“He”—her pointed finger is aimed at me—“doesn’t know that.”
Logan turns to me with a serious face. “Listen.” His voice is deadpan. “She’s not here to have sex with all of us.” He turns back to her with a mocking grin. “There, now he knows. It’s official.” He puts two fingers to his forehead in a tiny salute. She’s shaking her head and smacking her fist into her palm, but a smile is already starting to play at the corners of her mouth. Obviously, they’re friends—or siblings.
“I’m Vee.” She finally sticks her hand out to me, shaking her head and smiling. “Only Logan calls me VA.”
“Cameron. I’m in your math class, actually.”
“Right.” She nods, lazily, and I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know me. And she’s blissfully unaware of just how much I know about her. “Hey, Cam.”
Cam? Huh. Interesting. Everyone has always called me Cameron. All three syllables, every time. My mom used to say that if she wanted people to call me Cam, she would have named me that.
Am I a “Cam” now? I guess I can roll with it. “What’s the VA stand for?” Friends can ask that sort of thing. We’re friends now, right? You already “Cam”-ed me, after all.
“Virginia.”
“Like the state.”
“The nineties song,” Anders says, smiling. “‘Meet Virginia’?”
I shake my head. I don’t know it.
Anders starts humming and Logan sings, “Meet Virginia, I can’t wait to meet Virginia—”
She rolls her eyes. “No one calls me that, though. Just Vee. Or VA, if you want to be like Logan.” The way she says it makes me think I don’t.
Vee. VA. Virginia … Ginny. Definitely her.
She’s nothing like I imagined. She isn’t ridiculously thin. No giant tree trunk legs. Her hair is long, in waves over her shoulders, a million shades of brown and blond. Still, seeing her now it all fits together in my mind. Even in her faded jeans, I can imagine her in the leather pants of my mental picture; the tattered T-shirt hanging off her shoulder, the crazy hair. Maybe it’s in there somewhere.
Vee opens her binder, pulling out small squares of yellow paper. “Parking passes for the gig at Carnivale this weekend.”
The bar gig.
“Put them in your windshield and we can park in the reserved spaces to unload.” She hands one to each of the guys, stopping in front of me and looking over to Logan and Anders.
“You in, Cam?” Anders makes a show of crossing his fingers in front of him and looking up to the sky as if he’s praying.
“I’m in.” The words escape so quickly, I almost don’t have time to second-guess them. Almost.
A huge smile fills Vee’s face as she begins slowly chanting, “Cam! Cam! Cam!” Everyone joins in, clapping and shouting. Anders beats on his drum. Logan plays a crazy riff on his guitar. Looking at Vee—cheeks red against her light hair—it feels like a fifty-pound weight has dropped from around my neck, as I realize that this is my chance to start over. To be a new version of me.
Cam.
Cam has zero baggage—no complicated past. People don’t look at him like he’s going to break. There are no expectations for Cam.
Cam is freedom.
My fresh start.
VIRGINIA
I’m sitting in my usual corner, across from the band, scribbling down the last of my Calc exercises. The guys are herding up the stairs to the kitchen, like it’s filled with naked girls. Or beer … I imagine the reactions are similar. Usually everyone has at least one can under their belt by now, but I don’t see any empties lying around. Either Cam’s appearance distracted them, or Logan’s older brother Drew hasn’t been home from college to replenish the stash they keep in the garage. Tucking my book into my bag, I’m ready to head upstairs to grab a snack, when I see that Cam’s still sitting on a stool next to the equipment, guitar in hand. Just a few feet away. He’s playing softly, unplugged, and the song becomes familiar as it grows louder.
“‘Yellow Shirt’?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His eyes are on me, but he keeps playing.
“I’ve never met anyone who actually knows The Icarus Account. They’re one of my favorites.” I’m trying to keep my excitement in check, but I love this song. I played it for Nonni a few days ago—it’s basically my personal anthem. Except you won’t catch me in a yellow shirt. For me, it’s purple.
He nods. His eyes drift from me to the guitar, then around the room. The only sound that fills the space is the melody of my favorite song, drifting from his fingertips, as we both stare at the dingy gray carpet.
“The guys are probably upstairs grabbing beers if you want one.” I wonder if he drinks. The guys getting drunk at practice is one of my pet peeves. I’m not opposed to drinking—I’m not looking to be a nun, or anything—it’s just that half of the time I end up having to drive one of them home when things get sloppy. Which is often. Logan’s dad is gone on business a lot and his mom lives in Florida with her new husband, Tomas. Even when Logan’s dad is around, he’s not interested in what goes on downstairs. Boys will be boys. I sometimes wonder if the guys can even play sober anymore. “They’re probably slamming them to catch up.”
“I’m good. It’ll be hard enough, trying to get home in this corn maze.” He’s still playing, softly humming along. I could hug him right now, but I just smile instead.
“Is there not a lot of corn in Wisconsin?” His eyes stay on the guitar strings. I’m not sure if he’s shaking his head or swaying along to the song, but I don’t care about corn. I’m just trying to fill silence.
“Do you ever play with them?” Cam drops a note, catching up again clumsily. “I mean, do you play? Guitar … or anything?” He suddenly seems nervous, his eyes drifting between me and his stumbling hands.
“I do, actually. But just for fun. Playing in public isn’t really my thing.” Playing my guitar makes me feel whole, and powerful. I feel honest when I play, like I can say anything. I can share my hurt and my anger, and let it all out, because no one hates you when you share your feelings in a song. Lyrics are full of gray area and room for interpretation. But the thought of playing in front of people makes me want to cry and puke and scream, all at the same time. It’s a great visual.
“Plus, it’s sort of a boys’ club. I doubt Logan would be interested in me playing with them.” I have no idea, because I’ve never asked. Logan hasn’t heard me play in five years. I’m not sure he even knows I still play. For the last few years, I’ve become the unofficial songwriter for the band. Most of the time that feels like enough.
“I guess it’s a girlfriend thing,” Cam says. There’s this apologetic smile plastered to his face that makes me a little nauseous, because Cam isn’t the first person to mistakenly peg us for a couple. Especially up until last year, before my best friend Cort graduated. With her and Anders dating, and Logan and me spending so much time with them, the four of us looked like a permanent dou
ble date. I’ve always suspected it’s the reason I’ve only had one serious boyfriend. Who turned out to be seriously disappointing. “You can blame Yoko Ono,” he adds.
“Oh.” I shake my head. “No. Logan and I aren’t … together.”
His lip twitches, like he wants to smile, and it makes me smile.
I can’t help but stare at his twitchy lips, while he plays my favorite song. “Logan’s one of my best friends. Anders, too. We’ve been friends forever.”
“Well, if you ever want to get together, just let me know. I’d love to play with you.” He shakes his head gently, his long hair falling in his eyes. “I mean I’m not weird about playing with girls.” His eyes are darting around the room again, looking anywhere but at me and I can’t help but laugh. “I just mean … I can do that … if you want someone to play with you…”
I think he just muttered “fuck,” and I burst into laughter.
“… and I realize how that sounds, and it’s not how I meant it.” He finally shuts up and smiles, showing off his perfect white teeth.
Everything about Cam feels polished and crisp, unlike the other guys, who are wearing hoodies and wrinkled T-shirts. Cam feels like a perfectly styled photo shoot, every prop in its place, every angle checked and rechecked. He doesn’t belong in Riverton any more than I belong in a band. As weird as it sounds, he doesn’t even belong in Logan’s dimly lit basement. He belongs on that surfboard, out in the sun.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOW
VIRGINIA
Nothing good can ever come after the words “There’s something I have to tell you.” Especially when Logan is looking at me like he knows he’s in trouble. He hasn’t looked this guilty since he convinced me to be in the basketball team’s date auction our junior year—and then forgot to bid on me. I had to go bowling with Jason Fetner, a brace-faced ninth-grade kid whose one redeeming quality was that Hampton (his pet hamster) had his own YouTube channel. It was adorable—still is.
We’re all squished in the front lounge of the bus, waiting for our tour briefing, now that the production crew has all flown in and boarded their matching bus. I’m sitting on one end of the leather couch, wedged between the upholstered wall and Logan. “What?”
Across from us, Anders has gone back to playing a beat on his bongo drum, while Cam hums to himself, scribbling in his notebook. All he’s been doing lately is writing. When he’s not holding his guitar he’s carrying around that damn notebook. And it really grinds me, because since the moment I stepped onto this bus the one thing I can’t do is write. Not anything I want to write, at least. Everything that does want to come out of me feels like dredging up ancient history. I refuse to put that down on paper. I won’t memorialize this feeling—I’ve already done it once. If you listen carefully to half of the band’s songs, it’s all right there. The story of my life—my pain—set to Logan’s music.
Logan shifts on the couch. “It probably isn’t even that big of a deal. You should probably know, though.” Anders snickers under his breath.
I twist on the couch to face Logan. “Spill it, Hart.”
“It’s about your internship.”
Not what I was expecting. I’ve been anxious to find out more about my internship.
He rubs a hand over his head. “The whole internship—well, it’s a little different than what I had told you…” There’s a long pause and his eyes seem to be fixed on the car driving by, outside our window. “So, well—there isn’t actually an official internship with the tour.” His head is dipped down and he looks at me like he’s not sure he should make eye contact. He shouldn’t. This is such a Logan thing to do. No wonder I got such a weird look from the bus driver—I don’t even belong on his bus!
“What?” I launch myself into the aisle so I’m standing in front of him. I’ve been on this bus for less than a week. I haven’t seen a single city—we’re not even close to Nashville—and I haven’t even seen them perform yet. “Logan, that’s the whole reason I’m here!” Before I can get away, he has me by the wrist.
“Whoa, whoa. Settle down, Little Miss Temper.” He pulls me back onto the couch. “You can still help us—do all the stuff you used to do. You’ll be our intern. It’s practically the same thing.”
Except it’s not anything close to the same thing. Now I really am just tagging along, like some kind of glorified groupie, showing up at every show, acting like I’m a member of the inner circle.
“This isn’t a big deal, Vee—”
The sound of the air lock interrupts us, as the door folds open. A man in his forties in gray dress pants and a bright white shirt steps in, followed by a tall woman in her late twenties. Her hair is bright blond and twisted behind her head. She has a silver tablet in one hand, and a black stylus in the other. Behind them, two guys stand at the bottom of the stairs with cameras hanging at their waists.
The man pulls off a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses before speaking, “I’m Jared, the production manager”—he points to the woman next to him—“this is Jenn, head of tour publicity. I wanted to take a quick moment to introduce myself, welcome you all to the tour.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Go through the lists,” he says, tapping the tablet in Jenn’s hand.
“Sure, I can do that.” Her tone is the same one my mom used with my dad when he asked her to do something that he clearly could have done for himself. She reads through everyone’s names, confirming spelling, asking for ages and what instruments everyone plays. Jared is still running his finger across the screen of his phone, and I swear he’s just fake-busy. It’s been nothing but swipe, swipe, swipe.
Jenn’s eyes settle on me. “And you are?” She looks down at her tablet, like maybe she’s missed something.
Oh, God. “I’m Vee. Virginia. I thought I was—”
“She’s with us,” Logan interrupts, and Jenn’s eyebrow twitches. “I mean, we just figured—since we have an extra bunk and all.”
Jared’s head snaps up from his phone. “You don’t get to just bring whoever you want on the bus.”
“She’s our songwriter, too—” Cam tries to interject.
“This is our bus—not yours,” Jared says.
It’s over. And I’m surprised by how disappointed I am, because three days ago, I wanted to run.
Jenn glances at Cam and then Logan, before looking at me. “Are you together?”
“Yes,” Logan says, as I shake my head no. What is he doing?
“What the fu—” Cam mutters.
Jenn’s shrewd eyes dart around again, from me to Logan to Cam before landing on me again. “You can stay.”
“Really?” Why would they want me here?
“Don’t argue, Vee,” Anders mutters, shaking his head, like I’m an idiot.
Jared looks at Jenn, who nods. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and makes his way out of the bus. The two cameramen waiting outside take his place next to Jenn, who is now, officially, my favorite person on this bus.
“Like Logan said, you guys have an extra bunk.” The way Jenn is tapping her stylus on her tablet so quickly, it sounds like a drum cadence. “It won’t hurt anything.” She points her stylus at me. “You’ll have to sign all the same releases as the bands.”
“Of course.” I’m nodding like a crazy person, relieved—and surprised—I’m not getting booted off this bus on day three. But am I really staying? Maybe, if I just give it some time—even a city or two—I can fix this. Make it worth it. Figuring out how to turn “unofficial groupie” into something resume-worthy seems easier than calling my mother and asking for a plane ticket. That would mean admitting how gullible I had been. How desperate I was to not go home for the summer.
Jenn introduces us to our camera guys, Tad and Dave, and goes over the itinerary for the first week, telling the guys how they’ll have to tape at least one “confessional” interview each day, answering questions from production crew or her assistants, Kaley and Priya.
Ten minutes later, Jenn leaves us in the
bus lounge.
Jenn gave us a lot of information, but all I have is questions. “So where are all the other girlfriends, if they’re allowed?”
Reese grunts in amusement. “Mine’s in storage.”
“There’s Jaclyn,” Logan says.
“Jaclyn’s in the band.”
Anders has gone back to lightly tapping his drum. “This is a music tour, Vee. Who wants to bring a girlfriend along?” Then he turns apologetic. “No offense.”
“I’m not a real girlfriend, you can’t offend me.” But he’s right. God, does this mean I’m on a bus with ten single guys? I look at Logan, still holding on to my arm. Nine. I let out a deep breath and force myself not to obsess over this. I should be relieved. “I’m not leaving.” And I think I’m telling myself, more than them.
* * *
The real madness starts in the afternoon, when the crew starts filing off of their bus. There are twelve full-time camera guys—two assigned to each bus—and all day they’ve been pulling the guys away to do interviews. When they aren’t getting ready for their first show, they’re talking into thin air, responding to questions and trying to act natural. They’re pretty much nailing it, except for one overly anxious drummer. Anders is the absolute worst at acting natural. He’s one of the biggest attention-whores I’ve ever met, but once he gets in front of a camera his body goes rigid. Every sentence that comes out of his mouth sounds like it’s been mixed in a blender. Maybe I’m not part of the actual publicity team, but I know I can fix this. He’s going to be my pet project; my pièce de résistance as an aspiring publicist.
CAM
It’s hard to breathe when the camera is pointed at me like a firing squad rifle.
“You all went to high school together, right?” Priya prompts me.
“Right, well, except—”
Priya cuts me off. “Don’t tell me”—she points to where Tad is standing beside her—“talk to the camera,” she says, for probably the nineteenth time. “And be sure to include the question in your answer.”
Love Songs & Other Lies Page 5
