I didn’t want to hold my breath, but I knew I would anyway.
Chapter 9
For the next week, every day was the same. Community service all day, work on my clients’ projects in the evening at home or at the Schmidts’, and then be subjected to the Belén and Tilly show at dinner. I was continually treated to Belén’s running commentary of opinions as she drilled Tilly about the day’s practice. The night Blanche went to a movie with a few of her new bunco friends was particularly painful.
“What were your lines like today?” Belén focused hawk-like eyes on her daughter, scrutinizing Tilly’s shoulders and neck as she spooned rice into her mouth.
Like her mother, Tilly chewed each bite thirty times, so the pauses between her replies felt like eternities. They were both too focused on dance to give me a second glance, other than to ask me to pass the salt. Not that I wanted to join in the conversation, but it would have been nice to have been asked about my day too.
“My lines were perfect, Mama. As always.”
“Good.” Like a bullet from a gun. “Make sure you keep it that way.”
As she did every night, Belén asked Tilly what her chances were for a solo at the end of workshop performance. And just as reliably, Tilly told her mother that she thought it was a lock. I needed to hand it to her. I had no idea if she was telling the truth, as her poker face rarely gave away anything, but I had a difficult time believing Tilly never had a bad day, a day where the odds of becoming the superstar of the District Ballet’s summer program decreased.
Belén must have been feeling extra feisty, because she brought up college. I zoned out completely at that point because I could have recited her bullet-pointed agenda items, I’d heard them so many times. If Belén got to choose, Tilly would go to a super-selective university and then to a top law school, all while maintaining a spot in a prestigious dance company and touring the world. When that line of discussion arrived at the table, as graceful as a moose on a bobsled, even Tilly had trouble keeping a straight face and acting like her mother’s vision was humanly possible. She just nodded and kept her mouth shut.
I thought Belén might have sent a reminder my way about signing up for the SAT prep class Tilly took last summer, but nothing. Nada.
Since no one was paying attention to me, I got up to refill my iced tea. Feeling charitable, I refilled Tilly’s empty glass as well.
She looked up at me with surprise in her brown eyes. “Thank you, Tatum.”
“You’re welcome.” I tried to smile at her, but she looked down again before I could make the corners of my mouth lift. I smiled anyway, a little proud of myself.
After the meal, to my room I went with only novels and my computer for company. I was grateful for the time to work on my design projects, but even I had my limits on how much lonely I could stand.
Which is how I got suckered into sneaking out with Abby to Hunter’s band’s practice.
What are you doing tonight?
An hour after I’d pulled myself into my shell, Abby sent me a text as I was attempting to drown out the white noise in my head by putting on my headphones and listening to some Sarah Jarosz, which I may or may not have downloaded on SK’s recommendation.
Sitting in my jail. I mean my room.
No you’re not. You’re coming with me to see the Frisson.
What exactly is the Frisson?
Hunter’s band. They have practice tonight. Go with me to see them.
Right. You’re forgetting about the warden and the mileage report.
Belén’s rejection of my perfectly innocent request for dinner with Abby still smarted.
No problem. Go to the pet house and I’ll pick you up. Send me the address.
I was tempted. I missed fun. I missed people who weren’t assigned to be with me or felt nothing but disappointment or disdain for me, depending on the day. I missed positive attention from humans. Not that I minded the hamster love I got from Princess Sweetheart, but it only went so far to boost my self-esteem.
Let me think about it.
Abby’s solution was simple and would probably work, unless Belén followed me or had spies around the neighborhood. If I told her the Schmidts called last minute and needed me to come over, she probably wouldn’t question it. And if Abby picked me up, that would take care of the odometer issue. But on the off chance something went wrong, my head would be rolling for sure.
I idly opened my laptop and considered the work I should be doing. Hunter’s bandmates agreed to me making a sample flyer for them, and they’d talked with the guy in charge of Sol Jam about advertising that too. Apparently Owen thought it was “an inspired idea,” and hoped he could make the event bigger than ever this year. I was supposed to bring something to show Hunter to our next plant-pulling session. As I stared at the screen, my eyes unfocused, and I zoned out until the ding of my email brought me back to reality. My chest seized up when I saw the sender’s name; my hand dipped into my pocket and gripped my house key, the teeth biting into my palm.
Tatum,
While I appreciate your attempt at diffusing the tension between us, I need you to understand that I am still very upset with you for turning me in. I can’t stop you from emailing me, but don’t expect me to reply again. I’m doing my best to adjust to this new life that was thrust upon me, and I am not at a point where I’m ready to deal with my old one, and that includes you. If/when I come to that place, I will let you know.
Best,
Ashlyn
I had to remind myself to breathe when I got to the end of the email. Definitely not what I had been expecting—the email itself, or Ashlyn’s response. I reread it three more times before I could tear myself away from the screen. Okay, so she was still mad at me, and she implied I was disloyal. That was fine. I could understand that, and even see from her point of view how that was true.
The fourth read through, I laughed. Her word choices were so much like her father’s: terse and professionally snarky. Maybe she’d consulted with her dad on what to say. She’d never use those words in the real world. On the fifth read, it dawned on me that even though she was dismissing me, she was also giving me a tiny shred of hope. She said if/when, which left the door cracked, a bit, for me to slide back in. With that revelation wrapping its claws around my heart and shaking it, I texted Abby back.
Pick me up in 30 minutes.
I needed to channel the adrenaline surge that was gliding through my system, and music sounded like a good outlet. I printed my sample posters and shoved them into my bag. I left a note for Belén, who had just left to go shopping for new leotards with Tilly, saying I’d gotten a last-minute babysitting request, with my car’s mileage written at the bottom, natch, and told Blanche, who had just returned from her movie and was stretched out in the basement with an afghan and a cup of tea, that I was going to take care of the girls. She looked up from her romance novel, the kind with a ripped, shirtless warrior in a kilt on the cover, winked at me, and told me to have a good time. I shook my head in disbelief, walking back up the stairs. I swear the woman was psychic. Or my Patronus. Blanche always sensed exactly what I needed. She somehow knew what I was up to no matter how sneaky I thought I was being. And cheered me on.
At the Schmidts’, I dealt with the animals and blew Gus a kiss goodbye as I dashed out the door and into Abby’s car, which tonight surprisingly was of the muscle variety. I slid my hand over the black vinyl of the dashboard as she pulled out into the street. “What is this fine piece of machinery?”
“Oh, you like it, do you? This is my brother’s baby. He’s grounded tonight, so his loss is my gain. She’s a 1968 Camaro.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“Pretty much all you need to know is that she’s a classic and that he rebuilt her himself, so I must drive slower than your grandmother, but we’ll get there eventually.”
I snickered. “I think my stepgrandmother might actually love this car, and would drive it like she was on the autobahn.”
> “Right on. So what convinced you to come tonight? I thought you were chained to your bed. I know you didn’t ask for permission.”
I bounced my heel on the floor mat and studied my silver sandals, knotted too tightly at my ankles. “I just needed some company, I guess.”
Abby did an admirable job of staying straight on the road while still giving me a suspicious look. “No. You don’t get to do that. You were all keyed up when you got in the car, and your voice just plummeted to the floor. You’re also ticking like you’re anxious. What happened? Because I know something did.”
I mashed my lips together. Curse Abby and her journalist’s observation skills, even though I knew it wasn’t hard to pick up on the vibe I was sending out. My voice came out shaky and quiet. “Ashlyn emailed me back.”
“And?”
I set my head on the headrest behind me and closed my eyes. I recited the email, word for biting word. I’d read it so many times, I had it memorized, burned into my brain for all eternity, or at least until the next crisis.
“Shut the front door. What is her problem? I mean, I get that she’s mad, but you are so not the person she should be mad at. You did exactly what any self-respecting human being would do in that unfair situation. She should be livid with her subhuman boyfriend—or ex, I hope—and direct all her righteous attitude to the city jail.”
I just blinked at her. “Can I fire my lawyer and hire you instead?”
“Sure. Can I be paid the same salary?” We laughed together. “And signing off with ‘best’? Seriously? Who uses that besides snobs and twits?”
I yelped with laughter. “I love you for saying that. That was my favorite part! I can’t stand ‘best.’ It makes me want to gouge my eyes out.”
“Am I right? The worst way to end a letter.” Then her voice took on a more somber tone. “I’m so sorry, Tate. I guess she’s still processing.”
“That’s a good way to put it.” I wondered if Chase was processing too, from his jail cell, hopefully with a scary cellmate. Probably not.
“So, are you going to respond to her?”
I shrugged. “Probably. At least she wrote back. I take it as a good sign that she wants to scold me, but she also doesn’t want me to forget about her.”
“That’s messed up.” Abby shook her head.
“Yeah, it is what it is. She’s my friend. Hopefully, we’ll get past it. And if we don’t, we don’t.” Sometimes I even impressed myself with my ability to stay calm when all I really wanted to do was scream or cry or punch a hole in something.
“It is what it is,” Abby echoed, trying the words on for size and nodding slowly.
At Hunter’s house, the garage door was wide open, with questionable noises sailing out into the night.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whispered.
“Any time with Hunter is a good idea, in my world.”
“Fair enough.”
Inside the garage, Hunter was standing front and center, tuning an electric guitar. A guy I knew from school—a senior, I think—sat behind a drum kit that had seen better days, and another guy, totally unfamiliar, was wielding a bass like a weapon, a look of contempt on his face.
“This isn’t working,” the bass player grumbled as we approached, setting his instrument down dramatically on the stand at his feet. Hunter looked up, and Abby waved. He nodded at us and gestured with his chin for us to take a seat in the two folding chairs that were off to the side, but still in plain view of the band. We sat.
“We have to practice, even if Shay isn’t here. There are only a few weeks left till Sol Jam.” The drummer peered over a cymbal at the bass player, like a parent reminding a child to do his chores. The bass player rolled his eyes, and Hunter continued to tune his guitar, ignoring the other two.
Abby and I looked at each other nervously. It felt like we’d walked into the middle of something we weren’t supposed to hear. I was just contemplating grabbing Abby’s elbow and dragging her out of there when she stood up and squared her shoulders.
“Hi, guys, or should I call you the Frisson?” She laughed too loudly and smiled too brightly. I cringed for her. “Um, I’m Abby Gold, and I write for the Henderson Herald. I’m sure Hunter has told you about the article I’m going to write.” Bass and Drums looked at her blankly. “Right. And this is Tatum Elsea; she’s designing the Sol Jam poster, and if I can convince her, she’s going to help me with the article.” I raised an eyebrow to no one in particular. It wasn’t me who needed convincing.
“Hey,” I said, and tried to smile.
Hunter finally stopped messing with his guitar. “This is Paolo.” He pointed to the guy behind the drums. He waved his drumsticks at us and smiled. “And that grump in the corner is Kyle. Ignore him.” Kyle said nothing. No smile, no wave, no friendly gesture at all.
“Our fourth member, Shay, is unfortunately on vacation,” Paolo said.
I would probably need a vacation if I were in the middle of an entire summer of band practice with Kyle too. His sour attitude definitely needed to be tempered by some sand and a cool ocean breeze. I could think of a few people I’d like to take a vacation from as well. If that was Shay’s intention, she sounded like someone I’d get along with.
Kyle took his bass back up and started picking out a line. Hunter and Paolo exchanged a look that affirmed Kyle was the timekeeper and perhaps tyrant of the band. The boys launched into something that sounded a little bit rock, a little bit folk, and a little bit something all on its own. Even without a microphone, Hunter’s lead vocals cut through the instrumentals like an emotional laser. The lyrics spoke about the possibility of love, of wondering what might come next, and I fully believed that Hunter knew just what that felt like as he sang.
Kyle and Paolo were uber-focused on their instruments, concentrating on playing the right notes and keeping the beat, but I couldn’t help but notice Hunter’s eyes stayed on Abby. A quick glance to my left confirmed that Abby was waffling back and forth between watching Hunter sing and pretending to take notes about the performance in her journalist’s steno pad. I checked myself before I laughed at the rows of hearts and stars she’d drawn instead. Good for them. I wonder which one of them would crack first. I hoped it would happen soon, before my feeling like an unwanted third wheel set in.
By the fourth song, I’d relaxed enough to start singing along with their bluesy arrangement of a pop song that’d achieved overplayed-on-the-radio status months ago. Abby pulled me out of my chair and we did a clumsy jitterbug, twirling each other around the dusty concrete floor of the Hansen garage. By the time the song ended, my sides ached from laughing so hard. As Abby dropped my hands, I looked up at the guys. They were all grinning like clowns at us, which I assumed was a good thing. At least they weren’t pointing and laughing.
“Do you ladies want to be our official fly girls?” Paolo stood up from behind his drums and started making some jerky movements with knee bends and robot-like arms. I covered my mouth and stifled a laugh.
“I think our moves were better than that.” Abby put a hand on her hip in mock annoyance.
Hunter swept his hair to the side. “You could be plants in the audience during Sol Jam. If a whole crowd of people got up and danced during our show, that would be awesome.”
Kyle nodded in agreement. “And then it won’t just be Shay acting like a fool on stage.”
“What does Shay do?” I asked.
“Ignore Kyle,” Hunter interjected. “Shay just likes to have fun. Stands up while playing the piano, dances around, people seem to like it.” He shrugged. “Generally, the audience is into it,” Hunter said a little louder in Kyle’s direction. He leaned closer to us and whispered, loudly, “Some people don’t have much of a sense of humor.”
“Noted. So that was really fun. Thanks for letting us crash.”
“Thanks for risking it.” Hunter half-smiled at me. He’d set his guitar down in its stand and taken a few steps closer to Abby. “Do you want to, um, talk about your
notes, Ab?”
“Oh, sure.” She blushed so red, her cheeks looked purple in the fluorescent lighting of the garage. She parked herself back in her chair, and Hunter sat down in mine.
“I’ll just go use the restroom,” I said to no one in particular, and booked it into the house. After finishing up, I came back out, and smiled when I saw Abby and Hunter both hunched over, talking like no one else was in the room. Kyle was fiddling with his bass again, but Paolo beamed up at me from his stool as I approached.
“So you’re making our poster, right?”
I nodded. “It looks that way. Which reminds me, I have some samples in the car. Do you want to look at them?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
He followed me to Abby’s brother’s car, jaw practically dragging on the ground when he saw it. “This is yours?”
“Uh, no. I am not to be trusted.”
He looked at me quizzically, but didn’t say anything more. I pulled out my hobo bag and handed him the samples. Paolo studied them for several minutes, and the longer he took, the more my heart raced and the harder I gripped the car door. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to people looking at my work and deciding if they wanted to use it to promote themselves. Letting me help them. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get used to it.
When my knuckles were fully white and aching, Paolo lifted his eyes to meet mine and handed me back the mock-ups. “These are awesome!”
I inhaled with relief. “Thanks,” I said shyly.
“I think I like this one for us.” He gestured to the poster in my left hand. I’d superimposed a fun, vintage-looking font with the band’s name and the information about Sol Jam over a close-up photograph of grains of wood. It looked like a weathered barrel or the floor of an old-timey saloon. Now that I’d heard the Frisson’s sound, I had to agree with Paolo that it was a good fit.
“I’m glad you like it.” I smiled so wide, I thought my cheeks might explode with the force of expansion.
“Can I hang on to these?” He reached for the posters again. “We can talk about them together when Shay gets back, and then we’ll let you know.”
It Started with Goodbye Page 11
