Not Another Love Song Page 3

  For some reason, I follow up my comment with, “The quote under my picture in last year’s yearbook said: Angie Conrad likes music more than she likes people.”

  A corner of his mouth quirks up, and I blink, because the beast is smiling. Ten hasn’t smiled once since arriving at Reedwood. At least, not at me.

  I stand up, hoisting my tote onto my shoulder. “Do you like music?”

  He evens out his already neat stack of textbooks. “No.”

  My head jerks back. “How can you not?”

  He slides his books into his backpack and zips it up. “Do you enjoy the sound of a car alarm?”

  Sets my teeth on edge. “Does anyone?”

  “My point exactly.”

  He’s standing now, so I have to crane my neck to look at him.

  “Are you seriously comparing music to a car alarm?”

  “Maybe.”

  He tumbles several notches down in my esteem, not that he was that far up to begin with.

  “Wow.” I shake my head and start walking toward the door of the now deserted classroom, but because I can’t leave well enough alone, I wheel around. “You can’t possibly dislike every type of music.”

  He lifts his hands and starts ticking off his fingers. “Rap, country, classical, and jazz suck. Ballads and soft rock are tacky. And don’t get me started on pop, hard rock, or R&B. Oh, and disco should be outlawed.”

  I hoist my bag farther up my shoulder, fingers clenched so hard around the fabric handles they’ll probably tear.

  He smirks, as though he gets a kick out of being a total jerk. “You seem really upset by this.”

  “I am!”

  He stops right in front of me. “Why?”

  “Because … because…” I release my bag’s handles and drag my fingers through my hair a little roughly. Why am I trying to reason with this guy? “You know what, forget it. To each their own, right?”

  I turn around and take the high road—or at least the one that leads away from Ten.

  6

  Crushes and Crushing Comments

  I meet up with Rae by her locker, which is plastered with pictures of boy band members with swooping bangs, dazzling white teeth, and hard lines of muscles. I bet Ten abhors boy bands too.

  “How was calc?” She waggles her brows.

  “Awful.”

  Tennessee strolls by us, his gait even and so damn self-assured. The child in me wants to trip him. Not that I’ve ever tripped anyone. But if I had to trip someone, Ten would be that someone.

  Rae shuts her locker. “Want to come over and watch a movie tonight? It’s book club night.”

  Our mothers founded this very exclusive book club where they drink way more than they read. Jasper’s mom is also a member, along with a bunch of other Reedwoodian mothers. They meet every first Thursday of the month, but talk about it all month.

  I tell her I’m in, but regret it at lunch when she asks Melody to come too. Of course Mel says yes, and then she asks if Laney can tag along since they were supposed to hang out, and Rae says the more the merrier. I’m bummed she’s invited Mel and Laney, but it’s Rae. Rae wouldn’t be Rae if she weren’t surrounded by her court at all times. In a way, I’m glad she has them in her life since music takes up such a huge chunk of mine.

  While I sip apple juice, Jasper trots over to our table. He spins the free chair next to mine and straddles it. “Did I hear y’all mention a movie night?”

  Melody flips her chin-length hair. “Hey, Jasper.”

  On his way toward the jocks’ corner of the cafeteria, Brad, Jasper’s best friend, stops by our table. Laney’s black eyes dart to his ultra-pale blue ones that play hide-and-seek underneath his shaggy brown hair. He and Laney use to be an item, but they split up last spring. From what Rae told me, it didn’t end well.

  “Yo, J-man, some sophomorian chicks just asked me if you were single.” A smug grin laps against Brad’s fuzzy face. I think he’s trying to grow facial hair, but trying is the key word.

  “That’s not even a word, Brad,” Rae says, rolling her eyes at him.

  Jasper eyes me as he says, “Not interested.”

  The last time Jasper paid me this much attention was when we played Guitar Hero back in middle school and I beat him by a million points.

  Brad turns but halts midspin. “By the way, Conrad, I approve.”

  “What do you approve of?” I take a long swallow of my juice.

  He points to my shirt, which is stretched a little tight. “Rae’s daddy’s work. Looks very natural.”

  I choke on my apple juice.

  Rae narrows her eyes at him. “I noticed you were scheduled for a ball lift in Daddy’s agenda, or was it a testicular implant? You have just the one, right?”

  Brad flips her the finger, but I can tell by his reddening jaw that her comment hit hard. He glares at Laney, whose lips begin to tremble.

  “Screw you.” I’m not sure if Brad says this to Rae or Laney.

  Once he’s stormed off, Laney jumps out of her seat, tears streaming down her narrow, pale face. “How could you, Rae?”

  Mel stands up. “That was cold, Rae.”

  “He insulted Angie!”

  Mel glowers at me as though this were my fault, before running after Laney.

  Jasper chuckles. “I dig girl fights.”

  “Shut up.” Rae jabs at her vanilla pudding. “Brad’s such a prick. Why are you even friends with him?”

  Jasper grins.

  “And why are you still here, Jasper?” she adds.

  He stops rocking his chair back and forth. “I was tryin’ to score an invite to your chick night.”

  “We don’t invite boys to chick nights.”

  “You should. We’d liven it up.”

  “Oh, please.” Rae rolls her eyes.

  “What if I brought Tennessee?”

  Rae plants her elbows on the table and leans forward. “I’m listenin’.”

  “Please no. He’s so obnoxious,” I say.

  Jasper’s gaze surfs toward the table Ten is occupying with a potted palm. I wonder why he still sits alone. I’ve seen him hanging out in the hallway with a couple of kids, all from the track team. I assume he must run track, unless he just enjoys discussing electrolytes and speed intervals.

  “If he comes,” Rae says, “you can come.”

  Jasper’s out of his chair in under a second. He jogs over to Ten. I watch them talk. When Ten’s gaze bangs into mine, my fingers tighten around the juice box, and it squirts into my face. I snatch a paper napkin off my tray and blot my eye, which has already started to water.

  A minute later, Jasper plops his palms against our table and leans over. “Mission was a bust, RaeRae, but I might’ve heard our new QB has the hots for a certain leggy blonde.”

  Rae glances over at Jasper’s section of the cafeteria, the VIP area. It’s not cordoned off or anything but might as well be considering the string of jocks and cheerleaders wedged together. If it weren’t for me, Rae would be sitting there too.

  Rae returns her gaze to Jasper. “I’m not into jocks.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since last year,” I say softly.

  “Oh.” He palms his hair. “Right. Not my brother’s finest hour.”

  Jasper had a front-row seat to that debacle, what with Rae’s ex being none other than his older brother.

  Rae squashes her bottle of water until it’s no thicker than a compact disc. She’s probably imagining it’s the boy we no longer talk about’s soul. He graduated last year, but that’s not the reason we don’t talk about him. We don’t talk about him because he cheated on Rae and shattered her heart. It took months of late-night commiseration over tubs of ice cream and popcorn to get Rae out of her funk.

  “Besides, I favor intellect over brawn now,” she adds.

  Even though Jasper’s close with his brother, he doesn’t leap to his defense. “Shouldn’t personality factor in?”

  “Just because Ten keeps to himself doesn�
�t mean there’s something off about him. In my opinion, it makes him sort of intriguing.”

  Like a serial killer is intriguing.

  Jasper grunts as he pushes away from the table. Before returning to his section of the cafeteria, he asks, “So, is that a negative on chick night?”

  “Yes.” Once he’s out of earshot, Rae asks, “Did you want me to invite him?”

  “Who? Jasper?”

  “Yes, Jasper. He’s totally into you.”

  “We’re just friends, Rae.”

  “But you did pick up on all those flirty vibes, right?”

  “That’s just Jasper. He flirts with every girl.”

  “Uh-huh.” She gives me a look, one eye a little more shut than the other.

  “He does. Anyway, I’m not interested.”

  “You used to be.”

  “Back when I was a freshman. That ship has sailed.” I finger the silver arrow speared through the cartilage of my ear. Rae and I were supposed to get matching piercings, but she chickened out at the last minute, claiming her parents would have a fit.

  “I saw your mom chatting with Ten’s dad this morning. He’s cute. For an old man, that is.”

  I release my earring so fast my hand smacks into the table. “Mom knows Ten’s dad?”

  She hikes up an eyebrow. “Duh. Your mom’s redoing his house.”

  “Mom’s re—” My mouth rounds in a perfect O.

  Rae shakes her head. “Sometimes, I think you live on a different planet from us mere mortals.” She pats my hand, but I don’t feel her touch.

  I can’t believe Mom’s working on Ten’s house.

  I stand, and then I’m walking over and sliding into the chair in front of him.

  “Did you know I was your interior decorator’s daughter?”

  He uncaps his water bottle and takes a slow swallow. “Jade might’ve mentioned you and I attended the same school.” A ray of sunshine cuts through the palm fronds and across his face, making his eyes shimmer like the surface of Richland Creek at sunset.

  I rake my hair back. “You’re on a first-name basis with my mom?”

  He dips his chin to his neck and studies me from over the rim of his bottle. “I assumed you knew.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Rae’s walking over now, my bag swinging from her fingers. She hooks it over the back of my chair, then takes a seat next to me. “Hiya, neighbor.”

  Ten shuts the book he was reading and leans back in his chair. Rae asks him something, which I miss because my phone starts chirping Mona Stone’s newest chart-topping single, “Legs Like These.”

  I dig my phone out of my tote and squint to make out the caller’s name on the cracked screen. I think it says Mom, which would be ironic since we were just talking about her. I swipe my finger over the screen to pick up the call. It doesn’t work the first time. Or the second time. By attempt number four, I manage to pick up, but it’s too late. A notification for a voice mail pops up soon after. Miraculously, I manage to listen to it.

  “Hey, baby. A client’s flying me out to Salt Lake City to visit their new property. I’ll be home in the morning. I arranged with Nora that you sleep over at their place tonight. Call me when you get out of school, okay? Love you.”

  As I lower my phone, I tell Rae, “I’m sleeping over at yours.”

  “Whoop.” Then: “You really need to get your phone fixed.” Since Rae’s aware of how my phone was destroyed, I understand her message is intended for Ten.

  “Hey, RaeRae, come over here a sec!” Jasper bellows from across the cafeteria.

  She lets out a sigh but gets up. “He’s probably going to ask me how to win you over.”

  I gape at her, then blush.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him that the way to your heart is Mona Stone.” She taps my shoulder, then whirls around, her straight hair fanning out like in a shampoo commercial.

  “Win you over?” Ten asks. “Isn’t Jasper your boyfriend?”

  “My boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  He cocks an eyebrow.

  Right … “I never said he was. You just assumed it, and I didn’t deny it.” I grab my bag and hook it over my shoulder. “Anyway—”

  “You never sent me the bill for your bike repairs.”

  “Because it’s fine. The frame’s a little scratched, and I fixed the crooked spokes with pliers.” I start to turn away, then add, “As for the phone, my mom said she was going to check if our insurance plan covered the screen repair.” It must’ve slipped her mind, though, because she hasn’t come back to me with an answer. “Seems like your family’s been keeping her too busy to remember her own.”

  I don’t mean to sound jealous, but as I walk off, I realize it came out that way, which is weird, because I’ve never been jealous of Mom’s clients. Then again, Mom’s never kept secrets about them from me before.

  Why didn’t she warn me Ten went to my school?

  7

  InSinkErating My Dream

  On Fridays after school, I hang out with my vocal coach, who doubles as my piano teacher.

  Mom found Lynn after I told her that if she didn’t sign me up for singing classes, I’d buy a Rottweiler with my allowance. My threat—which wasn’t a total bluff since I really did want a dog—worked. The day I turned thirteen, she took me to Lynn’s house for a singing lesson.

  And then she signed me up for Lynn’s summer music camp, which was where I learned to dance—and I don’t mean the discombobulated swaying I used to perform in front of my mirror, clutching my hairbrush in lieu of a microphone.

  Lynn had hired Steffi, one of Mona Stone’s backup dancers, to cover the dancing part of her camp. She’s the one who taught me how to use my muscles and absorb rhythm.

  It was the best month of my life. It must also have been the best month of Lynn’s and Steffi’s lives since that’s how they met.

  To this day, their wedding has remained one of my all-time favorite events. First, because Lynn and Steffi put on a show with stage lights, sparkling outfits, and fog machines. And second, because most of Steffi’s friends still worked for Mona Stone, so I got tons of gossip on my idol.

  Lynn stops playing midnote. “DO-EE-DO, not DO-A-DO. You’re not concentrating, Angie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “From the top. And this time, relax your jaw and open your mouth wider. I want to see your tonsils.”

  I open my mouth so wide my lips feel like elastics about to snap. Lynn nods in rhythm to the keys she presses, her head acting like a metronome. My lungs expand, and my throat clenches and unclenches as I release notes I wasn’t able to reach a year ago.

  After the lesson, I take a seat on the bench next to Lynn and let my fingers trail over the keys in no particular sequence or rhythm. Once she deems me warmed up, she places sheet music in front of me.

  “You mind if I play you something I wrote?” I ask.

  “You wrote a song?”

  I nod. “Mona Stone’s holding a songwriting competition.”

  “Of course you heard about that.” Lynn is very aware of my obsession. Unlike Mom, she doesn’t condemn it.

  “It could be my lucky break.”

  Lynn shoots me a pained look.

  I shrug. “I know, I know. Thousands of people are going to submit something, but a girl can dream, right?”

  “Let’s hear it.” Lynn walks over to the window and sits on the edge of the teal chaise Steffi scored at a flea market. Mom loves that sofa chair.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I press my fingers against the piano keys and let my creation pour out of me. The melody starts out slow and quiet, but then quickens and turns louder, the beat pounding and churning, slicking the parlor in fluorescent pinks and yellows, brightening the very air. By the time the last note peters out, Lynn is no longer sitting on the chaise. She’s standing behind me, watching my fingers intently.

  I pull my hands into my lap and wring them. “So? What do you think?”

  Lynn bobs her head,
as though the melody’s still playing out in her head. “It has a ton of potential.”

  I sit there dazed because Lynn doesn’t dole out compliments easily, but then reality knocks into me as hard as Ten’s Range Rover. “You’re not just saying that because you’re my music coach and you adore me?”

  “I do love you to bits, but that right there”—she wags her finger at the piano—“made me proud to be your teacher.”

  My eyes prickle.

  “Let me hear the lyrics now,” she says, settling down on the bench next to me.

  “Those still need work.” A lot of work.

  “When’s the deadline?”

  “Halloween.”

  “Better get cracking, then.”

  “You think I have a chance?”

  She levels her gaze on mine. “Did your mom okay it?”

  “Not yet.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Well, I hope she does.” She nods to the sheet music in front of me. “Now, practice this piece.”

  I dip my chin and start playing it, wishing that every beat of the day were accompanied by a melody—a soundtrack to life. Music would spill from the sky, curl from the grass, and seep out of the asphalt.

  Ten would hate it.

  I falter and hit a wrong note.

  Why did he have to creep into my mind? Of all people …

  Right before my hour’s up, Lynn asks me to perform my song again, so I do, and she studies the way my fingers move over the keys and spread to reach chords. She’s memorizing it. After I’m done, she scoots next to me on the bench and gives it a go. Lynn’s amazing like that—she can flawlessly play back anything she sees or hears.

  “Okay, so now listen and think of the story you want to tell,” she says.

  I sit up straighter. As my melody spirals through the room, an image begins to form in my mind, faint and shiny at the edges. Smears of yellow and deep red bloom. And then a slash of lime green and thick dabs of steel black. Melodies always appear to me in Technicolor.

  “Anything?” she asks.

  “A girl running. Gazing at the sun.”

  “And?”