Not Another Love Song Page 9

  While I wait for my brain to stop wobbling, I scroll through my Instagram feed and find a picture that has me sitting up in bed so fast my eyesight short-circuits. I wait until the room swims back into focus before calling Rae.

  After the third ring, she picks up with a groggy, “Yeah?”

  “You hooked up with Harrison?” My voice reverberates between my left and right temples. Is that normal? I’ve never had a hangover before.

  I squeeze my forehead between my thumb and middle finger, then swing my legs off the bed and slowly stand. A small ache throbs in the knee Ten patched up, but it’s not debilitating enough to keep me in bed. Holding on to the wall, I plod to the bathroom, then turn on the shower.

  “Morning to you too, hon.”

  “You hooked up with the quarterback?”

  “I did.” There’s a lilt to her voice.

  “What about Ten?”

  Her sheets rustle as though she’s flipping over in bed. “What about Ten?”

  I grimace at the sight of my haggard reflection in the beveled mirror over my sink. “I thought”—I touch the Band-Aid on my chin before slowly peeling it off—“I thought you were into him.”

  Isn’t that why you invited him over? I don’t say this out loud, afraid of how petty it’ll make me sound.

  “Angie, you do realize Ten’s got it bad for you, don’t you?”

  I want to say no. That it isn’t remotely true. That what happened on the school bleachers was a total fluke … It hits me that I never even told Rae about the bleachers.

  “It took Laney knocking some sense into me after the mall,” Rae says. “The second she pointed it out, though, I wondered how I’d missed it. I’m real sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “That I didn’t see it sooner.”

  Steam rises to the mirror and cloaks the glass, blurring my reflection. “Rae, first off, you have nothing to be sorry for. Secondly, nothing’s ever gonna happen between Ten and me.”

  I shudder just thinking about my text. I’m tempted to send Ten an apology along with a thank-you, but I’m forbidding myself from further indelible forms of communication.

  “Why not?” Rae asks.

  Because I’m a lunatic, and he’s secretive. Because when I get into a relationship, I want complete honesty. How can anyone build a future on top of concealed foundations?

  “Mom’s working for his dad. She told me not to get involved.” It’s a lie, but sadly, it’s probably not too far from the truth.

  “Seriously? That sucks.”

  “It’s okay. Anyway, I need to focus on my music what with the contest coming up. Boys are too much of a distraction.”

  “But what a fab distraction they are.” Rae yawns.

  “I thought you were done with jocks.”

  “I was, but the heart wants what it wants. You should write a song about that.”

  “Selena Gomez already did.”

  “Ah, damn.” There’s some more rustling on her end. And then: “Crap. I promised the parents I’d brunch with them. Crap,” she repeats, as drawers creak and slam. “I’ll pick you up on my way home. Around three?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  After we disconnect, I step under the shower’s spray and loofah my skin until I feel more human punching bag than roadkill. I change into my comfiest leggings and my all-time favorite T-shirt that reads NOT ANOTHER ROLLING STONE.

  I bought it at the Mona Stone concert Rae invited me to. Most people in Nashville get the double meaning, but not Mom. It took me spelling it out for her to understand the slogan had nothing to do with the rock band.

  Even though my stomach feels like a piece of trampled gum, it lets out a pathetic grumble, so I head down to the kitchen, where Mom’s frying some eggs. I walk over to the percolator, and although I’m not usually a coffee fan, I pour myself a cup. It’s bitter and hot, and scorches the lining of my throat. Lynn’s always on my case about drinking lukewarm beverages to preserve my vocal cords, but I can’t do tepid. Water has to be cold and tea has to be hot.

  Mom side-eyes me. “How was the football game? Heard the home team won.”

  “It was fun.”

  “What’d you do after?”

  I shrug, and the tiny movement makes my head ache anew. I should’ve swallowed some painkillers before coming down. “Hung out at Rae’s.”

  “What happened to your chin?”

  I touch the spot I left bandage-free so the puckered, reddened skin could scab over. Thankfully, it’s on the underside of my jaw, so not too visible. “I fell off my bike.” I point to my leg, which she can’t see through my leggings. “My knee got the brunt of it.”

  Mom slides the crispy eggs onto a plate. “Baby, I’d really like you to consider getting your driver’s license. Bicycles aren’t safe—”

  “Dad was driving a car.”

  Mom’s fingers tighten around the spatula. “And what? You think he would’ve survived had he been on a bicycle?”

  I jerk from the intensity of her voice, and coffee sloshes out of my cup and trickles down my wrist. “No. That’s not what—”

  “Angie, I know you have it in your mind that cars aren’t safe because of what happened to your father, but they’re a hell of a lot safer than a scrap of metal with two wheels and a handlebar. I’m signing you up for driver’s ed. Once you get your license, it’ll be your choice whether to drive or not, but at least you’ll have the tools to make an informed decision.”

  This isn’t the first time we’ve fought about my preferred method of transportation, but it’s the first time Mom has put her foot down so hard. I half expect the tiles to crack from the impact of her ultimatum.

  I’m about to tell her that she can sign me up but I won’t go, when I realize I can milk this. “I’ll do it if you agree to let me enter the Mona Stone songwriting contest.”

  Her summer tan leaks right off her face. “What?”

  “I want to submit the song I wrote. The one I played you.”

  “Is that”—her voice falters—“why you wrote it?”

  My migraine feels like it’s migrated to my chest. “Yes.” I wait with bated breath for my mother to say something. Preferably okay.

  She eyes the congealing eggs as though waiting for them to advise her.

  “You didn’t even like my song, so I probably won’t win. That should reassure you.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut for a millisecond, but then reopens them and sets them on me. Before her lips even move, I predict what she’s going to say.

  She says it anyway. “No.”

  My heart twists and twists. “Please?” I whisper.

  “No.”

  I set my mug down so brutally coffee splashes over the rim. “That’s not fair. You’re not fair. I do everything you ask me to. I even go to yoga with you every week, and you won’t even let me do one thing for myself!”

  “Because you have so much more to lose than to gain!”

  “Wow…” Tears sting my eyes. “You don’t even think I have a chance to win.”

  “I didn’t say that, Angie.”

  “But you’re thinking it.” I start up the stairs, my bad knee smarting from the rapid movements. “Dad would understand. I wish he were alive! I wish you’d been the one in that car instead of him!”

  Something clatters in the kitchen.

  I went too far, but I’m too proud and angry and shocked to head back down, so I fling my bedroom door shut, jump into bed, and curl up to mourn my crushed dream.

  I wait for Mom to come upstairs. I’m certain she will. She’s one of those people who have to fight until there’s no more fight to be had. Until the anger has defused, and the parties have reconciled. She would’ve made a good lawyer.

  I sob, and it angers the pounding in my head.

  Soon, it’s been an hour, and she still hasn’t come upstairs.

  I haven’t heard the front door so I know she hasn’t left the house. I pad over to the window just to make sure her car’s stil
l in the driveway. It is.

  She’s waiting me out.

  Or maybe she’s so appalled by what I shouted at her that she never wants to talk to me again.

  My mother’s all the family I have … all the family I need.

  I can’t lose her.

  I open my door. It creaks, and then the floorboards groan under my footsteps.

  Mom’s lying on the couch, reading a book with a smashed pink flower on the cover. It pretty much sums up how I feel—crushed. I approach her slowly.

  She doesn’t lower the book.

  Doesn’t even glance at me.

  Lips trembling, I whisper, “I didn’t mean it, Mom. I didn’t mean it.”

  She sets the novel down beside her on the couch, and then she sighs and opens her arms, and I tumble into them.

  Tears drip down my cheeks and soak into the ruffles of her camisole. I didn’t earn the right to sob—I’m the insensitive one—and yet I just can’t seem to contain my emotions.

  Mom smooths my hair back.

  “You didn’t come upstairs. Why didn’t you come upstairs?” I croak, resting my cheek against her chest.

  Her labored heartbeats drum against my ear. “I thought it was about time you learn to put out the fires you light, baby. Most people aren’t bulls. They won’t charge into you. They’ll hold grudges, and it’ll fester. And that’s the absolute worst. Your daddy used to do that.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper. “He held so many grudges it killed him before he even died.”

  I wipe my eyes and sniff, then push myself off Mom. “Like what?”

  Mom presses her lips together so snugly they vanish. “I don’t want to talk about him right now. Not when I’m feeling so emotional. I’m afraid I might say something I’ll regret.”

  It takes everything in me not to beg her to toss me one more scrap about the man I don’t remember.

  “About that contest … I understand you’ve got your sights set on it, but I don’t want you entering it.”

  My lips start to wobble anew. “Why not?”

  “Because, baby, I don’t like that woman.”

  I untangle myself from her hug. “You don’t even know her!”

  “But you do?”

  “No.” I pause. “It’s so unfair.”

  “Life’s not always fair. Something else you gotta learn.”

  I mutter something about needing to get ready for the dance.

  “Don’t be mad at me, baby.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

  I’m going to have to do it behind her back.

  If I don’t win, she’ll never find out. If I do win, she’ll have to live with it.

  20

  Crash Into Me, Why Don’t You?

  The gym sparkles with gold streamers, green balloons, and dangling cutouts of our school’s football players—to which Rae and her decorating crew added comical facial hair, painted-on crowns, and superhero capes. A giant green tablecloth covers a long row of desks topped with drinks, bowls of allergen-free snacks, and clear vases filled with green apples.

  The second we enter the gym, Rae, Laney, and Mel are reeled into the beefy arms of their respective boyfriends. I toy with the hot-pink glass necklace girdling my neck, jealousy niggling at me. But then I think of Mona Stone. Superstars don’t need anyone to hold them up.

  Alone, I move closer to the stage, where a hired band is playing a medley of the latest hits. Careful not to put too much weight on my sore knee, I sway to the beat. I feared I would have to wear flats, but in the end, I managed to walk just fine in the black heels I borrowed from Mom.

  I lift my arms and let the music travel through me. The singer, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, paces the stage, mic in hand. The only hints of color are his piercing blue eyes, enhanced by black eyeliner, and his horseshoe belt buckle inlaid with turquoise. Even his hair is black and falls in waves across his forehead. He winks at me.

  Or at least I think he does. He probably can’t even see me what with the stage lights. I bob my head to the twang of the guitar, musing about what it would feel like to be up on that stage, to play in front of people, to have my voice carry over a crowd. Just imagining it makes my palms clammy. I rub them on my leopard-print dress.

  The song ends. I clap along with everyone else. The singer strides across the makeshift stage in my direction and lifts his mic to his mouth. Right before launching into a new number, he winks at me. This time, I’m sure I’m not imagining it.

  Maybe the wink was meant for someone else, though. I check over my shoulder. People have stopped clapping and have started bobbing their heads and hands to the new song. It’s unfamiliar, probably an original. It’s not bad. The pitch could use some tweaking and some high notes would work better as low notes, but the rhythm is catchy. As I sway to it, locks of hair escape my waterfall braid and fall in tendrils around my face.

  At some point, I close my eyes and let the music guide my motions. It’s not like I can step on anyone’s toes. I’m not even lifting my feet. Besides, I love to feel music, and when you suspend one sense, the others heighten.

  But I feel much more than music.

  I feel a hand on my waist.

  My lids snap up.

  My gaze lands on a set of hooded eyes.

  Tennessee leans over until his mouth is level with my ear. The pounding of blood inside my veins increases so suddenly that if he moves any closer, my pulse will nip his mouth.

  “I see the leg still works.”

  Because my heart has usurped all of my brain’s capacities, I don’t speak. I simply stare up at him. When that gets awkward, I whiz my gaze back to the band.

  The blue-eyed boy has returned to my side of the stage. As he hops to the beat of a dizzying tune, he shoots me another wink. Or maybe he didn’t wink. Maybe he just has a seriously twitchy eye. Magnesium deficiency will do that to you …

  “A friend of yours?” Ten has pulled back up to his full height, features tensed.

  “What? Who?”

  “The singer.”

  “Never seen him before.” I shout-speak over the instrumental din. “I didn’t think you were coming!”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I heard the food was good.”

  I smile. “Ha! The infamous gourmet offerings of Reedwood High homecoming.”

  Ten smiles back.

  Since I’m guessing he didn’t turn up for the buffet, I ask, “Did your dad make you come?”

  “He strongly suggested I should attend. Besides, it was either homecoming or another viewing of Nev’s favorite movie.”

  “What’s her favorite movie?”

  “Grease.”

  “Ooh. I love Grease!”

  Ten grins. “Of course you do.”

  I flick his chest, then stare at the black fabric of his button-down. What got into me to touch Ten? I ball my fingers and drag them down to my sides, locking them there. “You must really hate it if you picked homecoming.”

  A soft chuckle reverberates through the thin space between our bodies. The sound is as surprising as it is beautiful.

  “What?” he asks.

  “You have a nice laugh.”

  “I think that is the first time someone’s complimented my laugh.”

  “Maybe because it’s the first time you’ve laughed?”

  “That must be it.” He shoots me a crooked grin. He must practice them in front of the mirror because he nails them every time. His gaze lingers on my face and then moves to a spot behind me. “I thought you and your friends were all coming dateless?”

  I turn my head and sure enough, Laney’s dancing with Brad alongside Rae and Harrison. “The golden boys of football become irresistible after a win.”

  “Should’ve picked football instead of track.” He tips his head to the side. “No football player for you?”

  “I’m not into jocks.”

  “What sort of boys are you into?” His gaze darts back to t
he stage. “Musicians?”

  “I don’t think I could ever go out with a musician. It would be too explosive, what with all the rivalry and passion.” I touch the little arrow speared through the top of my ear.

  His eyes move to my ear.

  “What about yourself, Tennessee Dylan? What sort of girls do it for you?”

  “Hmm…” He lifts his hand, then runs the pad of his thumb over my chin, over the scab I camouflaged with foundation.

  I think the band has stopped playing, but I could be wrong. The feel of his thumb, the smell of spice and soap lifting from his neck, is confusing the heck out of my senses.

  “Spirited ones,” he finally answers, voice so raspy my skin bursts into goose bumps.

  “You’ll be happy to know I didn’t bike here,” I blurt out before I can ask if I fall into that category.

  “How wise.” He frees my chin, but the heat of his fingers lingers. “Should we get some punch?”

  “Punch?”

  The dance floor has become a mosh pit of excited shrieking. Not surprising, considering the band’s playing Taylor Swift’s new song.

  “Don’t they have punch at American school gatherings?” he asks.

  I frown. “Didn’t you attend an American school before?”

  “No. Only French lycées for moi.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because my dad thought it would be neat that I spoke French,” he says.

  “And here I thought you enjoyed T-shirts with random slogans.” When his eyebrows slant, I say, “On Monday, your shirt said you spoke French.”

  “It was the only item of clothing I owned that was red.”

  “Your cape-slash-gown was red.”

  His lips hike up into another lopsided smile. “That look is harder to pull off than you’d think.”

  “If anyone can do it, it’s you. The guy who doesn’t care what people think.”

  His smile fades. “Is that the impression I give? That I don’t care?”

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I wish I didn’t care what people thought of me.” Because I haven’t dug a deep enough trench, I add, “Then again, Ten, I don’t know much about you. Besides the facts that your last name is made up, that this state gives you hives, and that you enjoy running, cooking, and driving.”