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.”