But there were holes in that plan. Big holes. She could see them now—she had fallen into them. And she was in far too deep to climb out.
Why the hell had she expected things to magically "work out"? When did that ever happen in real life? Did the Fates owe her a win? Maybe. Did they care? Definitely not.
She beat her aching head against her fists. A cold sweat broke out over her skin, nausea crawling up her windpipe. She needed to get upstairs, to the attic—needed to release some of the magic before it broke her.
Her fingers shook so hard she could barely get her jeans buttoned. She didn't bother with the shirt, just dragged on the hoodie and clutched the shirt and bag to her chest. She staggered toward the dark stairway, at the opposite end of the building from the steps Kiyo typically used.
But when she pushed open the stairway door, someone was there, sitting on the steps, hunched in the dark. In the faint light from a cloudy window on the next landing, she glimpsed messy black hair above a pale neck. The door creaked, and he turned. "Mel?"
She barely heard him through a flash of bright pain. Choking, she leaned against the wall.
"Mel!" He scrambled to his feet. "What's wrong? Why are you up here?"
"I, um—" She rooted around her fractured brain for an excuse. "I was using an empty room, to—" She tried to climb the first step and swayed.
"You're not drunk, are you?" He leaned in and sniffed her. "No, not drunk. Wait, are you high?"
Hopelessly, she nodded. It was as good an explanation as any. "I'm pathetic, I know."
"No, it's just—I didn' realize you—" He sank a hand into his hair.
"Forget it." She gripped the railing and hauled herself up a few steps before the pain came again and she crumpled, letting her hair fall further over her scars.
"Here, let me help you." His arm hooked under her shoulders, lifting her up. She smelled the sharp, fresh scent of his deodorant, blended with another warm, enticing musk that was his alone. "Where are you going, anyway?"
Might as well tell him. "The attic."
"You live in the attic?"
"I like it up there. It's quiet. Private."
He didn't answer, just moved up one step, then another, drawing her with him. He had to stoop a little because of the difference in their heights, but they made it up a few flights despite their lopsided arrangement.
Mel couldn't understand why she was so violently ill this early in the day, after she had been up most of the previous night painting. She had painted everything she could lay her hands on—set pieces, walls, support posts, even the streaked glass of the narrow attic windows.
Her aunt's voice echoed in her mind. "It will get worse. If you don't find a protégé, your magic will eat you alive."
As if in answer to the memory, the magic bulged inside her again, pressing the edges of her mind for weaknesses, threatening to explode through her into the world. Mel dry-heaved and collapsed on the stairs.
Kiyo swore and swept her up in his arms. "Don't throw up on me, okay?" He teetered for a second, then found his balance and marched up the steps. She splayed her hands over her face and closed her eyes, too agonized to protest.
"Hey, are you sure you don't need a doctor?" he said. "You didn't overdose or something, did you?"
"No. I'll be fine. I just need to rest."
"Okay." He kept climbing, drawing breath in shorter and shorter gasps as they nearer the top of the steps. "I get it, you know," he puffed between heavy steps. "I like my privacy, too."
Mel didn't answer. She couldn't think beyond the bare meaning of the words.
Kiyo stopped at the attic door and set her down. "Is this it?"
"Yes. Thank you." She drew the key from her jeans and promptly dropped it. Kiyo scooped it up and unlocked the door for her. As he pushed it open, he looked at her, his eyes traveling down her torso and then snapping back up, alarmed. Mel realized that her hoodie lay open, showing her bra and stomach, and she clutched the edges together again.
She ducked into the room and turned, trying to shut the door, but he pushed past her into the space, his eyes widening. "Wow. I can see why you like it up here."
Mel's panic overtook her pain, and she stared around desperately, wondering if there was anything exposed that might give her away. Her laptop was closed—nothing suspicious seemed to be showing. A clutter of skillfully arranged stage props, wild paintings, and musical instruments couldn't betray her to be anything but a closeted artist.
But she couldn't sing or play with him there, and she needed to get the magic out of her system.
"You need to go," she croaked, clinging to a post for support.
"Whatever, Mel. You're obviously sick, and I'm staying until I'm sure you're okay." His jaw was set, his eyes steel and sadness.
"You're judging me," she whispered.
"No. Well, yeah. You shouldn't put that crap in your body." He looped an arm around her shoulders again, drawing her toward the bed. "Come on, lie down."
She shook him off. "What, you want me to pass out so you can feel me up? Is that it?"
Anger flickered over his delicate features. "I'd never do that."
"Get out."
"All right." He retreated, his eyes raking the walls, the canvases, the repainted sets. "You're an incredible artist," he said quietly.
The door closed behind him, and Mel whirled into action. This time she opened her notation program and begin writing music—first a basic melody, then harmonies, chords, and layers upon layers of parts for various instruments. She wrote a fierce, fast first movement, a dreamlike second movement like drizzling rain, a sweeping dance section, and a thundering finale—an entire symphony. She could hear it in her mind, all the pieces of the orchestra singing together, and it was the story of her pain and Kiyo's voice.
Blurry-eyed, she fell onto the bed, barely conscious that it was late afternoon and she had missed her work shift. Maybe Kiyo would tell someone she was sick. Maybe he would tell them she was living up here. Maybe they would find her, and it would all be over.
She couldn't manage to care.
Her body shut down, and her mind soon after.
-9-
Replay
Harley chose the seat next to Kiyo on purpose. He was the best-looking boy in the competition, and she was the prettiest girl—so of course it made perfect sense for them to fall in love. Unless he was gay. Although judging by the way he went all clumsy and nonverbal when she apologized to him on that first morning, he liked girls.
She needed to be sure, so she tugged her neckline down a little lower and settled into the chair next to him at the table in the makeshift lecture room. "Feels like high school, doesn't it?" she said.
"Kind of."
"Have you graduated?"
"In the spring, technically," he answered. "Although I'll probably have to take summer school to make up for what I'm missing by being in the show."
"Oh, unlucky you." She gave him one of her small, sexy smiles that usually made boys liquefy into puddles of testosterone. "I'm done with high school. Did my first semester of college in the fall, actually. But I'm—taking a break." The shadow of the future crept into her mind, but she pushed it away and flounced her shoulders. "I probably won't go back. Music is more my thing, anyway."
"But you could study music in college," he said. "Lots of cool programs. That's probably what I'll do."
"Why study it if you can get there on raw talent?" Harley said.
"Why even have talent?" Diwali leaned over from his seat at the next table. "With all the sound tech and filters and autotune, you barely need the skills. Anything you do in the studio, they can doctor it up to sound good. That's most pop stars nowadays."
Harley frowned. "That's not necessarily true. Don't tell me you're one of these purist indie guys that hates everything popular."
"Hey, I know what I like." Diwali grinned. "Who are your favorite singers, girl?"
Harley rattled off a list of her top ten, her frustration deepening
as Diwali's grin broadened. "What's so funny?"
"Nothin', girl. You're makin' my point for me, bein' all basic and bougie."
Who was this guy anyway? Thinking he was something else, horning in on her one-on-one time with Kiyo. He was going down. "I have excellent taste in music."
"Sure, baby. Whatever."
"Don't you dare call me 'baby.' "
"Okay, okay." Kiyo spread his hands between them. "Chill. He didn't mean any disrespect, Harley. He's just got an overabundance of confidence. And Diwali—dude, don't call her 'baby.' It's condescending AF."
"I guess." Diwali nodded apologetically and turned back around as the instructor entered the room and greeted them.
Harley leaned toward Kiyo until her curls brushed his cheekbone and whispered, "Thanks."
"No problem," he whispered back. He glanced at her, and she smiled, holding his gaze. He cleared his throat and focused on the teacher.
"Let me thank you better," she said softly. "Sit with me at lunch?"
He cut his eyes toward her for a bare second. "I'm sitting with Phoebe and Denali. You're welcome to join us."
She rolled her eyes. "Okay then. Dinner?"
"Sure, I guess."
"Great! It's a date."
His eyes flashed to hers, alarmed. "We're not supposed to date other contestants, or staff. That's one of the rules in the contract we signed."
"I know." She smirked. "It's a figure of speech, sweetie, nothing more."
He nodded and looked pointedly ahead, not so much as glancing at her again. Not exactly the reaction she was hoping for.
She slouched in her seat, pouting a little, while the instructor droned on and on about how to tactfully manage social media.
"Once you're in the public eye, everything you say and do will be scrutinized," the woman said. "You can't make mistakes. Think very carefully about each post, each update, each photo, every single word you put online. Make sure it's truthful, that it fits with your brand, and that it doesn't cause controversy. Now let's look at some examples of social media gaffes—the mistakes of a moment that cost reputations, money, and sometimes entire careers."
Harley looped a lock of hair around her finger, admiring its glossy sheen. She should probably listen to this lecture. She had tried to jumpstart her music career several times, making music videos and posting them online, opening several social media accounts and updating them with photos and comments.
She had gained followers quickly for a while. And then it began—the headaches, the depression. She started posting without thinking, looking for sympathy and solace from her faceless followers. And some of them weren't kind at all—they were soulless creeps who decided to tear her down and pull her apart.
Devastated and furious, Harley responded in kind. Sure, she overreacted. A few of the things she'd said still made her cringe. But the trolls had deserved their online smackdown.
Unfortunately after that she started hemorrhaging followers. And then she got mad about the decline and posted about it and lost more—a vicious cycle.
So she should probably be listening, learning how to plan and polish her content. But it was much more fun to stare at Kiyo's profile, admiring the lean slope of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw.
He was yummy, for sure. And he was hers. She deserved him. Life owed her this—the beautiful boy, the top spot in the competition—all of it.
She shook off her sulky mood. So what if he was playing hard to get? The next class on the schedule was dance, and she'd have a chance to shake her assets right in his face. She'd smile and laugh and be so charming and sexy, he wouldn't be able to resist.
Unless there was someone else in the way. A girlfriend back home, maybe? Or maybe someone connected to the show. But Harley hadn't seen anyone around who was as pretty, charming, and gifted as herself.
She watched Kiyo out of the corner of her eye. She'd have to find out for sure if she had any competition, and then she'd know which approach to take with him. Look out, boy, I'm coming for you.
For a few minutes she tuned in to the lecture—but the instructor was listing a bunch of questions to ask and rules to follow before posting anything. Who the heck would stop and ask a million questions before updating a status or throwing up a video? Lame, old-school nonsense.
Harley held her phone under the edge of the table and checked her email. The top one was yet another desperate check-in from her mother—"How are you feeling? Are you getting enough rest? Are you eating healthy? Taking your medication? You know, you can come home anytime. We can relax, have some fun, make memories together."
Needy much? She emailed back two words. "I'm fine."
Why couldn't her mother understand that she needed to do this? She needed to be here at Voices Rising like she needed oxygen in her lungs.
Four failed auditions for national singing competitions. Four shattered dreams, and now this—a place among the twenty contestants. Sure, it was just a state-wide contest, but it meant acceptance, finally, and a chance to show what she could do. This was her one shot at being a real star, at proving that she was a winner, an overcomer of odds.
A small repayment of the immense, yawning debt that this cruel universe owed her.
-10-
Sweet But Psycho
Something about the encounter with Mel bothered Kiyo. The drug use, obviously—he wasn't sure whether he should tell an adult about it or butt out of her life. But there was something else, too—something so faint and frail that when his memory tried to grasp it, it floated out of reach again.
He decided to stop trying to remember. If it was important, it would come to him later.
After the session on social media, the contestants were meeting with the dance instructor, so Kiyo stopped by his room to change into more athletic clothing before heading to the mirror-lined dance studio. He didn't mind the dancing—the physical activity would be a relief after the sexually charged session with Erin this morning. At least, it had been arousing for him. That exquisite face, the sultry voice, those fingers of hers, touching him at unexpected moments, but never long enough—sometimes he thought he might explode from wanting her. He even loved her spicy moments, when her patience frayed and she barked orders at him.
At school last year, he'd had a crush on a girl. Went on a couple of dates, traded a couple kisses, and then he backed off. What was the point of a high school romance anyway? It would end in heartbreak when they went to different colleges and met more interesting people.
But when he was with Erin, his body and heart rose up and roared for her like an enraptured audience, and he couldn't think beyond the sheer want in his soul. He had fallen for her ridiculously fast and hard. He knew it, and he didn't care.
Harley passed in front of him, snapping long fingers in his face. "Earth to Kiyo!" She laughed, pearly teeth flashing.
"Oh hey! Sorry, I was distracted."
"Distracted by what?" She leaned closer and whispered, "Or who?"
"No one," he said quickly. "Just—there's a lot going on in my head right now, you know?"
"Honey, I hear that," chimed in a curvy, dark-skinned girl to his right. Jalana, if he remembered her name correctly. "Takes me forever to fall asleep nights, my brain is so busy running."
"Plus this place is creepy as hell," added a man from the row behind Kiyo. He wore heavy makeup and a pair of cork plug earrings. Kiyo couldn't remember his name—Maven? Rainman? No, Ramon. That was it.
Jalana nodded. "Oh yes. I keep hearing noises—these huge creaks and groans from the upper floors, and I could swear I heard music the other night, like from really far away."
"We've got some vivid imaginations here." Harley bent over in front of Kiyo, a warm-up stretch that gave him a full view of her perfect backside, every curve visible in the tight yoga pants. She whipped out of the pose, throwing him a smile over her shoulder before repeating the move. "You should warm up, Kiyo."
He licked his dry lips and wiped sweaty palms on his T-shirt. "Yeah, I gu
ess."
The dance instructor burst into the room, clapping loudly in a snappy rhythm. "All right, you gorgeous humans, let's get this party started!" He did a pirouette and a leap. "Today we're kicking things up a notch, literally. Doing kicks. So get those hammies stretched out!"
Kiyo spent an hour trying not to watch Harley's luscious figure writhe and contort in front of him. Instead he focused on the instructor, or on Diwali's clumsy movements. Diwali had the misfortune of being the contestant that the instructor tended to call out most frequently for sloppy stretches and failed moves.
"Why we gotta do this at all?" muttered Diwali to Kiyo as they walked down the hall after class. He mopped himself with a small towel that looked pitifully inadequate, given the rivulets of sweat draining down his neck and dampening his shirt. "I'm a singer, not an acrobat."
"If you want to do shows, you've got to be able to dance sexy onstage," said Harley. Kiyo jumped. How was she right behind him? He had hurried out of class on purpose to avoid her, but here she was, popping up at his elbow like a beautiful porcelain jack-in-the-box with honey-colored hair.
"The gigs I want ain't gonna require these prissy moves," said Diwali. "I'm gonna be stomping and smashing and rocking that stage, not pussy-footing around."
"That little tirade of yours sounded kinda sexist," snapped Harley.
"So the instructor's style might not be for everyone," Kiyo said, hoping to play for peace before they went after each other again. "We can all learn something. At least we're getting exercise."
"Some of us could certainly use it." Harley nodded to the two women several paces ahead—thickset Jalana and curvy Phoebe.
The Monsters of Music Page 8