by Emily Lowry
I glared back. “Are you going to try taking this seriously?”
He put his head back down without responding.
Seriously? No. I was not having it. I elbowed him in the ribs again.
“I’m trying to sleep,” he snapped.
“You don’t get it,” I said. “I’m a straight-A student. I only do straight A’s. And this project’s important, and unfortunately, I’m stuck carrying you. So. Do you think for at least once in your life you can take something seriously?”
“I’ll take it as seriously as school deserves to be taken,” Trey said, giving me a mock salute.
That was not the answer I wanted — I knew exactly how seriously Trey took school. It seemed unlikely that I’d convince him to put in any effort. But maybe I could bargain with him.
“What would it take for you to put in effort?” I asked, all business.
“You don’t got anything I want,” Trey said.
He turned his head away and the conversation was over. Mr. Adebayo laid out the parameters for the project and I took notes. Why had I not turned up for class a little earlier? Sat with one of my cheer friends?
The bell finally rang and the class burst into excited chatter, coupled off pairs all-round the room beginning to compare notes and make plans for the project. Adam had paired up with a pretty girl I didn’t know. Typical.
I gathered my books. No point in trying to arrange a study session with Sleeping Beauty on my left. I’d do as much as I could on this project alone for now.
I stood to leave, and Trey grabbed my arm, pulling me back down into my seat.
I almost shrieked aloud in surprise.
He looked me dead in the eyes, his hand still on my arm. “Four grand.”
“Excuse me?”
“Give me four thousand dollars and I’ll take this seriously.”
Was he out of his freaking mind? I shook his hand off me, livid.
“I am NOT paying you to do school work.”
He shrugged. “Then you get what you pay for: nothing.”
“There has to be something else,” I said. “Why do you even need that much money considering you just walk out of stores without paying for things?”
He rested his head on his forearms and closed his eyes. “First you wake me up from a nap and now you call me a criminal. Bold strategy, Rich Girl.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
His eyes shot open. “If I answer your stupid question, will you let me sleep next class?”
My mouth twitched. “Maybe.”
“Whatever,” he said. “Four grand gets me on the stage at Prohibition.”
Prohibition? What was that? I waited for him to elaborate.
“My band gets on stage, Mick sees us, Mick signs us. Only other way to get on stage is to have fan support. Which we don’t.”
The gears turned in my mind. Trey Carter was notoriously private and mysterious. He had no social media to speak of — which was unthinkable in this day and age. It was also why he probably had no fans. But me? I had social media. Too much social media. And I was Click’s current favorite target. Maybe—
“What if I got you fans?” I asked.
Trey looked at me like I was crazy.
“I’m serious,” I said. “I’m the head cheerleader. I’m popular. I’m all over Click. And I host the best parties.” I knew I sounded arrogant, but arrogance was the only trait someone like Carter understood. “I can put people onto your band. And if you’re actually any good — doubtful — they’ll become fans. In exchange, you take this project seriously.”
“You think you can get me fans?” He raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You. The Rich Girl.”
“That’s right.” I struggled not to show how much him calling me a Rich Girl was bothering me. If he knew, he’d only do it more. “If you take this seriously — and that means meeting after school to work on this project — then I’ll get you on your stupid stage.”
Trey considered, then slowly nodded and stuck out his hand. “Better not disappoint me, Rich Girl. You can’t buy your way through this one.”
I shook his hand. “And you can’t sleep through it, either.”
We had a deal.
10
Hailey
“Hailey, honey. I love you. But could you find something a little prettier to wear?” Mom’s voice barely carried over the noise of the juicer. She slid another carrot into the machine and orange slop sputtered out.
I peered down at my Lululemon tights and cropped sweatshirt. To me, it looked like a fully acceptable outfit to spend a Saturday with Jordyn. I shrugged and put extra cream cheese on my bagel. “I like this.”
Mom gave me a pointed look as I bit into the bagel. Ah yes, carbs — her sworn enemy. I knew exactly what her look said: a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, Hailey Grace.
I took a massive bite before she could say anything. My mom was an ex-cheerleader herself, and she took my cheerleading career extremely seriously, down to monitoring both my daily cardio and carb intake. I told myself that she just wanted me to succeed. But the question always burned at the back of my mind: if I wanted to quit cheerleading, would she let me?
I wasn’t sure of the answer.
Mom sighed, pursing her painted red lips before deciding not to argue. “Are you seeing Adam today? He hasn’t been over lately. If a boy goes too long without seeing you, he wanders. A fed dog stays under the porch.”
“We. Broke. Up.” I had told her three times so far, to be exact.
“Just apologize for whatever you did,” Mom said. “I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s a nice boy. A good boy. The kind of boy you should be proud to date. Why don’t you bring him over for dinner?”
“Jordyn’s at the gate,” I said flatly. She wasn’t — not yet — but waiting in the frigid cold was preferable to continuing conversational hell with my mother.
Outside, I stamped my feet and pulled the hood of my parka up. Come on, Jordyn.
I took out my phone. Trey and I had gotten together last week to figure out our schedules so we could carve out time to work on our project together. To his credit, he had done his part so far, freed up some afternoons for me.
Now it was time to do mine.
Hailey: If you want me to promote your music, I’ll need to, you know, actually hear it?
Trey: Demo’s not done, Rich Girl.
Hailey: You know my name’s Hailey, right?
Trey: Who’s Hailey? I have you in my phone as Rich Girl.
Hailey: I have you in my phone as Don’t Answer.
Trey: :)
I shoved my phone back in my pocket. I was torn. Part of me wanted to slap Trey, the other part of me wanted to laugh. We’d exchanged numbers under the guise of the Wuthering Heights project, and to my surprise, he actually answered my texts. Sometimes even the same day. And sometimes, our fake-mean exchanges were almost…
Flirty?
I blushed. No. I did not need to be thinking about flirting with anyone. Especially Trey Carter. He didn’t date. He wasn’t serious about anyone or anything except for himself and his band. And besides, wasn’t I supposed to be figuring my own life out? No need to pour gasoline on a fire.
I was sure every girl that came into Trey’s life received the same treatment — one kiss, one night, then he was gone. A sweaty underground club, a girl infinitely cooler than me — probably with a nose ring and a shoulder tattoo — and a midnight make-out session. Then Trey would leave without bothering to get her name.
That was the guy Trey Carter was, I decided. Nobody I needed to get involved with. So why did I feel a ridiculous pang of jealousy towards the imaginary girl making out with him in my mind?
Ugh. Reel it in, Hailey.
At least Trey was honest about not wanting to date — unlike Adam, who considered me a trophy.
A horn blasted, and I fell back to reality.
“Get in, space case!” Jordyn shouted.
I hopped in the car. “To
the nail salon!”
“Someone’s cheerful,” Jordyn said as she pulled out of the driveway.
“Probably because I had a carb.”
Jordyn fake-gasped. “YOU HAD A CARB? WHAT WOULD YOUR MOTHER SAY IF SHE CAUGHT YOU WITH THE ENEMY?”
“She saw me. Can I live with you?”
“Only if you can tolerate Chase and Abby making out at every opportunity,” Jordyn said. “Last weekend I walked into the living room and they were making out during a murder scene in a horror movie. Like… what is wrong with them?”
“Hormones.”
Jordyn laughed darkly. She looked at me again. “You look different.”
“I’m not.”
“You look happy.”
I laughed. Despite everything going on, I was happy right now. “Maybe because I lost two hundred pounds of worthless football player.”
“Maybe,” Jordyn said. She didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe a certain Trey Carter is involved in your sudden happiness?”
“As if.” I snorted. “Working with him is impossible. How am I supposed to get any fans for a so-called musician who won’t let me hear his music?”
“A question for the ages,” Jordyn said.
“Making my life hard doesn’t help him. If he wants fans, I need music. And a way to get people to listen.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“What about Click?” I asked.
Jordyn looked unimpressed. “You’re asking the opinion of the girl who almost had her brother destroyed by that stupid app. Click is the worst thing that ever happened to Evermore. Whoever made it should be locked up.”
“Click is a symptom, not the problem,” I said. Jordyn and I had this debate repeatedly. She insisted that Click was all that was wrong with the world. I felt that there was some promise to Click — if you could harness its powers for good. “Everyone’s on Click. And everyone’s interested in Trey Carter. If I use Click—”
“Then Trey loses his mystery,” Jordyn said. We pulled into a dingy strip mall and parked. “People are interested in Trey for two reasons. One, because he’s completely unattainable. Nobody can have him… not even Madison freaking Albright, remember?”
How could I forget?
“And two, because it’s impossible to find out anything about him. If you put him on Click, then people stop being interested. The mystery is gone.”
“Not with the right approach,” I said, slamming the passenger door. “We don’t need to blast his personal life on Click. We just need to get people to ask some questions. Start some rumors. And, we can say that if people want to know the truth, they have to listen to his music. You know, like Trey Carter: the answers are in the lyrics.”
“Catchy,” Jordyn mused. “But is it true?”
I had no idea. “Who cares? It’s publicity.”
We walked into Regal Nail Spa and I smiled at the older lady behind the counter. “Hi Ruby!”
“Hailey! Nice to see you, and your friend too — welcome, welcome!”
Ruby ushered us into the treatment room and I sighed in happiness as I plunged my feet into the warm pedicure bath, still thinking about how to best promote Trey.
We’d have to start small. Maybe a quick blast — do you want to find out the truth about Trey Carter? Then cut to a few bars of him playing his guitar. Put out another blast the day after. Maybe reference some rumors swirling through the school. Post a snippet of a lyric. If I did this enough, I might gather enough people for an impromptu concert. People were always coming to my place for parties anyway, why not add some live music?
My thoughts drifted. “I’ve got a question.”
“You always do,” Jordyn said.
“What do you think people actually think of me?” My insecurity was showing, but wasn’t that what salons were for?
“What do you mean, Hails?”
“I feel like when I’m at school, with Madi and the team, I’m just a cheerleader. A rich girl. Then with you, I’m someone else.”
“Wait, where’s this coming from?”
“Something Adam said.”
“Forget about him,” Jordyn said. “He’s an idiot. Don’t give him any more brain space than he deserves. Which is none.”
I knew she was right. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Who was I, really? I was certain that I needed to find the answer. And I was doubly certain that until I did, dating was completely off-limits. No boys were allowed to cloud my judgements. Not this time.
11
Trey
An old acoustic guitar rested on my lap. Someone brought it to Notes earlier in the day to get restrung. I never understood why people brought their guitars to someone else to get restrung. If it was your instrument, learn to take care of it. And it’s not like it was hard, either. That was the problem with the world — too many people wanted to pass hard work off as someone else’s responsibility.
I removed the old strings and set the guitar on a bench. I put some lemon oil on a soft rag and polished the frets. There was something soothing about working on a guitar — any guitar. The only interruption to my otherwise meditative state was Leo.
He sat in the corner of the room and drummed on a cushion, bobbing his head to an invisible beat. “You don’t think the cheerleader can pull it off, do you? You really think she’s the golden ticket to get us fans?”
“She’s the golden girl, isn’t she? Golden girl’s got more access than we do.” I finished polishing the frets. When I was done, my rag had streaks of black gunk. When was the last time someone bothered cleaning this guitar?
Don’t complain, Trey. This is how you get paid.
“But she’s a cheerleader,” Leo said as he pretended to hit a cymbal.
“Doesn’t mean she ain’t clever,” I said. “She’s big on that clicking app. Word is there’s always stuff going around about her. Maybe we tap into that crowd.”
“It’s Click. And it’s not gonna work, dude,” Leo said. “High school kids aren’t the crowd we want.”
“I think we’ll need to settle for any crowd we can get,” I said. This was one of my main problems with Leo. Whenever I proposed a solution, he tried to poke holes in it. “Sometimes you have to take what you can get.”
“Maybe.”
I grabbed the new set of guitar strings. I took the thickest string, made a bend at the ball end, then pinned it into the correct slot with a bridge pin. Leo was looking at me.
“If you got something on your mind, spit it out, Yang.”
“Why are you into this girl?”
I could feel a familiar annoyance welling in my stomach. Imagine someone sitting next to you and holding their finger next to your eye while loudly proclaiming that you can’t do anything about it because they’re not actually touching you, and you’ll understand how I felt. “I’m not into her. I’m not into anyone.”
I wasn’t into Hailey Danielson.
I wasn’t even thinking about her.
She definitely wasn’t on my mind when I woke up in the morning.
And I absolutely didn’t hope it was her each time another text message arrived.
Nope.
Was not thinking about her. Or her sense of sarcasm. Or how she turned up to our meeting to work out our schedules fresh from cheer practice, in her ridiculous little uniform. Or that I might be in her phone as ‘Don’t Answer.’ And man, that angry, beautiful face? When she got mad and pouty, she got extra hot.
Not that I was thinking about her.
At all.
Leo pointed to the tattered copy of Wuthering Heights sitting on the floor. “You’re doing schoolwork for her.”
“Only if she gets us fans,” I snapped. “This is not some ridiculous high school relationship — you know I ain’t got any time for that. This is a business deal. And I’d point out I made this deal on behalf of the band. I’m doing this for all of us.”
“That must be rough,” Leo said. He mimicked my voice. “I have to spend all my time with the ho
t cheerleader, oh it’s so tough to be me.”
“Get bent.” I whipped a guitar pick at him.
He swatted it out of the air with a drumstick. “Hope it works, dude. But I’m telling you — this cheerleader, she’s the golden girl. She doesn’t have what it takes to get down in the dirt. You want to play a set at Prohibition? She’s not the girl that will get you there.”
I passed a string through a tuning peg and pulled it tight. Too tight. My fingers were clenched, and I was biting the inside of my cheek. What was wrong with me? Leo was making valid points. Hailey had done nothing like this before. She knew — metronome aside — nothing about music that I was aware of. There was very little to show that she could get the job done.
So why, if Leo was right, did it bug me so much to hear him take shots at Hailey? Shots I’d recently been more than happy to take myself?
I finished restringing the guitar, then used a pair of wire cutters to snip off excess string. Leo was right. I needed to focus on music and forget about Hailey. There’s no way some rich girl had what it took to succeed. Not when she couldn’t buy her way through the challenges.
Forget the cheerleader.
Focus on the music.
12
Hailey
A string of dirty looks greeted me as I entered the studio rehearsal space. I wasn’t used to feeling so unwelcome. Trey sat on a stool, his knees propped up, tuning his guitar. DeAndre plucked a chord from his bass guitar and Leo found a matching beat at his drum kit. There was a keyboard off to the side that no one was using.
All three of the boys paused what they were doing to look at me. While DeAndre and Leo were relatively ambivalent, Trey could not have made it clearer that he didn’t want me there than if he’d thrown a rotten tomato at my face.
“Whatever this plan of yours is, it better be good,” Trey said as he adjusted one knob at the end of his guitar. He picked out a catchy tune, then smirked, satisfied with himself.