Falling for Forever

by Melissa Chambers

“Morning,” the man says with an official nod. “Please sign in.” He motions to an office on the left. The woman looks directly past us to the parking lot, on vigilant patrol.

  We walk toward the office. “Jeez,” I say. “Do you think they’re expecting a shooter?”

  “It’s a public high school in downtown Nashville. SROs are just a formality.”

  I say under my breath, “Didn’t need SROs in Cliff Ridge, whatever that means.”

  “School Resource Officers. Look, sweetie. This is no typical high school. Kids are here because they want to be. I want you to see this as a privilege, not something in your way. The skills and connections you’ll gain here are going to be invaluable to you in the music business.” He stops in front of the office door and faces me. “Your future starts here, not in L.A. working at some wretched diner and clawing your way onto a karaoke stage begging to get noticed.”

  I glare at him for dogging on my original plan. I glance around. “If this place is so fantastic, why didn’t you try to get me in freshman year?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t know such an opportunity existed. I’d never heard of anything like this. Someone mentioned it last spring at a gig. I’ve had my heart set on it for you ever since.”

  I want to call bullshit. I suspect he knew about it but never thought I was a real candidate until I made it onto the show. In his defense, my dad is used to being surrounded by professional musicians—the best of the best. The roles I played in Cliff Ridge’s theatre productions were secondary at best, and other than that, I didn’t really express much of an interest in singing until the Sensation auditions came to Nashville.

  I inhale a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s just get signed up or whatever.”

  We enter the office, where a hefty lady working the front desk welcomes us and hands my father a clipboard with paperwork to fill out, which he accepts happily. I pull out my phone and start scrolling.

  “You’ll need to leave that with your dad, honey,” the lady says.

  I look up. “Excuse me?”

  “We don’t allow cell phones in the building.” She busies herself at her desk like she hasn’t just said the most extreme sentence I’ve heard all year.

  My dad holds out his hand. “I’ll take it with me when I leave. I’ll have it for you in the car when I pick you up.”

  “Funny how you failed to mention that tiny detail,” I say to my dad.

  The woman reaches over the desk with a brown envelope. “Here’s your new student packet, Jenna. Everything you’ll need is in this folder, including a map of the school along with a note card to give each of your teachers. They all have received email notification of your arrival and should be prepared for you, but it never hurts to hand them the card anyway.”

  A girl walks around the corner and plasters a huge smile on her lips when she sees me. “Hey!”

  As my early morning eyes focus, I realize it’s the girl from the club the other night.

  She holds out her hand. “I’m Nicolette. I don’t think we officially met Saturday.”

  I shake her hand. “Jenna.”

  “Nicolette is going to help you around today,” the secretary says.

  Nicolette leans in. “I work in the front office, so I got the jump on your arrival.”

  I’m not sure what that means or how I feel about it.

  The secretary hands her a piece of paper. Nicolette skims it. “Cool! We have Music together.”

  “Great!” I say, attempting to match her enthusiasm and trying not to let it get on my nerves. I’m new. I could use a friend.

  “Come on, we’ll find your locker first, then we’ll walk the route to your classes.”

  “Great,” I repeat with a smile.

  We walk out into the hallway, and she holds open her arms. “Welcome to your new school.” She consults the paper. “Your locker is on the guitar wing. The administration is huge on trying to keep us all communicating with one another.” She covers her chest with her hand. “See, I’m in dance, so my locker is on the vocal wing.” She turns to me hopefully. “Have you ever taken?”

  “Dance?” I ask.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “For a few years when I was little.”

  She smiles. “Cool. So what happened to L.A.?”

  “My dad happened. I promised him I’d go here and finish school if I got in. I don’t know how he pulled it off.”

  She lifts her chin with a proud smirk. “We’re getting ready to shoot this promotional video for our school. I know the board is looking for a celebrity kid to host, but they also really wanted a student. You’ll kill two birds.” She holds up a hand. “I’m not supposed to know this, so you have to act surprised when they ask you.”

  This makes me smile. I can’t believe my dad didn’t tell me that. I wonder if he knew that was their motivation for letting me in. “I thought this school had a waiting list,” I say.

  “It does, but we want to make sure we’re getting the best of the best.” She points. “Here, this way.” She locates my locker and rolls her eyes. “Great. It’s smack in the middle of the cotillion cluster.”

  “The cotillion cluster?”

  She waves me off. “It’s our school’s version of the A-list. It’s all very Mean Girls and cliché. Boring, really. But you’ll be running into them for sure. They cluster right there.” She points directly across the hall.

  I shrug off her concerns. “They won’t be an issue for me.” Or at least I hope not.

  She cocks her head to the side, eyes twinkling with delight. “Cool.” She brightens her smile. “This way for your first period—Precalculus.”

  The hallways begin to fill as Nicolette leads me around the school from one class to the next. I try to pay attention, but I’m horrible with direction.

  Nicolette is quite the talker, filling me in on so much more than I can even process, but I do enjoy peeking into the different conservatories and nooks of the school. The piano conservatory has Macs set up on top of all the pianos, which are lined up like desks. Headphones cover the ears of a couple of kids, their fingers floating up and down the keys. A handful of kids hang in a choir room—one of them giving me a double take as Nicolette points around the room, jabbering on about choral performances and the difference between concert choir and show choir.

  Nicolette beams as she shows me the dance conservatory. Girls wear leggings and sports bras as they balance on barres and beams. Jeez, they’d be sent home at Cliff Ridge High looking like that. I wonder if they change for class.

  As she drops me back by my locker, we peek in the guitar conservatory. A blond guy tears up an electric guitar playing a lick I recognize as a Foo Fighters song.

  Nicolette rolls her eyes and tugs on my arm to leave, but I hang to hear the guy finish. She settles back in beside me.

  “Who’s that?” I ask.

  She purses her lips. “Shane McCollough, show-off.”

  The guy looks up at us, then back down at his guitar. He stops mid-lick and jerks his head back up. I grin. He’s cute.

  He narrows his gaze. “Are you…”

  “Yes, she is,” Nicolette says, inspecting her nails.

  He walks over to me, his face opening in a smile. “I’m Shane.”

  I take his outstretched hand. “Jenna.”

  “Are you going here now?”

  “Yeah. Today’s my first day.”

  He smiles even wider. “Cool. I saw you on America’s Newest Sensation. You were totally robbed.”

  I think I like this guy. “Thanks.”

  A bell sounds, and Nicolette tugs at me. “That’s the warning bell. You’ve got five minutes to get to Precal.”

  Shane adjusts his guitar strap on his shoulder. “Let me know if you need any help finding anything…or whatever. I’m in here most of the time.”

  “Cool,” I say, and we head toward my locker.

  Nicolette leans in. “You do not want to go there. He’s a total man whore.”

  “Noted,” I say, but I’
ll make that determination for myself.

  We arrive at my locker, so I turn to her. “Thanks for showing me around. I really appreciate it.”

  She lifts her shoulders. “Sure. I’ll see you in fourth period for Music. Do you think you can make it until then?”

  I blink, and she laughs, clearly as an afterthought. She’s sweet, but she’s a lot for eight o’clock in the morning.

  I swear, whoever decided to have math be a first period class needs to be Tasered. At least I don’t have Chorus first. My voice needs to warm up naturally. English is second period followed by Spanish, which is entirely confusing. Nobody blinked in either class when I introduced myself, but to be fair, in Spanish I was assigned a Spanish name so it’s not like anyone had the chance to hear my name anyway.

  I walk into the music room, which is this large, open room with couches and beanbags spread around in a semicircle. A scattering of keyboards, music stands, and percussion instruments lies around the front. I pass a bongo and give it a few hits.

  “Jenna!” Nicolette stands up off a couch and waves me over. She’s with another girl from Saturday night. “You remember Greta, right?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Hey.”

  Greta, with the dark-haired bob, gives me a sort of shy wave and a smile. “Hey.”

  I relax back into a deep couch, running my hand over the armrest. Now, this is what I call class.

  I turn to Nicolette beside me. “What’s up with them taking our phones at the front door?”

  “They want us unplugged here. It’s part of the whole bohemian vibe.”

  Bohemian. Is that what these people are? I glance around at the other students filtering in and think about the ones I’ve been seeing all morning. Some have worn expensive-looking clothes, but for the most part, everyone dresses really relaxed and comfy. Guys sport facial hair and girls don’t wear too much makeup. I’m not sure I’d call these people bohemian, but I guess the vibe here can pass for that.

  I tap my fingers on the leather couch arm. “I’m having serious withdrawal.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Greta says. “We all leave our phones in our cars, and we’re texting before we leave the parking lot.”

  An older guy who must be our teacher enters the room scrolling through a tablet. He sets it down. “Okay, students. Douglas, will you get the door please?”

  As the guy is shutting the door, another guy scoots in at the last minute and sits in a wooden chair next to a music stand. He doesn’t look up from the notebook that’s open on top of his stack. The second he sits, he’s sketching. I recognize the motion—Chloe’s always sketching.

  I squint at him, because his five-tenish frame rings familiar. He pulls his messy brown curls off his forehead, and my heartbeat takes flight as I realize who it is. It’s the asshole from Saturday night who jacked me up with the Spice Girls song.

  I remember now the waitress saying they were featuring kids from this school, so I should have expected to see him at some point. But I bet he’s not expecting to see me. Time for me to show this guy exactly who he decided to screw with.

  I stand and make my way to the teacher, tossing a little extra swagger into my walk. He’s a mid-thirties, balding guy, but balding in a way that’s kind of hot like Jason Statham or Jessie J. The teacher seems to recognize me, his brow creasing a bit and a little smile tugging at his lips. But by the time I’ve finished my stroll across the room, he’s giving me one of those wary teacher looks as if he’s already had a semester of my crap and needs an aspirin.

  He takes the card from me, giving me a polite but firm sort of acknowledgment. “You must be Jenna,” he says without looking at the card.

  “The one and only,” I say.

  He lets out an exhausted sigh. I’m really not that bad. He’ll see. “I’m Mr. Weston.”

  I nod and face the class, my hands clasped behind my back so my chest sticks out. My barely A’s are super barely, so I have to give them every advantage when on display like this.

  He holds out a hand. “Class, this is Jenna Quigley.” He looks at the card. “She joins us from Cliff Ridge High, which is about an hour and half southeast of here. Jenna, you can take your seat.”

  I look up at him in confusion. The card says for me to introduce myself. I glance down at the card and back up at him.

  He gives a defeated sigh and then offers his hand toward the class. “Would you like to tell the class a little bit about yourself first?”

  I inhale a deep breath and drop my shoulders. “I’m a singer, for those of you who didn’t already know that.” I shrug my shoulders with a sheepish grin, but only Greta and Nicolette smile back, which shakes my bravado a bit. I clear my throat. “I…um…” I have suddenly forgotten a single thing about myself. I toss up a hand. “I’m a singer.”

  God, I had this whole spiel planned about my influences, but something about standing in front of this small group of discerning kids is making me sweat. When it’s a mass of people, you don’t even think about it. But one-on-one under scrutinizing eyes like this is jacking me up.

  “Thanks, Jenna. We’re all happy to have you here. This is actually good timing. We’re beginning our songwriting unit that will last until the end of the semester.”

  Songwriting. That sounds cool. I’ve written songs. I was seven and they were about unicorns, but I did write them.

  Mr. Weston clasps his hands. “Everyone stand and make a circle.” The class does as told. “Jenna gives us an even sixteen, so this is going to work out well. I want to split you in half.” He motions to the two breaks in the circle, and we split off facing each other like we’re lining up for dodgeball.

  “We’re going to do a little exercise. I want the people in this row to consider the people across from you.” He pauses, giving us all a moment to peruse each other.

  It sort of feels like a lineup…like I’m supposed to point at one of these kids and shout, “He did it! Book him!”

  “Now that you’ve had a moment of consideration,” Mr. Weston says, “think about who here is someone you don’t see yourself jiving with outside of this classroom.”

  People shift uncomfortably and say stuff under their breath.

  “It’s okay. It’s not a secret that we’re not all best friends,” he says. “That’s just life. You don’t have to hate the person you pick. I just want you to mentally select the person who seems the most opposite to you when it comes to music or dress…whatever.”

  I focus in on Nerdorama from the other night. He’s glaring at me as if he’s trying to tell me something. He gives me a little shake of his head. What is this, a challenge for me to not pick him? Screw him. I’ll pick anyone I good and well please.

  I raise my hand. “I’ll go first.”

  Mr. Weston lifts his eyebrows. “Okay…sure. Go ahead, Jenna.”

  I go stand in front of Nerdorama. He closes his eyes in dramatic fashion and then peers at me from under his glasses.

  “Is it not true?” I ask.

  Others slowly make their way to their people, but I notice Greta going to Nicolette and two guys who seem like fabulous gays who were sitting together earlier going to one another.

  “Don’t you get what’s going on here?” Nerdorama asks me.

  “Nobody else understands the assignment?” I ask.

  The teacher makes Greta and one of the gay guys switch places and then claps his hands together again. “Students, meet your writing partners for the rest of the semester.”

  Chapter Four

  Miles

  Only this one would have not seen that coming. They’re always doing that shit to us here. It’s like every day is opposite day. Let’s learn how to all get along and love one another. The rest of us have tuned in. I should give her a pass since it’s her first day, but I have to admit my ego’s a little cracked from her choosing me.

  When I first saw her walk up to the front of the classroom, I was a little taken aback, and my stomach did this floundering thing for a quick second
. I guess her being at The Glass Vortex the other night was no accident. But then why did she tell Nicolette she was leaving for L.A.?

  The idea of partnering with her for the next few months swirls around in my stomach like sludgy gutter water. I’ve heard this songwriting unit is intensive, especially the way Weston wants us all to get in touch with our deepest emotions and crap. And I have to do it with this wannabe Ariana Grande across from me.

  We spend the first half of class analyzing songwriting formulas, and I swear Jenna nods off a couple of times. I can already tell I’m going to be pulling us all semester. I would have been so much better off alone.

  Mr. Weston claps to get our attention. “Okay. We’ve got about seven minutes left in class. Break off with your partner and discuss the various formulas we’ve gone over, and I want you to come up with three popular songs that fit into these formulas. This is your assignment for tomorrow.”

  Jenna stands up and stretches her arms above her head, yawning like it’s six o’clock in the morning. She walks stiltedly my way and drops on the beanbag next to the wooden chair I sit in.

  “Please tell me you were awake for any of that lesson,” I say.

  She waves me off. “I heard him. ABABCB.”

  I’m a little surprised. “Okay. Can you name—”

  “Uh, like every song ever written…or at least most of them,” she says.

  I still myself, calming my patience. “Well, we need three.”

  She squints, leaning back on the beanbag, hands behind her head like she’s at home in her own rec room. “‘Diamonds’ by Ariel Loveall.”

  I play the song through my head, and I think she’s right…sort of. “That’s not a good example,” I say.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “There’s not really a bridge.”

  “Platinum is the bridge,” she says.

  I frown at her.

  “The rapper?” she asks like I’m her fifty-year-old, out-of-touch dad.

  I see her point, but I shake her off. “Let’s just pick another one, okay?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and relaxes back on the beanbag.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” I can’t help my irritation. She’s so comfortable, and she’s been at this school a matter of hours. “I thought you were moving to L.A.”