by Marie Powell
“We’re back, gang!” Liam said. “It’s been quite an evening, hasn’t it? So many brilliant performances! So many special moments. Our semifinalist bands have played their hearts out for a chance at a place in the final. They’re packed and ready to fly to Los Angeles for the summer, but sadly we can only take two of these fantastic bands with us to the land of movie stars and sunshine. I don’t know about all of you, but I’m just dying to find out who’s coming along!”
The audience hooted their agreement.
Lucy was so intently focused on Liam that she nearly jumped out of her skin when Harper reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight. The two girls grinned at each other. Lucy could feel Harper’s BFF charm pressed against her palm. Harper had insisted they wear them tonight, even though it’d taken Lucy a solid hour to find her half of the set. Harper thought the charms would be good luck. Lucy had teased her friend for insisting that they wear the silly little puzzle-piece hearts on their cheap silver chains, but she had to admit, if only to herself, that she’d been pleased Harper wanted to wear them again.
“This is it!” Harper whispered, grinning at Lucy.
Poor Harper, thought Lucy. She’d be so disappointed when their name wasn’t called.
“Ready … steady …” Liam called, shooting his made-for-television grin first at the audience, then at the contestants. “And …”
He made a flourish of presenting a stiff red envelope to the crowd. He started to tear it open but then, just to wind everyone up a bit further, he stopped.
“Now, just to remind you, our Top Ten UK bands came tonight with their bags packed. Our two finalist bands will be whisked straight from our studios to Heathrow and put on a jet headed to Los Angeles, California, to join our two American finalist bands. They’ll live there, each in their own fantastic Project Next mansion, while they record an album with Catch-22’s top producers and hone their performing skills with management teams handpicked by Sir Peter Hanswell himself — and you’ll get to watch them every step of the way on our Project Next specials and online. Then, in August, they’ll face off with the American finalists in a UK versus US fight to the finish in our big finale show — live from fabulous Las Vegas! You won’t want to miss a single minute.”
The crowd roared.
“Are we ready?” Liam asked the crowd.
They cheered harder.
“What about you, Top Ten?” he said, turning back to the bands. “Are you ready?”
No, thought Lucy. I’m not ready for it to be over. I’m not ready at all.
“Well, ready or not, here we go!” Liam looked down at the slip of paper again, then up at the camera that had swooped down from the ceiling to focus on his face. “The Project Next UK finalists are … Dead Kitten Mambo and … Crush!”
Harper grabbed Lucy’s hands and whirled her around in a circle. “Oh my God, Lucy! We’re going to LA!”
Oh my God, Lucy thought, Mum and Dad are going to murder me.
Lucy was still shell-shocked when the girls were finally led back to their dressing room.
“We actually did it!” Toni crowed. “I never thought we’d pull it off. You’re a bloody miracle worker, you cow,” she said, throwing her arms around Harper.
Harper laughed and hugged Toni back. “We couldn’t have done it without you, you silly tart.”
Lucy marveled at the strange sort of friends that Harper and Toni had actually become after about a month of constantly bitching to Lucy and Robyn behind each other’s backs. Toni convincing her grandfather to help them make a professional demo had done wonders to help Harper decide she wasn’t so horrible after all.
“Have you spoken to your parents yet?” Robyn asked Lucy, sounding nearly as worried as Lucy felt.
“No,” Lucy replied. The very thought of that conversation made it hard to breathe. “I was going to tell them, but then … I knew they wouldn’t let me do the live show. And I figured we wouldn’t win so …”
“That’s what you get for not believing in us!” Harper said, throwing an arm over Lucy’s shoulders. “Don’t worry so much, Luce. You’re seventeen; there’s nothing your folks can do to stop you. They’ll flip, sure, but they’ll get over it. And even if they don’t, what can they do about it really?”
Disown me for life, Lucy thought miserably.
“Hello, Crush!” A rich voice spoke from the doorway of the dressing room. “I’m thrilled that you did such a brilliant job tonight. I’ll confess, I’ve been a fan since callbacks!”
A tall, whip-thin man with thick blond hair and a craggy smile stepped into their dressing room. Lucy thought she might faint. Sir Peter Hanswell — the Sir Peter Hanswell, rock star turned music producer turned international media mogul — had just confessed to being a Crush fan.
“Sir Peter,” Harper said smoothly. “So good to see you.”
“You as well, Harper,” Sir Peter said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I always knew you’d be big news someday. If only some of your ambition had worn off on Rafe.” He shook his head. “Hopefully having you in town will inspire him — he’s in LA now, you know, at USC.”
Rafe? Lucy gaped at Harper. There couldn’t possibly be two boys named Rafe that Harper knew well enough to have “worn off on.” Sir Peter had to be speaking of Rafe Jackson. The same Rafe Jackson who’d dared Harper to drink three shots of peach schnapps and drive the Goslings’ Volvo around the block at Lucy’s fifteenth birthday party, then had run off after Harper wrecked both the car and Lucy’s leg. The very same Rafe Jackson who’d ditched Harper because he was leaving for university. Apparently the University of Southern California, to be exact. In LA.
Oh, bugger.
Harper had told her once, years ago, that Rafe’s dad was someone famous, and that Rafe went by his mother’s name since his parents had split when he was four and his father had moved on to his second — or was it his third? — family.
So Rafe’s father was Sir Peter Hanswell. Now it all made sense. Harper wasn’t in this for the music; she was in this for Rafe bloody Jackson.
“Oh, you’re so sweet!” Harper simpered up at Sir Peter while Lucy stared, agog at the scheme that was unfolding before her eyes. “We’re just so lucky to have got this far.”
“Rubbish,” Sir Peter declared, turning to share his broad smile with all of them. “If I know anything, I know the next big thing when I see it. We’re just pleased Catch-22 and Project Next found Crush in time to be able to take some of the credit. Now, you girls don’t have to be at the airport until 6:00 a.m. Project Next will take care of all your luggage — I suggest you go out and celebrate!”
And with that he was gone.
“He’s right, we should hit a bar. There’s no point in trying to sleep or anything,” said Harper.
“I dunno,” Iza said doubtfully. “I’m not sure how I’m going to convince my parents I need to stay in town for a plane they know doesn’t leave until the morning … They’re nervous enough about me going.”
“We’ll tell them we’re having a sleepover before the flight,” Toni said. “I bet my grandmother would even call and ask if you can stay. Come on, she’s waiting for us out front with Granddad — we’ll get you sorted.”
“I’ve got to deal with my parents,” Lucy sighed. “You probably shouldn’t wait for me. I may have to go AWOL just to make it to the plane.”
“I’ll go with you,” Harper said. “I forgot my favorite white wedges anyway. If you’re not out in an hour, I’ll come in after you.”
Good. Lucy needed to talk to Harper alone.
“Why don’t we meet at Bella in three hours?” Robyn suggested. “I need to say a proper goodbye to the parentals, but I’ll be there after.”
They split up at the backstage door and Lucy and Harper flopped into the back of the black car Catch-22 had provided for them as contestants. The wide passenger door snapped clos
ed and the girls sat in silence for a long moment.
“This is all about Rafe, isn’t it?” Lucy blurted. “The whole bloody band and everything. It’s always been about Rafe Jackson. It’s some sort of elaborate scheme to get him back.”
“What?” Harper said, as though she were utterly flabbergasted. But Lucy knew she wasn’t. “How could you say such a thing? What kind of pathetic moron would go halfway across the world for —”
“The kind who’d write a song called ‘I’ll Cross the World,’ then use it to win a reality competition that just happens to be produced by her jerk ex’s dad and just happens to be taking us to the same city where he happens to live,” Lucy said quietly.
Harper winced. Lucy had clearly struck a nerve.
“Look, Luce,” Harper said. “I know you have good reasons not to trust me when it comes to Rafe, and I deserve that. But I’m not doing this because of Rafe Jackson. I actually started this whole thing — Crush, Project Next, everything — because of you.”
“What?” Lucy said, the bottom dropping out of her temper. “Me?”
“Yeah … I didn’t mean to tell you any of this. It makes me sound totally pathetic, but … whatever. I’d rather look pathetic than have you think I’m using you to get to Rafe. The truth is, I decided to try out for Project Next because I thought it might be a good way to be friends with you again. I missed you.”
Harper actually sounded sincere.
“I mean, I’m not going to say that forcing Rafe to stand on the sidelines and watch us win this thing and get rich and famous wasn’t part of the appeal, but that’s just gravy.” She smiled hopefully at Lucy.
Lucy studied Harper. She didn’t want a thing to do with this if it was just a scheme to get Rafe Jackson back. But if it wasn’t … Lucy wanted to believe that Harper was telling the truth. She wanted to go to LA. She wanted to keep playing with Crush. She wanted her best friend back. But when it came to Rafe Jackson … could Harper really be trusted?
“Home, girls,” called the driver. “Congratulations, by the way. Project Next finalists! Imagine!”
“Thanks.” Lucy opened the door. “Wait for us, will you? Harper at least will be going back soon.”
She climbed out of the car, Harper on her heels.
“You’re not going to let Rafe Jackson stop you from following your destiny, are you?” Harper said. “Because this is your destiny, Lucy. This is what you’re meant to do. More than any of the rest of us, you belong up there on stage, on the drums. I can see it, and I hope you can see it, too.”
When Lucy didn’t respond, Harper shrugged. “Go talk to your parents. I’m going to go find my wedges and freshen up. Come over when you’re done. If you’re coming.”
Lucy turned to face her house. Mum and Dad were going to be so angry. She’d been lying to them for ages and now she was basically running away to LA with a couple of hours’ notice. They might never speak to her again.
Was it worth it?
She’d thought it would be. When she was on stage tonight, feeling the music pump through her veins like lightning and starlight and molten lava all mixed together, she’d been positive that she would do anything to do it again. But now she wasn’t sure.
She pushed open the front door.
“She’s back!” Emily called cheerfully from the top of the stairs, where she’d clearly been lying in wait in her pajamas. “You’re in trouble, Lucy.”
“What? I am not,” Lucy said, crossing into the family room. “You are. You’re meant to be asleep, brat.”
“Yes, you are,” Emily assured her, grinning. “We saw you on Project Next. Mum is going to ax murder you.”
“LUCILLE ELOISE GOSLING!” Mum shouted from the kitchen. “Get in here this instant!”
Lucy blew out a long breath and then walked into the blazing light of the kitchen and the burning stare of her parents.
“Well?” Mum demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”
“I’m sorry!” Lucy blurted. “I meant to tell you, I did. Every day for weeks. I honestly didn’t think we’d get this far, so I didn’t think there’d be any harm done. It was only meant to be for fun. But did you see us? We were drop-dead brilliant and we deserved to win and I just have to go to LA and see if we can go all the way.”
Neither of her parents spoke, so Lucy pressed on. “Please, please, please may I go? You’re always telling me to set goals and apply myself to them and I have! And it’s just the summer. We’d be back in time for the autumn term, and I’ll be totally focused on studying then. Please?”
Mum and Dad looked at each other in that silent, secret parent-speak they had for a long time. Then Mum stood and handed Lucy a folded sheet of paper. “Read that out to us, Lucy.”
Lucy didn’t have to unfold the paper. It had to be her grades, and going by the look on Mum’s face, they were worse than Lucy had expected. Crush was doomed.
“Did you study at all this year?” Mum asked very, very quietly.
“I did! I —”
“I wish I thought you weren’t lying to me again, Lucy,” Mum said, her voice dripping with disappointment, “but I think you might be. I think you’ve been hanging around that American girl instead of studying and that’s why these are so wretched. I think you didn’t study one bit.”
Outraged tears burned Lucy’s eyes. “I did study! I stayed up all night reviewing to make up for the time I took to practice with Crush. If my grades are rubbish, it’s because I’m not that smart!”
“That’s not true, Lucy,” Dad put in, but Lucy was too furious to let him finish.
“It so is true — I did so badly you think I didn’t study at all when I really did. I did! I just couldn’t give up the opportunity to be part of Crush on the chance that a few more hours reviewing would get me better grades. You don’t understand.”
“No, I really don’t,” Mum snapped. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
Lucy shook her head. Mum had no clue what playing real music was like, otherwise she’d know there weren’t any words for it. In fact, that was the whole point of music, wasn’t it? To say things that couldn’t be said with words alone. There was simply no way Lucy’d be able to say the right things to make them understand. And even if she could, Mum and Dad were making it clear that the whole thing would be impossible. Sitting there, arms crossed, matching dubious expressions on their faces; they’d obviously already decided she couldn’t convince them to let her go.
Lucy crossed her arms, too, and glared right back at her parents. If they weren’t seriously going to listen, then why should she bother trying?
Finally, Mum shook her head. “You’ve been messing about all term rather than studying properly and you can’t even say why. If you’re going to wreck your life over something, you should at least know why you’re doing it. But you don’t, do you?”
Lucy had never seen Mum this angry. Not even when Lucy had landed in the hospital after her disastrous fifteenth birthday party.
“I don’t understand why you don’t take your education seriously, Lucy,” Mum continued. “It’s so important. After Oxford, you can do whatever you want, but you’re going to get a decent degree first, like your brother.”
“I know you feel like your band and this program are the most important things in the universe right now, pet,” Dad said in a gentler tone, “but someday you’ll be glad you have a degree from Oxford. We’re not going to let you give up. If you’d got decent enough marks this term, we might have considered letting you go to LA, but your mother and I really believe you need to stay and have some tutoring over the summer.”
“Aside from your grades, Lucy, letting you go to Los Angeles on your own like this requires trust,” Mum snapped, still fuming. “You lied to us. For months! And you spent time with her after we specifically told you that was not permitted. You could have been killed becau
se of that girl. She got drunk and drove our car into a tree to impress some boy. Did you forget that? Do you really think you can trust her? Because I know you haven’t forgotten the three operations on your leg or the weeks you spent in the hospital because of her. I don’t think we’re being unreasonable asking you to stay away from her.”
Do you really think you can trust her?
Lucy had thought the very same thing not ten minutes before, but hearing her own doubts coming from her mother’s lips was more than she could bear. Mum saying it made it a real doubt somehow, and it couldn’t be real. Lucy had to trust Harper. If she didn’t, then everything she’d wanted, everything she’d been so pleased to have all term, was a lie.
“That was years ago, Mum,” Lucy said, near tears. “Harper’s different now. But this isn’t about her. This is about me. I want this.”
“We’re sorry, Lucy,” Dad said, “but we’re not going to let you follow Harper McKenzie off a cliff. You can’t go. That’s final.”
Harper resisted the urge to look at the clock again. It was bad enough that she was literally watching the front door, waiting for her parents to come home. This was getting pathetic.
She hadn’t been all that surprised when neither of her parents had claimed their tickets for the Project Next semifinal. They had important, busy jobs. She had learned a long time ago she couldn’t expect them to drop everything just to cheer her on. Not that it bothered her. She could cheer herself on just fine. She always had.
But she still wanted them to come home in time to say goodbye.
A key turned in the lock.
“Mom?” she called. “Mom, we’re finalists! We’re going to LA!”
“Sorry, babe, it’s not Mom,” her father said as he pushed through the door. “Just me. But that’s great! Happy for you.” He didn’t even look up from his phone as he added, “Congrats. Really.”
Harper ignored the sharp bite of hurt feelings. It was just Dad being Dad.
“Where’s Mom? When is she getting home?” Mom would want to celebrate, even if Dad wasn’t impressed.