by Patty Blount
We walked in silence down Kinnear and over to Main to the diner, where we snagged a booth in the corner. We ordered some food—a loaded burger for me, and a soup and salad combo for her. When the server walked away with our orders, she waved a hand. “I believe I was promised there’d be groveling?”
I snorted out a laugh. “I never promised that. I did say I’d explain.”
“Right. An explanation for setting me up.”
My eyes snapped to hers. “I didn’t set you up. I never lied to you, Kris. Your voice is beautiful.” And God, so are you. Sam’s mocking face popped into my brain, and I cursed. I had to keep this just business. I pulled in a long, slow breath, really hating my best friend right now. “I’ve been friends with Sam Gowan for years. He’s so good, he’s practically gifted, and just because he prefers to play metal does not mean he can’t play classical, pop, show tunes, or even jazz. Trust me. He can do it all.”
She held up her hands and applauded quietly. “Good for Sam. So why do you need me?”
“I think you can do it all too, if you give it a chance.” She wasn’t buying it. Frustrated, I rushed on. “Kris, you’re new, exciting, and bring something we don’t have with just my voice. Did you see the video I posted to YouTube?”
She flinched and then nodded. “I saw the video. You know what else I saw? A tweet about getting me on my knees. I can’t believe you posted that.” She turned big blue eyes on me that were so filled with hurt, I wanted to shrivel up. “I…well, I thought you liked me.”
“I do like you. And I know that comment was wrong.”
She rolled her eyes, and it was clear she didn’t believe me. So I took control of the conversation and steered it back to where I wanted it to go. “And I know that video wasn’t flattering.”
She let out a snort. “Got that right.”
“It wasn’t meant to flatter any of us. I thought you understood that, since you posted a tweet of your own. The comment, the video—it’s all just a way to create controversy and competition. You know…a means to an end.”
“Oh. An end,” she mimicked. “Let me guess. How to lose a girl without really trying?”
Aw, hell. “No. To whip online fans into a frenzy.”
She took out her phone and tapped a few buttons. A minute later, she nodded. “Okay, so you have tons of views, likes, and shares. Impressive.”
“It is impressive. I know social networks. That’s my contribution to the band—that and my songwriting. When we hit, it won’t be about the music. It’ll be about drama and popularity and likability. And it’s already happening. We got a gig, Kris. The mall wants us to play at the food court on Friday night.”
“So you’re saying you sold me out for a gig?”
The server arrived with our food. I waited—not patiently—for her to move along. As soon as she did, Kristen poured crackers into her soup, scooped up a spoonful, and blew on it.
My heart stopped when I watched those lips pucker.
“Elijah?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” I shook my head to clear all those inappropriate thoughts that had suddenly descended and took a bite of my burger.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Right. What the hell was it? “Um. I don’t look at it as selling out. I look at it as exploiting opportunities.”
“Oh, really.” She said it in such a tight-ass way, her eyebrow arching, I shot up both hands before she could argue…or bolt.
“I get how it looks, but I swear, I’m just trying to get some buzz going. The video and your tweet about getting me on my knees? That was awesome! There’s nothing the Internet loves more than a good argument, Kris. They’ll fight about it, take sides. They’ll share, like, tweet, comment, and drive our numbers even higher, maybe even go viral—and take the band with them.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, and her spoon froze halfway to her mouth. “You’re gaming the system. Manipulating them.”
I shifted and looked away. She made it sound so bad, and it wasn’t. Not really. “I’m just using every tool, Broadway. Trying to give the public what they want. You’re a performer, right? I watched you, on that stage just now. You were brilliant. Made it all so real, I actually believed you were willing to provide that slimeball with ladies’ undergarments.”
I got the double eyebrow arch that time.
“And you understood the exercise?”
I blinked. Did she really think I was stupid? “Uh, yeah. You were playing alter egos, right? An improv exercise, right? I’ve heard of them.”
“Close enough. I was playing an evil twin.” She sipped more of her soup. Chicken noodle. When she sucked up a noodle, I nearly face-planted on the table between us. I could watch her mouth for the rest of my life.
“I’m playing an evil twin too.”
Her eyebrows shot up so I elaborated. “The bad boy rock god.” I popped a fry into my mouth as her lips curled and she scooped up more soup.
“So you’re saying offstage, you’re a choir boy who loves to read to the elderly?”
I choked on my food. “No, not exactly. But I’m not the asshole everyone thinks I am, either.”
She shot me the side-eye, so maybe I was a better actor than I thought.
“So what do you want, Elijah?” Kristen demanded while I tried to stop coughing.
You. I want you. But I couldn’t have her now. “I want you to come back to the band. Give it a try. See if I’m right.” I swiped the napkin over my face.
“What if you are? What if Sam gets pissed off that I’m getting all the fans and takes off?”
I shook my head. “Sam’s a pro. Just like you. He doesn’t like you here, but he is willing to concede the point.”
She smiled. “Which is?”
Okay. She was gonna make me work for it. “That we wouldn’t have this gig without you.”
“And?”
“And that you’re a hell of a talented singer, no matter what music genre.”
She looked back at her soup bowl and swallowed a few more bites. “What about all that crap you said about me online?”
And there it was. We finally reached the point in our program with the giant elephant on the stage. I squirmed. “Okay, look. BroadwayBaby17 said a lot of shit about Ride Out that pissed me off, shit that makes it pretty damn clear she knows nothing about metal.”
“So FretGuy99 said shit to get even.” She dropped her spoon and sneered at me.
“No. Not to get even. To correct perceptions.” I threw my burger back to the plate and leaned over. “Look, do you put in a ton of practice time on your performances? Spend all your money on gear you don’t need because you think it’ll give you an edge?” When she didn’t say anything, I figured I’d scored the point. “I spend every minute I can on my music. I took piano lessons for five years, taught myself how to play guitar, and devoted hours to raking leaves, shoveling snow, washing cars, and any other work I could get to scrape together enough money to buy that soundboard in my garage. I took voice lessons to learn breath control, build up my range, and yes—master the metal scream you once said online sounds like a cat in labor.”
This time, she squirmed on her side of the booth.
“I’m not into show tunes, Kristen. I don’t really like rap music, and I’m so over radio rock, but I can appreciate them as art forms in their own right. You won’t, and that’s why you’ll probably never get on any stage besides North’s.”
She jerked like I’d just stabbed her with my steak knife.
“You assume everyone who doesn’t do what you do or like what you like isn’t good. So that’s why I called you out.”
She stared at the ice cubes melting in her glass and shook her head. “That’s not what I was doing at all.”
“Oh, really.” My eyebrows shot up. I sat back, crossed my arms. This should be good.
10
Kristen
@Rawr4Fems
@kristencartwright Uncool that you let @Ride_Out exploit you. What is this #CatCall nonsense?
@Mikey_T
RT @Ride_Out: Wanna hear her scream! #CatCall
RETWEETS 431 FAVORITES 239
I opened my mouth and shook my head, watched the waitress refill a few coffee cups. I couldn’t decide which words would make him stop looking at me like the hypocrite he’d just called me. Tears burned behind my eyes because he had hurt me. I liked this boy. Really liked him. But it was clear he didn’t think I was all that special despite all of his attempts to say otherwise. Etta said all the time that actions speak far louder than words. I opened my mouth and shut it. How was I supposed to find the right words so I didn’t sound like the pathetic loser he obviously thought I was?
He watched and waited. Finally, I decided to follow his lead and just correct the perception. I shoved away my food and leaned in. “I’m lucky, Elijah. I’m lucky, and I know it. I’ve had the full support of my family since I was a baby, and because my grandmother was in the business, I had lots of help.” I couldn’t help the grin that spread when I thought about Etta buying my first pair of dance shoes. I adored those ballet slippers.
I still had them.
“She was the one who got me hooked on the spotlight. There were dance lessons, voice lessons, acting lessons. I studied classical as well as contemporary techniques, and I’ve worked with some of the best names in the business—cross-genre. I know you don’t believe me, but all I was doing was trying share my knowledge with people who didn’t get my opportunities—offer them critiques, educate them on the mistakes they probably don’t know they’re making.”
He stared at me for a minute and then burst into laughter that only got louder when I crossed my arms and seethed.
“You really have no idea how stuck up that sounds, do you?” he finally asked.
I blinked at him, wounded. “Stuck up? Is that what you think?”
“Share? Critique?” Elijah’s mouth curled when he mimicked my words. “Oh, baby, you can’t critique anything without a pedigree, and BroadwayBaby17 hasn’t got one of those.”
“Excuse me?” I glared at him.
“A pedigree,” he clarified. “If your profile said you studied with Rodgers and Hammerstein, then yeah, sure! Critique all you want, but the truth is, BroadwayBaby17 is just another faceless account who has more guts when she’s behind her keyboard than in real life. Would you walk straight up to Sam or Nick and tell them face-to-face that their notes were flat or their timing too slow?”
I squirmed and put up my hands. “Well, no. But you’re mixing metaphors. If someone asked me for feedback, I’d give it—”
“Nobody asked.”
“Yes.” I smacked a hand on the table. “They did. The Beat is a virtual version of my acting class. You stand up, give it your best shot, and prepare for feedback—good and bad. That’s how you learn. If you’re on that site, then you’re implicitly inviting that feedback.”
Elijah rocked his head from side to side, considering my words. “Okay. But you’d still be nicer about delivering that feedback in person than you are online.” He gestured with a fry from his plate. “Look, the truth is, your opinions don’t have any more clout than anybody else’s online.”
“Again.” I was shaking my head before he finished talking. “The entire point of the Beat is to exchange ideas and encourage artistic exploration. If I’m not nice when I point out someone’s mistakes, it’s usually because they drew first blood.”
“Okay, you want to point out mistakes? Stick to your own genre. Nobody gives a shit about your opinions of genres you know nothing about, can’t sing, and admit you don’t even like.”
“I could sing hard rock if I wanted to. I choose not to.”
Elijah’s grin spread wider. “Riiiiight. You choose to make it your mission to insult every damn member of the site.”
I blew a hair out of my eyes and flung myself back against the back of the booth. “I only started saying things about noise and primitive beats because you guys started harassing me about my work.”
He sat forward and aimed a finger at me. “That’s bullshit. I never harassed you. I never even replied to you until you called us sexist and misogynistic.”
“Well, you are.” I shrugged. He shook his head, obviously frustrated. But damn it, so was I. “I’m serious. You absolutely are,” I pressed my point. “What the hell is that pogo stick lyric anyway?”
“You really need me to explain that?” He looked at me with another of those stupid smirks I supposed he thought were sexy, and I flung up my arms.
“See? That’s just what I’m talking about. Everything is always sex with you.” A sharp look from an old couple sitting opposite us made me remember where we were. “Admit it. The only reason you want me in this band is because I have boobs,” I finished on a furious whisper.
Elijah sucked in a breath when I said boobs and blinked several times. I knew he was doing his best not to look at my chest. I arched an eyebrow and held his gaze, daring him to tell me I was wrong, but we both knew he couldn’t.
“Look, Drama Queen, I’ve told you a dozen times now that you have an amazing voice. I think your voice in my band will shoot us both up the charts. What more do you want?” He leaned back and tossed an arm across the back of the seat.
I propped my chin in my hands. “What if I’m not interested in the charts?”
Both eyebrows shot up at that, and then he frowned. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
“Because I want a conservatory slot. I have plans of my own. I need to develop an original piece of music, something only I can perform. Help me write one, and maybe I’ll sing in your band.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but I stopped him with a raised hand.
“Hold on. There’s one more thing. The song has to have wide appeal.”
His dark eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. “Stab in the dark here, but I’m gonna go ahead and guess that means no pogo stick lyrics. Would you like me to compose a concerto in harp for you?”
I tossed a napkin at him. “No offense, Guitar Hero, but the heavy metal strings you pluck won’t impress my admissions board much.”
“No, but the classical piano I also play might.”
My jaw almost smacked my dinner plate.
Elijah continued laughing and then reached out one long, callused finger to shut my mouth. I slapped it away. “Ha ha. So you really play piano? You’re not just shoveling more bullshit at me?”
He shook his head and tossed his dark hair out of those intense eyes that had so hypnotized me the night of my performance. I narrowed my own and studied him closely. He was hot—there was absolutely no denying that. Long hair, the expression he typically wore—all smooth and confident and said, Yeah, I know, no matter what the question was. Even his dark, edgy clothes—it all made him look like he was born into the role he was playing.
“Fine. You want fucking proof?” He shifted on his side of the booth, pulled out his cell to tap and swipe at the screen, then slid it across the table. “Tap Play.”
I did. It was a video shot a few years ago, judging by his hair. He wasn’t wearing his Rock God clothes. He had on a dark suit and sat at a baby grand piano, smiling at someone out of the camera’s range. A second later, he nodded and then put his hands to the keys. He played “Carol of the Bells,” one of the fastest and most technically challenging pieces that existed. Even through the cheap basic speaker on his iPhone, I could tell this was special.
He didn’t miss a note.
“How was that, Anna?”
“Who’s Anna?”
He snatched the phone out of my hands, his face suddenly tight.
“No one you know.”
I flinched like he’d kicked me. “I was just asking.” I shoved
away my plate, no longer hungry. The waitress dropped the bill on our table, and he lunged for it. I just sat there. Frozen.
He finally looked at me and sighed. “Anna’s my sister. She loves that song—and she loves the stuff you say is nothing but primitive beats.”
“So she’s musical too?”
Half a smile played on his face and then blurred. “Yeah. She is.”
“Then why don’t you parade her onstage in your band instead of me?”
Elijah’s eyes slipped shut, and a muscle in his jaw pulsed. “I can’t.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, you can’t? You mean you won’t exploit your sister the way you will me.”
“Were you not listening when I told you Anna is disabled?”
I looked away. I’d heard what he said about his sister. I just wasn’t sure I believed him yet.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, stood up, and tossed a few bills to the table. “I gotta go.”
“Wait!”
He was already at the door by the time I grabbed my books and caught up to him. “Okay. You win. I’ll do it. I’ll sing for you.”
I expected one of those hot grins of his. But he just stared at me. Finally, he shook his head. “No. You’ll sing for them.” He wiggled his phone at me.
• • •
The week passed quickly. After school on Friday, I got a message from Elijah telling me to be ready by five.
Be ready? I looked down at my outfit. I had on my red leather boots, dark blue skinny jeans, and a long, flowy black top. With an eye roll, I knew my outfit would not make Elijah happy. That was the point. I wasn’t putting on my Cats unitard for his band. He kept insisting his interest in me was about my singing talents.
Time to test that claim.
“Going out?”
I turned from the mirror over my dresser and found Dylan standing in my doorway. “Yeah. Heading to the mall.” I conveniently left out the part where I’d be singing in a rock band.
Dylan’s narrow face tilted as he studied me, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “You look weird. What’s up with you?”