The Way It Hurts

by Patty Blount

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet?” Savannah smiles, and I wonder if the camera would pick up the lipstick on her teeth. “Does this mean you’ll be attending the Tony Awards?”

  “You’ll just have to tune in later and see.” I wink. Another thing I’d learned is never to reveal my plans. People can’t swarm around you if they don’t know where you’ll be. The phony smile plastered to her face doesn’t waver, but her eyes flash.

  Keep diggin’, baby.

  She flips over a note card and shoots me a calculating look. “Let’s talk about your music, Elijah. Ride Out’s at the top of the charts, your first two albums have gone gold, your third was just released and is already predicted to go multiplatinum, and you’ve got a Grammy in your hands. Are the rumors true that Ride Out’s creative genius is all Kristen?”

  Savannah Roberts doesn’t know jack about our music or about Kristen or even about me. I catch Nick’s eye, silently asking permission to mess with this chick. He nods, a tiny lowering of his chin. Go ahead, bro.

  “Savannah, here’s the thing. Everything that happened to me, to us, to my family—it all goes into the stories we tell in the songs we write.”

  Savannah checks one of her cards. “Yes, your family. I understand your sister is on the spectrum?”

  I freeze. Anna is off-limits.

  We’d agreed.

  I glance at Frank, our manager, and when he shakes his head, I make a mental note to make sure Savannah Roberts is never welcomed back. “She is. It’s sad that we still know so little about curing autism. That’s why the band established a charity in my sister’s name.”

  “Anna’s Song.”

  I feed her the PR line. “That’s right. Music has a beneficial effect on kids like Anna, and we wanted to help fund more research into its use. Anna’s one of the reasons why so many of our songs have such a strong and brash percussive element. She responds well to rhythm.”

  “That’s incredible, Elijah.” She turns to my bandmates and laughs. “Sam and Nick, do you contribute anything? Does it bother you that Elijah’s written nearly every song on three albums?”

  Whoa, what? First, Kristen’s the genius, and now it’s me? I fight the urge to glance in Sam and Nick’s direction because if I do, it might be seen as agreement with her thinly veiled suggestion that they do not contribute.

  “Uh, well, they say I’m the heartbeat of the band,” Nick says, tapping a beat on his thighs.

  Sam laughs. “Right, and they also say I play a mean guitar.”

  Savannah laughs for the camera. “Who are they? Your fans?”

  I shake my head and pull the ship back on course. “Critics, mostly, but the fans are pretty vocal too. Seriously, Savannah, Sam’s got a sharp ear for tone. I may draft some lyrics to a new song, and we’ll try it out in the booth, and it’ll just lie there lifeless. He can carve away the blocks and smooth out the protrusions until what’s left is pure and perfect.” Before she can interrupt with another lame-ass question, I give Nick some props. “And Nick understands the way music moves through time. Good drummers can do that…distill the sound down to beats and fill them with the right mood. But truly excellent drummers like Nick can do that with every part of a song. Both of them are geniuses.”

  “I love you, man!” Nick mugs for the camera, and Sam and I both laugh.

  Savannah sees through the maneuver. “Still it must be hard with all of you so talented not to bruise egos,” she adds sweetly.

  “What egos?” I revel in the frustration she’s trying so hard to hide. “Look, we just all do whatever needs doing. Sam had an idea that became ‘Let You In,’ from when he went through a painful breakup. Nick wrote ‘Pretty Sly’ when he saw this girl trying to snare a guy at an airport.”

  “And you wrote ‘The Way It Hurts’ with Kristen Cartwright.”

  Before I can respond, she’s swiping the tablet on the table in front of us. “Kristen, are you there? Can you hear us?”

  The tablet flickers, and a moment later, Kristen’s stage smile lights up the screen. “Yes, I’m here. Hello, Savannah.”

  “Thanks for joining us. It must be pretty exciting. First a Grammy, and now, you’re up for a Tony.”

  “I won’t lie, it feels pretty amazing. Our single, ‘The Way It Hurts,’ was just released, and that was a special moment for all of us, but for me…and for Eli…it was the moment.”

  “The moment? Does this mean the rumors about the two of you breaking up and then reuniting over that song are true?”

  I laugh. Savannah has obviously done her research but had reached the wrong conclusions.

  “Not exactly. We never broke up over the song. We broke up because of Twitter.” Kristen wrinkles her nose. She still hasn’t returned to social networking.

  “Twitter?” Savannah echoes.

  “No,” I cut in. “It was because of Rawr.”

  “Roar? What’s Roar?” Savannah asks, but we don’t answer the question. I wave a hand. Like so many things on the Internet, Rawr is gone now and good riddance.

  “Doesn’t matter. The important thing is we not only got past those challenges, we used them to write an even better version of the song.”

  “Oh, yes. There are now four versions of that song, is that right?”

  “Fourth time’s the charm,” Kristen says from the tiny speakers.

  “Millions of fans agree, if we go by the download stats,” Nick adds.

  “Yes, let’s talk about the album.” Savannah shifts gears neatly. “Is it true you said no to Island Sound when you were all just seventeen years old?”

  Kristen laughs. “Not exactly. I said no. The boys said yes.”

  Savannah’s polite smile curves a bit more deeply when she smells blood in the water. “The boys recorded without you?”

  “Not exactly,” I repeat Kristen’s words. “We’d agreed from the beginning that any success we achieved had to be all or none, so when Kristen said she wanted to pursue conservatory study and then Broadway, we turned down the deal.”

  “So you did say no?”

  “But Island Sound wouldn’t accept that,” Sam confirms. “They offered to record Ride Out first and then Ride Out featuring Kristen Cartwright later, whenever Kristen was ready.” He waves his hand over an imaginary marquee.

  “And that was fine with me since singing metal is a lot harder than it sounds. That’s also why ‘The Way It Hurts’ wasn’t included on the debut album,” Kristen finishes. “It was our song, and we agreed to hold it back until I had time to record.”

  “It’s your song, Kris. It was always for you.” I meet Kris’s eyes, and she smiles.

  “And now it’s a number one single.” Savannah holds up the CD case. “Congratulations to you all, and break a leg tonight, Kristen.”

  At that, the producer stops the action, and the lights and camera are shut down. An assistant scurries over, disconnects the mics clipped to our collars, and that’s that. Savannah and her entourage exit without a word. When the last of the equipment is packed away and the crew is finally out of my house, I fall to the sofa. “Hell, Frank. What was that chick’s problem?”

  “I’m on it.” Frank had his phone to his ear and strode out after Savannah and her crew.

  I rip the elastic out of my hair. “Jeez, that was painful.”

  Sam shakes his head. “No, bro. You were clutch.” He clenches a fist.

  “Yeah, you were great!” the tablet squeaks.

  “Hey, Broadway. I miss you.” I smile at my girl.

  Kristen grins back. “Hey, Guitar Hero. When will you be here?”

  “I’ll be there tonight.”

  “Sam, Nick, you guys are coming too, right?”

  Sam’s face splits into an evil grin. His long blond hair is tied up in a man bun that nearly broke Twitter the first time he wore it in public. “Wouldn’t miss it, Yoko.”

/>   Kristen giggles and flips him off. “Okay, see you later. Eli, give Anna a hug for me.”

  The screen flickers again, and she’s gone.

  “When’s the car coming?” Nick asks, dragging his T-shirt over his head and heading for the bathroom.

  “Six. We’ve got some time.” I pull my suit out of a closet and toss it over a chair. “You guys get dressed. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  On the patio at the back of the house, I find my sister. Anna sits in the special hot tub I had built for her. Sienna, one of her aides, is in the water with her. Linda, one of the first aides she’d ever had, is on the bench beside them. I’d wanted to move, but Anna likes this house, so with my parents’ blessing, I brought in contractors because I figured Anna might like the house even more if it liked her back. She’s got the hot tub, I’ve got a soundproof recording studio, Dad’s got a new greenhouse, and Mom’s got lots of help.

  I watch her for a long moment. She’s all grown up now—so beautiful with her dark hair and blue eyes and musical genius. Oh, we’d have ripped the charts apart if—

  If. My heart squeezes behind my ribs, and I shake it off.

  “Anna banana.”

  “Eli.” She looks up and then away. At nineteen, Anna is still prone to outbursts of violent temper. She spent a few years in the residence, and at the time, it was good for her. Maybe even the best thing. But she lives at home again with around-the-clock professional caregivers who Linda helped us hire so my parents can have something that used to be a luxury to them: permission to be Nathan and Stephanie once in a while.

  “How’s she been today?” I ask Sienna, the aide in the pool with her. Sienna’s about my age but insists on calling me Mr. Hamilton.

  “Today’s been a good day, Mr. Hamilton. She’s been calm and extra verbal. She answered questions.”

  Whoa. That’s definitely a good day. I crouch down and try to draw her eye. “Anna, how does the water feel?”

  She looks at her hands in the water and holds them up. “Water’s warm, Eli.”

  And then she looks up, flashes that heartbreaking smile, and I’m gone. I stare at the water, and a slow smile forms. I take a cautious look around. “Sienna, where are my parents?”

  “Um, Mr. Hamilton is in the front yard, trimming hedges, and Mrs. Hamilton is out.”

  Out. Out where? The hell with it…doesn’t matter. Grinning wide, I take the important stuff out of my pockets, kick off my shoes, and climb down into the tub. Linda rolls her eyes.

  “Eli.” Anna smiles at me. “Sing.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What should we sing? La la?” “Brown Eyed Girl” is still her favorite.

  But not today. Anna shakes her head. “Kris.”

  My heart stutters and then takes off racing. Kris’s song. Does she know about the Tony Awards? Is this Anna’s way of acknowledging that? “Sienna, do you know the words to ‘Carol of the Bells’?”

  She shrugs. “I think so.”

  “How about you, Linda?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Okay. I’ll sing the lead, and you guys come in with ding-dongs when I give you the sign, okay?”

  “Ding-dongs?” Sienna looks at Linda who just shakes her head.

  “Don’t worry. Just follow Anna.”

  I take a deep breath and sing the first verse and then give the ladies a signal to join in.

  “Elijah!”

  Busted. I shut my eyes, cursing silently. I look up and find Mom’s furious face looking down at us.

  “How many times—”

  “Steph, leave the kids alone. They’re having fun.” Dad walks over to us, a few clippings stuck to his hair. “In fact, I think I’ll join them.” And fully dressed, Dad steps into the hot tub, picking up the ding-dong part Anna adores.

  I start the song all over again, Anna’s clear high voice ringing out over the yard, overpowering the flat and slightly off-key voices of her backup group. Mom watches us for a few beats and then flings up her hands. “Oh, fine!” she says, and steps into the tub with a giggle. We can spend the next twenty minutes serenading our neighbors with Christmas carols in June before the limo arrives to take me to the city, to my girl.

  But for now…there’s time. I watch my sister, rocking back and forth, singing ding-dong in perfect pitch, while Dad tugs Mom onto his lap, which makes her giggle again. We start the song again when Nick and Sam climb in with us.

  I catch their eye. Sam presses a noisy kiss to my cheek, and Nick just shakes his head. I ease back, settle into the warmth of the water, content, and yeah, even happy, but it’s not because we’re big-time famous rock stars.

  It’s because we’re still us.

  Okay, but being big-time famous rock stars is pretty cool too.

  Acknowledgments

  If you ask authors where they get their ideas, you’ll hear them tell you that ideas are everywhere. You just have to open yourself up to them.

  That’s exactly how this story was born. I have an active social media presence, and because I write issue-driven novels, I find it extremely hard to remain silent and uninvolved whenever I witness injustice. Social media gives equal weight to every voice, and it also amplifies and boosts the signal of those who’d otherwise never be heard. Sometimes, this is a good thing. But when the voice shouting the loudest urges violence and hatred, I feel compelled to shout just as loud against it.

  It was during such a Twitter firestorm when this idea was born. My eternal gratitude to Kimberly Sabatini, an awesome author (Touching the Surface) who patiently exchanged emails with me while I debated this idea’s merits. I’ve never met Kimberly in person but count her as a true friend…one of the many benefits of social media when it’s done right. When it’s done wrong, the result is what you read in this book. Social media shouldn’t be used to harass and threaten and mock and bully but to educate, to share, to enlighten, and to encourage.

  Okay, enough preaching.

  I owe all the thanks in the world to Evan Gregory, my agent, and to Aubrey Poole, my first editor, who believed in me enough to take a risk. Good luck to you in your future endeavors! Thank you also to Annette, my new editor, and everyone at Sourcebooks Fire—a more creative and enthusiastic team can’t possibly exist. Did you see this artwork? I’m amazed and proud to work with you all. Thank you!

  Thank you to my incredibly talented writing pals of the LIRW, CTRWA, and YARWA chapters of RWA, who provide so much inspiration and support. I think I’d still be writing fan fiction if I hadn’t found you. (Don’t ask.) Special thanks to Leslie Anne Bard, whose loan of dictation software after a newly diagnosed autoimmune disease prevented me from touching a keyboard for months helped me get this manuscript delivered only few months late.

  Thank you to Shaun, Dale, and John, the members of Seether, for trusting me with your lyrics. “Words as Weapons” is a personal favorite of mine and had to be part of this story, and I’m so grateful to you for its use.

  Thank you to my sons, Rob and Chris, who continue to kick my butt whenever I question my abilities—in other words, every day—and my husband, Fred, for a few hundred little things but also for patiently listening to every single song lyric in this story sung karaoke style without once bleeding from the eardrums.

  Finally, thank you to my readers and book bloggers (especially Alyssa, the Eater of Books) and fans who look for me at signings and conventions or send me tweets and emails and never, ever download bootleg copies of books (right?). You remind me why I continue doing work that fills me with equal shots of anxiety and pride—because my words matter to you.

  Rock on.

  About the Author

  Powered by way too much chocolate, award-winning author Patty Blount loves to write and has written everything from technical manuals to poetry (and now, song lyrics!). A 2015 CLMP Firecracker Award winner as well as Rita finalist, Patty writes issue-based novels
for teens and is currently working on a romantic thriller. Her editor claims she writes her best work when she’s mad, so if you happen to upset Patty and don’t have any chocolate on hand to throw at her, prepare to be the subject of an upcoming novel. Patty lives on Long Island with her family in a house that sadly doesn’t have anywhere near enough bookshelves…or chocolate.

  Read on for a sneak peek of

  Patty Blount’s award-winning

  Some Boys

  No Monday in history has ever sucked more than this one.

  I’m kind of an expert on sucky days. It’s been thirty-two of them since the party in the woods that started the battle I fight every day. I step onto the bus to school, wearing my armor and pretending nothing’s wrong, nothing happened, nothing changed when it’s pretty obvious nothing will ever be the same again. Alyssa Martin, a girl I’ve known since first grade, smirks and stretches her leg across the empty seat next to hers.

  I approach slowly, hoping nobody can see my knees knocking. A couple of weeks ago during a school newspaper staff meeting, Alyssa vowed her support, and today I’m pond scum.

  “Find a seat!” Mrs. Gannon, the bus driver, shouts.

  I meet Alyssa’s eyes, silently beg her for sympathy—even a little pity. She raises a middle finger. It’s a show of loyalty to someone who doesn’t deserve it, a challenge to see how far I’ll go. My dad keeps telling me to stand up to all of Zac’s defenders, but it’s the entire bus—the entire school—versus me.

  I gulp hard, and the bus lurches forward. I try to grab a seat back but lose my balance and topple into the seat Alyssa’s blocking with her leg. She lets out a screech of pain.

  “Bitch,” she sneers. “You nearly broke my leg.”

  I’m about to apologize when I notice the people sitting around us stare with wide eyes and hands over their open mouths. When my eyes meet theirs, they turn away, but nobody does anything.

  This is weird.

  Alyssa folds herself against the window and shoves earbuds into her ears and ignores me for the duration of the ride.