by Sarah Dessen
As for my mother, she had accepted all these changes with a few tears—of course—as well as a strength that continually surprised me. I’d told her, finally, that I was done with modeling, for good, and while it was hard for her to let go of that part of my life, and her own, she’d compensated by taking a part-time job with Lindy, who was still desperately in need of a receptionist. It was a good fit. Now she sent other girls out to calls and dealt with clients, keeping one foot in the world where she, out of all of us, always felt the most comfortable.
Still, I knew it would probably be hard for her when the new Kopf’s commercial began running in a few weeks. From what I heard, they’d stuck to the same idea as the one I’d done, focusing on the Ideal Girl as she moved through spring sports and prom. It probably would have bothered me, for all the reasons the other one had, if not for the girl they’d picked to replace me: Emily. After all, if anyone could be a role model, it was her.
As far as Emily and I went, we weren’t exactly friends. But we both knew what we’d been through would link us forever, whether we liked it or not. Whenever we passed each other in the hallway now, we made a point of saying hello, even if that was all we said. This was more than I could say for Sophie, who studiously ignored both of us. After Will’s conviction and sentencing for second-degree rape—six years, although he’d probably be out earlier—she’d laid low for a while, clearly uncomfortable with being the subject of so much discussion. There were times when I saw her alone in the halls, or at lunch, and thought that ideally, I’d be able to go up to her, heal this rift, do for her what she’d never done for me.
Or not.
Thinking this, I looked down at my thumb, slipping off the thick silver ring there to read these same words. It was too big for any of my fingers, and I’d had to wrap some tape on it so it would fit, but it was just fine for now while I was still figuring out what I wanted on the one Rolly had promised me. Until then, Owen had said I could hold on to his, if only to remind me that it’s always good to know your options.
“Thirty seconds,” Rolly said in my headphones.
I nodded, moving my chair closer to the microphone. As the seconds counted down, I looked out the window to my left and saw a blue Land Cruiser turning into the lot. Right on time.
“And…” Rolly said, “you’re on.”
“That was Jenny Reef, with ‘Whatever,’” I began, “and this has been Story of My Life, here on WRUS. I’m Annabel. The Herbal Prescription is next. Thanks for listening. Here’s one last song.”
The opening notes of Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You” came on, and I pushed back my chair. Then I closed my eyes to listen, as I did every time I heard this song, my own little ritual. Just as the chorus began, I heard the door open and, a moment later, felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Please tell me,” Owen said, flopping down dramatically in the chair beside me, “that I did not just hear Jenny Reef on my show.”
“It was a request,” I said. “And besides, you said I could play what I wanted as long as we called the show something else.”
“Within reason,” he said. “I mean, you just have to keep in mind that my listeners are going to be confused. They’re still tuning in, and they expect quality. If possible, enlightenment. Not commercial, mass-produced crap sung by a teenager completely controlled by corporate marketing.”
“Owen.”
“I mean, there’s room for some irony, but it’s a delicate balance. Too much either way and you lose all credibility. Which means that—”
“Are you even listening to what I’m playing now?” I asked.
He stopped in mid-rant, then looked up at the speaker overhead, listening for a second. “Oh,” he said. “Well, this is what I mean. This is my—”
“Favorite Led Zeppelin song,” I finished for him. “I know.”
In the booth, Clarke rolled her eyes.
“Okay, fine,” Owen said, moving his chair closer to mine. “So you played some Jenny Reef. I thought the rest of the show was pretty good. Although I’m not sure about the juxtaposition you did in the second pairing—”
“Owen.”
“—following up that Alamance track with the Etta James. It was a bit much. And—”
“Owen.”
“What?”
I leaned closer to him, pressing my lips to his ear. “Shhh,” I said.
He started to say something else—of course—but stopped as I slid my hand over to his, locking his fingers in mine. It wasn’t over. Eventually, he’d make his point, or at least argue it into submission. But for now, the chords were building overhead, the chorus starting up again. So I moved closer to Owen, leaning my head on his shoulder to listen, as we settled into the sunlight coming through the window beside us. It was bright and warm, catching the ring on my thumb as Owen reached for it, spinning it slowly, slowly, as the song played on.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a village to see a book from beginning to end, and I am lucky to have good neighbors. Thanks to Leigh Feldman, the most honest person I know, and the fabulous Regina Hayes, who always takes my best and makes it so much better. Joy Peskin gave her perspective and experience when I needed it most. I am also indebted to Marianne Gingher and Bland Simpson at UNC–Chapel Hill, who gave me the second best job I’ve ever had and, more importantly, continue to understand why writing is the first. I’m grateful to Ann Parrent at WCOM 103.5 Community Radio, and Jeff Welty, dashing vegan criminal defense attorney, for facts and information, and to my parents for yet again talking me down off the ledge. But in the end, this book, like all the others, is really for Jay, who gave me Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Social Distortion, and a million other songs still playing. Thanks for listening.