Not Another Love Song

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Steffi opens the door wide, wiping her sweat-slicked forehead on a hand towel. “Hey, Angie. Lynn’s just finishing up.”

  “I know. I’m early.”

  “You want to come see my new choreography?”

  “Sure.”

  Another voice exercise begins behind the closed parlor door. This time Lynn’s tapping the lower octaves on the piano. And this time, the voice doesn’t even rattle.

  Steffi worries the towel in her hands. “Come,” she says. When I don’t move, she utters my name forcefully.

  Realizing her new routine is a ploy to lure me away from the ground floor, I blurt out, “I know Nev.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. We’re friends.”

  I’m not using her.

  I listen to another remarkable chromatic succession. The haunting depth of Nev’s voice chills me. “She has so much talent.”

  “She is incredibly gifted, but so are you, Angie.”

  “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”

  Steffi runs the towel over her buzzed hair. “Just stating a fact.”

  “So, did you really have a routine to show me, or was it a ruse to get me downstairs?”

  “I actually do have something new in the works.”

  I trail her downstairs and sit on the bench propped against the wall.

  Steffi blasts a Sia song, then positions herself in the center of the room and lets the music flow through her body, possess her. She presses her fingers together as if in prayer, shoots her arms up, locks her elbows, dips backward, then sucks in her stomach and plunges her upper body forward, curving her neck, her shoulders, her spine. She executes this flow rapidly, successively, to the right, to the left, forward again. Her body moves like a ribbon, seemingly devoid of bones.

  When the music fades, I clap. “That was awesome!”

  Her flushed skin glistens with sweat. “Want to try it?”

  “Sure!” I skip to the middle of the dance floor.

  Steffi grins, then runs me through each move without the music. Once I’ve gotten the steps down, she makes me repeat the series, clapping her hands to give me a tempo. When she deems me ready, she hits PLAY. Keeping my gaze locked on her body, I follow her footwork, shoot my arms in the air, bend, curve, slide, repeat.

  The music penetrates my skin, rolls over my flesh. The lights blind me. The floor vanishes from underneath my toes. The exertion burns away my earlier worries. But then the last notes evaporate, and I’m back in my body, back in the dance studio, back to pondering my motivations.

  Stupid conscience.

  There’s whistling at the bottom of the stairs. Lynn and Nev. Steffi shakes her head, whereas I gape at Nev, at the smile puffing her cheeks, and I think that I somehow put it there. I’m not evil and calculating. Besides, I don’t need Nev to reach Mona. I need my music to reach Mona.

  I grab a rolled hand towel from the stack Steffi replenishes obsessively. “I heard you practicing. How the heck do you hit those low notes?”

  Nev’s face colors with delight.

  “You two have completely different ranges.” Maybe it’s because they’ve lived together for so long, but Lynn has the same knee-jerk reaction as Steffi—reassuring me that I’m good. It’s sweet and appreciated, but not what I’m after. “We better get started, Angie. I have a lesson right after yours,” Lynn continues.

  I seize my tote and wave to Steffi.

  She winks at me.

  Nev climbs the basement stairs behind Lynn. She’s traded her pleated blue uniform skirt for a pair of slouchy white track pants.

  When we get upstairs, I ask her, “Can you stay a bit longer?”

  “Let me go ask Ten.”

  “He’s here?”

  “He always picks me up.” She flings the front door open, then dashes down the porch stairs, her matchstick legs pumping extra rapidly.

  Barely a minute later, she bounds back toward the house. “He said he can wait.”

  Together we walk into the piano parlor.

  “Have you been practicing your song for the—” Lynn’s sentence cuts off when she spots Nev next to me.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Lynn drums her fingertips against the piano keys.

  “I added a bridge,” I say, sitting beside her. “Can I play it for you?”

  Lynn’s gaze bumps into Nev again. “Of course.” She removes her hand from the keys and runs it through her orange hair, crushing the frizzy flyaways around her face.

  Nev shuffles over to the chaise and sits with her back straight and her knees wedged together.

  After a beat, I close my eyes and play the song. As I hit the chorus, I open my eyes, wrench my shoulders back, and soften my jaw. My diaphragm expands as my voice rips up my throat. It vibrates everywhere: on my forehead, in my cheeks, against my palate. It even pulses inside my nostrils and underneath my nails.

  When I finish, the room is so quiet my shoulder blades pinch together. “So?”

  “It’s perfect,” Lynn whispers. “It’s honest-to-goodness perfect. If she—”

  I widen my eyes, and she falters.

  “It’s for my mother’s contest, isn’t it?” Nev’s quiet voice sounds as strident as acoustic feedback.

  Neither Lynn nor I answer.

  “If you don’t win, then Mom’s stupid.”

  Lynn, who’s already not moving much, grows even stiller.

  Nev flattens her hands so hard against the velour that her knuckles protrude and whiten like knobs of chalk. She stands and then walks over to the door, emotion gusting over the sliver of face that peeks out from behind her unkempt hair.

  “You’re angry,” I say, right before she exits.

  The smile she sends my way is tight. “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  “Because”—she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, then, as though realizing what she’s done, combs it right back in front of her face—“because Ten’s waiting.”

  “You promise you aren’t mad?”

  She nods, but it’s so choppy that it doesn’t comfort me. Maybe she’s just emotional.

  Right before she leaves, I say, “Don’t tell Ten about the contest, okay?”

  “I won’t. See you tomorrow, Angie.”

  After the door shuts, I ask Lynn, “She was angry, wasn’t she?”

  Lynn stares out the window at the stocky magnolia tree. “I don’t think she was mad, Angie. At least not at you. I think she’s struggling with her feelings for her mother, which will inherently cloud everything that involves Mona.” She sighs. “Even though Nev hasn’t mentioned her once to me, I think she wishes her mother would take notice of her. I think that’s why she sings. To get closer to her.” She fingers the piano keys. “If only she weren’t so talented.”

  “Who?”

  Without stopping the repeating melody, Lynn says, “Nev.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because … unless she gets as big as her mother, she’ll always feel like a failure. And attaining Mona Stone’s level of success, well, it’s not easy.”

  I tilt my head to the side as I absorb this. “If she’s doing it for recognition, then she’s not out for success.”

  Unlike me. I crave Mona’s success. Is it such an impossible dream? I suddenly feel downright gloomy. For the first time in my life, I wish I were more like Ten, like my mother. I wish I weren’t devoured by a single, all-encompassing passion.

  Maybe I shouldn’t submit my song, because truth is, losing would be crushing.

  I pour my qualms and hesitation into my practice session, and as I sing, my defeatist attitude strips away layer by layer before finally flaking off completely.

  I might have to adjust my aim, shoot for the stars instead of the moon. Stars might not light up the world as brightly as the moon, but it doesn’t make their shine any less dazzling. I’d rather be a fleck of light in the darkness than not burn at all.

  35

  The Boy Who Blushes
>
  At eleven a.m. sharp, a shrill honk makes me jolt so hard my hand jerks, dragging a squiggle of ink into the margin of my home ec homework. Mom looks up from the decorating magazine she’s flipping through. When she spots Ten’s Range Rover through the kitchen window, she waves.

  I tuck my cell phone and keys into my suede cross-body bag, then drop a kiss on her cheek before striding toward the front door.

  “Have fun at the mall, baby.”

  I bet she didn’t put much stock in me trying to spend time with her client’s kids, much less enjoy spending time with them.

  I pause at the door. “I’m going out with Rae tonight. You should make plans. Maybe go out on a date?”

  A blush streaks across Mom’s face, as pink as her quartz cuff. “I’ll—I’ll call Nora.”

  “Rae’s mom isn’t a man.”

  Mom’s dimples appear. “I was going to call her so she could introduce me to one.”

  “Okay. Call her.”

  “I will.”

  “Now.”

  She flicks her hand to shoo me away.

  “Not until you call her.”

  “Angie—”

  “Come on, Mom.”

  “Fine.” She picks up her phone and taps the screen. Then she brings it up to her ear. “Nora? Hey.”

  She could be faking it, but I doubt it. Bye, I mouth, and shut the door.

  I head over to the backseat when I spot Nev gesturing to the front one. Shoot. I don’t want to sit next to Ten, but it seems like I don’t have a choice, so I draw open the passenger door and get in.

  “Mornin’.” I smile at Nev, then at Ten, because what am I supposed to do? Pretend he’s not there?

  Even though he turns my way, he’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. From the tight press of his lips, I fathom he’s not too thrilled about this trip, or about my presence.

  “Did you just wake up?” Nev asks, leaning over the center console.

  “No,” I say at the same time as Ten says, “Nev, seat belt.”

  “It’s on,” she grouses, forearms splayed on the back of both my and Ten’s headrests.

  “Not just the lap part.”

  Grumbling, she glides back and slides the strap over her upper body. “Dad doesn’t make me wear a seat belt when I’m in the backseat.”

  “Well, he should.”

  “Yes, Mom.” She rolls her eyes.

  Ten’s fingers stiffen around the steering wheel.

  “Angie, can you put on some music?” Nev asks.

  Even though I’m a little apprehensive to touch anything in Ten’s car, I spin the volume dial, and a terrible, grating song fills the closed space.

  “What is this crap?” Nev says.

  “Language, Nev.”

  “Crap isn’t a bad word.”

  I scan through the satellite presets until I locate the pop station.

  “Crap isn’t a nice word,” Ten says after some time.

  “You say way worse words.”

  “Yes, but I’m not a twelve-year-old girl.”

  Nev huffs. “You’re sooo lucky to be an only child, Angie. Older brothers are a pain in the—”

  Ten’s gaze jerks to the rearview mirror.

  “—bottom,” she finishes.

  Ten looks back out his windshield. “Who takes care of you?”

  “I take care of myself.”

  “Who drives you around?”

  She sticks out her tongue. “Because you and Dad won’t let me get a bike.”

  I spin around in my seat. “You asked for a bike?”

  She nods just as Ten mutters, “I wonder where she got that idea.”

  I gnaw on my bottom lip, feeling guilty, even though I never suggested she get a bicycle.

  “Who makes you breakfast every morning?” Ten continues.

  I jerk my gaze to Ten. “You make breakfast every morning?”

  “Dad doesn’t know how to cook,” Nev explains.

  Ten stops at a traffic light and rotates in his seat to face his sister. “So what you’re saying is, it won’t matter if I go to boarding school?”

  Nev’s face becomes pinched. “I never said that.”

  “Still haven’t decided?” I venture.

  He turns back around and stares at the bumper of the car in front. “I need to send my application by Wednesday.”

  An entire Maroon 5 song plays before Nev says, “You know I’d miss you like crazy.”

  That seems to thaw Ten out. His stiff jaw softens, and his fingers loosen on the steering wheel. “Imagine all the time you’ll get to spend with Angie singing and talking about singing if I’m not around.”

  “We can still do that.” Nev leans over the console again. “Did you hear Taylor Swift’s new song, Angie? It doesn’t sound like her. I’m not sure I like it.” Then: “Ooh. Louder.”

  I turn the volume dial.

  “I love this guy’s voice,” Nev gushes.

  I tap the rhythm out on my bare knee, listen to the distinctive, slightly nasally, falsetto voice. “It’s catchy.”

  “He sounds like a girl,” Ten says.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Nev counters.

  “Yeah, he does.”

  “And I sound like a boy,” Nev says.

  “What?” Ten’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “No, you don’t.”

  “When I sing, I do.”

  “But not when you speak,” he says.

  “You should hear Angie sing.”

  My body temperature rises so fast I check that I didn’t accidentally bump the dial of the seat warmer.

  “I heard her yesterday,” Ten says. “While I was waiting.”

  I didn’t think I could get any hotter, but here I am, getting hotter. A couple of degrees from evaporation.

  “She wrote the song you heard.” Nev’s words are laced with such pride that it lessens the sting of Ten not commenting on what he thought of my singing.

  Mannered people don’t comment about things they don’t like. Since Ten is mannered, his silence tells me he doesn’t think very highly of my singing.

  “All those hours of calculus finally paying off,” Ten says.

  “What?” I croak, while Nev frowns.

  “You spend the entire period composing music,” he says.

  Nev sighs. “I wish I could compose music.” I’m about to suggest she take music theory when she asks, “Ten, what time’s your track meet this afternoon?”

  “Three.”

  “You really like running, huh?” I say.

  “It’s a good stress reliever,” he says. “Like singing is for you.”

  Singing usually relaxes me, but these days, it’s been winding me up tight. Between keeping my desire to enter the contest from Mom and—

  “We’re here!” Nev shrieks, cutting off my musings and ridding me of a decibel of hearing. After we park, she skips all the way to the mall.

  “Did you make her marshmallow pancakes this morning?” I ask Ten, who’s lumbering alongside me.

  His brow furrows, so I point to Nev.

  “No.” Ten smacks his forehead. “Crap.”

  I readjust the strap of my handbag that’s digging into my collarbone. “What?”

  “I forgot to bring a book.”

  Nev pirouettes around. “That’ll just give you more time to speak to Angie.”

  I don’t think Ten wants more time to speak with me.

  “Lucky me,” he murmurs.

  Nev rolls her eyes. “You can thank me by buying me everything I want.”

  I’ve rarely seen Ten’s skin redden, but his jaw definitely looks a little flushed. I pin it on annoyance, because what other feeling could he be harboring for the girl who’s obsessed with the mother he abhors?

  36

  Sweet-Toothed and Weak-Kneed

  “No way,” Ten says, glaring at the crop top that shows off his sister’s midriff. It’s the eighth outfit she’s modeled and the eighth one he’s turned down.

  “But it has sleev
es!” she carps. “Angie?”

  I study the top, which is short but not extraordinarily so considering Nev is flat-chested.

  Ten crosses his arms. “Get it in a larger size.”

  “It’s a one size fits all!”

  “That’s misleading labeling.”

  Nev presses her palms together and folds her fingers. “Please, Ten.”

  He grumbles an almost inaudible, “Fine, but definitely not those shorts.”

  “They do seem a little small,” I concede. “I’ll try to find them in a size up.”

  Nev jumps and claps before pouncing back into the changing room.

  I turn toward a rack and riffle through it. I lift a distressed black denim mini from the rack and hold it up. Even though I haven’t given much thought to my date tonight, it wouldn’t hurt to come up with something to wear.

  “Don’t even.”

  Still clutching the hanger, I turn toward Ten. “Don’t even what?”

  “Don’t even think about handing her that.”

  “Oh.” I smile. “I wasn’t. I was thinking of getting it for myself.”

  He looks at it, then at me, then at my legs, and then his gaze whizzes back to the chrome rack.

  “What? No that’s revoltingly short?”

  “You’re not my sister. You can wear whatever you want.”

  I keep smiling as I hold the skirt in front of me to see if it’ll fit since I don’t feel like trying it on. Worse comes to worst, I’ll return it when I come back to the mall with Rae tomorrow for our Halloween shopping trip.

  Nev reappears in a denim romper that hits right above her knee.

  “Yes,” Ten says, but I shake my head.

  Nev checks her reflection, then wrinkles her nose. She’s so thin it hangs from her frame. She disappears back inside the fitting room.

  “What was wrong with that one?” Ten asks me.

  “It was shapeless.”

  “So?”

  “So no girl wants to wear a burlap sack.”

  He tugs on his spiky hair, then sinks down on a bench that’s propped against the wall of the changing area. “I really don’t get women’s fashion.”