Not Another Love Song

by Olivia Wildenstein

Ten’s jaw turns the slightest shade of pink, which is nothing compared to the burgundy hue I’m surely sporting.

  “Are you kids ready to—” Jeff’s voice dies at the same time as a clamor rises from the opposite sidewalk.

  Ten’s body turns as stiff as marble.

  “Jeff?” Mona gasps.

  My shoulders jab together. I have my back to her, so she can’t see me. Nev wheels around, eyes growing wider and wider. Even though the excitement on the other sidewalk is deafening, the silence engulfing the Dylans—or should I say, the Stones—is thick and tragic.

  “Fancy runnin’ into you here.” Mona’s surprised act has my spine hardening. “Nevada, you look—”

  “Don’t,” Jeff cuts her off.

  “Am I not allowed to compliment my children?”

  A vein throbs in Jeff’s temple. “Not here.” He walks up to Nev, who’s gazing at her mother as though she’s some fantastical creature come to life, and hooks his arm around her bony shoulders, pulling her to his side. “You want to talk to them, you call me and we can arrange a meeting at the house,” he says, his voice low and sharp.

  Mona’s answer doesn’t come right away, but when it does, it’s charged and vibrates like a scratched record. “I didn’t think I was welcome.”

  Ten’s eyes find mine. Every cell in my body is telling me to act startled that his mother’s standing inches away from us, but that’s not who I am. The leaves on the tree behind him flutter, dappling the concrete with beads of light that dance around his loosely tied royal-blue sneakers.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that, Mona. We came back so you could see them more often. You haven’t visited once!” Jeff spins toward a paparazzo and shoves his palm against the lens just as the shutter clicks.

  “My schedule’s been crazy, Jeff. I know my career’s never meant a thing to you, but I’m loyal to my fans.”

  Ten’s sneakers finally shift, start to back away. “Then go be with them, Mona. You’ve always preferred them to us anyway.” His words punch the air so hard that his mother gasps.

  “Ten!” Jeff snaps.

  “What? It’s the goddamn truth.”

  The paparazzo raises his camera and snaps a picture of Ten and Nev.

  Jeff bumps his chest into the camera, forcing the man back, and growls, “If you sell a single picture of my kids, I will hunt you down and sue you for all you’re worth. Now, back off!”

  I finally look up. Ten’s eyes have gone dark, as though his pupils have leaked into his irises.

  “Ten, get in the car,” Jeff says. “And take your sister.”

  Nev’s lips begin to tremble. I can’t tell if she wants to cry or protest. She does neither.

  “You did a mighty fine job of turnin’ my kids against me,” Mona says, her honeyed voice quivering.

  Anger streaks Jeff’s face. “I said, Not here, Mona.”

  “Angie,” my mother calls out to me softly. I unbind the soles of my boots from the pavement and stride over to her, and then I finally turn around.

  Mona’s eyes slip over Mom, then over me. There’s no recognition. Am I so forgettable? It’s such a silly, selfish thought considering the moment. Mom wraps her fingers around my arm and pulls me away.

  I look back once and regret it, because Mona has tears in her eyes. My heart cracks for her. The encounter on the sidewalk might’ve been staged, but those tears look real.

  Are they, though?

  As I settle into Mom’s Volvo, I dig my phone from my bag. There’s a text from Ten. You knew she was there.

  There’s no question mark, but I still type back: Yes.

  BEAST: Why didn’t you tell me?

  ME: I don’t know.

  I’m expecting a blameful message from him. Instead I get: Sorry you had to witness that.

  No blame. I’m confused but relieved. I rub my forehead as I type back: Are you guys OK?

  BEAST: I’m fine. Nev’s … emotional.

  “Still think she’s such a great person, baby?” Mom asks.

  I’m not sure what to think.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she says. “I don’t want you to enter her contest.”

  I pale. “You promised!”

  My mother gives me a look that makes me want to jump out the passenger window and hike all the way home. “God, Angie, she hasn’t visited her kids in the two months they’ve been here.”

  “She works a lot.” Why am I making excuses for Mona? To sway Mom into letting me compete?

  Mom slaps the steering wheel, and it triggers the horn. Thankfully we’re no longer in front of the hotel. “I thought you liked Ten and Nev!”

  “I do like them! But I also don’t hate her. And I’m sorry if that makes you mad, but that’s just the way it is.”

  Mom doesn’t speak to me again during the entire drive home; I don’t talk either. We’d just say hurtful things. Instead, I focus wholly on my conversation with Ten.

  ME: Bowling?

  BEAST: I wish. Things are too tense over here. Let me see if I can get away later.

  Even though it’s probably just my guilt talking, I ask: You’re really not mad at me?

  BEAST: Why would I be?

  Because I don’t hate your mother. I obviously don’t send that. Because I didn’t tell you I saw her.

  BEAST: Did you ask her for an autograph?

  ME: WHAT? No.

  BEAST: Then I’m not mad. I’ll call you later. Promise.

  ME: K.

  I start typing Love you, but erase the words immediately. Most of my conversations with Rae end that way. They’re automatic, the same way people say hey or bye.

  Can’t believe I almost sent him Love you, though.

  Once we get home, Mom vanishes into the kitchen while I go sit in front of the piano and play, and play. At some point, I sense Mom’s presence, and I look at her. Her face is still pinched, but I can tell she wants to snip the tension between us.

  “She’s not a good mother,” I say. “I acknowledge that.”

  Mom’s fingers tighten around her mug of tea.

  “But Jeff makes up for it, the same way you make up for Dad’s absence.”

  I toy with the keys on the piano, creating the beginning of a new melody. Something sad and forlorn inspired by Nev’s expression. A bottomless ache that resonates inside my bones.

  “She might be my idol, but you’re my hero, Mom, because you have it all, a kid and a career.”

  I add a new chord to my composition.

  Hands settle on my shoulders, and then a tear falls onto the F sharp. Not mine. I crane my neck to look up at Mom.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have taken out my irritation on you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  The tremor building in my fingertips converts into a slow melody that possesses me. I’m so absorbed in my creation that I don’t notice the moment my mother lets go, I don’t notice the sky dimming, I don’t notice the blisters forming on my fingertips until they’ve bubbled up.

  When the world comes crashing back around me, I’m out of breath and light-headed. Is this what happened to Mona? She got lost in her music, and once she climbed out of the melodic vortex, there was nothing and no one waiting there for her?

  I snap the lid closed on the keys, almost nicking my sore fingers.

  “Mom!” I call out, chest tight.

  “I’m in the kitchen, baby.”

  She’s still here.

  She’s still here.

  50

  Finding Love in Tennessee

  While I stack books in my locker on Monday morning, a warm breath lands on the nape of my neck.

  “Hey.”

  I turn around, heart throbbing a little everywhere in my body. Ten’s standing so close that I can smell spearmint on his breath and the intoxicating scent of his hair wax.

  “Sorry we never got to hang out yesterday,” he says. “It was chaos at home. Dad was fuming, and Nev locked herself in her bedroom.” He pushes a lock of hair behind my ear,
his fingers lingering on my little arrow earring. “He made me color-code books in the library.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shakes his head, then curls his fingers around the nape of my neck and leans over. When his mouth grazes mine, I jolt away, then touch my lips with my fingertips, darting frenzied glances at all the eyes trained on us.

  I put some distance between Ten and me. Not much. Like an extra inch, but enough to catch my breath.

  “You look like you’re about to pass out,” Ten says.

  “I think I might,” I croak.

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Are you—Did you want to—”

  “You surprised me, that’s all.” I quickly press up onto my toes and place a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

  Someone coughs. “Get a room.”

  Brad.

  Laney, who’s walking beside him, smacks his chest and mouths, I’m sorry. But she’s fighting off a smile, so I don’t think she’s that sorry. Or maybe she’s just happy that Ten and I finally got together. I think it’s the latter.

  When I told the girls on our WhatsApp chat after I got home from my surprise dinner date, they flooded it with GIFs of people jumping up and down.

  “Hey, Ten, you sure she’s not with you because of who you’re related to?” Mel says. “Angie really likes Mona Stone.”

  Ten’s face clenches, while my stomach bottoms out.

  A locker door clangs shut—Rae’s. “Shut up, Mel.”

  Mona’s fans leaked pictures of the encounter all over social media before we even left the Landmark, so I shouldn’t be surprised people are talking about it. Rae saw the pictures, of course, which led to a long phone conversation about why I’d kept it a secret.

  One of the cheerleading twins asks, “Is that even allowed?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Rae snaps.

  “I’m no lawyer, but hello? Conflict of interest?”

  “You think knowing her son gives her some sort of advantage?” It’s Laney who comes to my defense. “That’s just stupid.”

  “No, it’s not,” Mel says.

  “Shut up, Mel!” Laney and Rae both snap at the exact same time.

  Mel’s perma-tanned skin turns a fiery orange. She scowls at me. “You think you’re better than everyone else, Angie. Well, news flash, you’re not. And dating the son of someone famous isn’t going to make you better either!”

  “Stop it, Melanie.” This time, it’s Ten who says it. He doesn’t look at her. Just stares at his dark loafers.

  “It’s Melody,” she hisses, before stomping off.

  Rae glares at her, then at the crowd gawking at us. Most scamper away; others huddle in groups to whisper. As she makes her way to us, her gaze runs over Ten as though it’s the first time she’s seeing him.

  She leans her shoulder into the locker next to mine. “I can’t believe you’re Mona’s son.”

  Ten finally raises his gaze off his shoes. “That makes two of us,” he says quietly.

  The bell shrills, and the hallway starts emptying.

  “We should…” I gesture toward a classroom.

  Rae squeezes my hand. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

  As bodies move around us, carving the tense air, I touch Ten’s wrist. His arms are crossed so tightly in front of his chest that tendons jut against his tanned skin.

  “Ten, I’m sorry—”

  “It was just a matter of time until everyone found out.”

  I’d been about to apologize for participating in his mother’s contest, not to offer my condolences for his lost anonymity, but I go with it.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  He shrugs. “As long as no one asks me for free tickets to her concerts or backstage passes, I’ll be good.”

  I give him a rueful smile. “Damn. How am I supposed to get backstage passes, then?”

  “You’ve got to pay for them and contribute to the trust fund I plan on donating to charity at some point.”

  “Which charity?”

  “A couple of different ones. Mostly health care. The system sucks so much in this country.”

  “That’s sweet of you.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, huh?”

  “I always thought you were sweet.”

  He shoots me that crooked grin of his that without fail gets my heart whirring. “Yeah, right.”

  “Fine. But I did always find you handsome. That’s the truth.” Did I just seriously share that? Filter, Angie.

  Chuckling, he unlocks his arms and catches my hand. As his fingers thread through mine, I stare at our linked hands. I can’t believe I’m holding hands with Tennessee Dylan.

  As we stroll toward calc, I stare at our hands a dozen or so times to make sure the moment isn’t a figment of my imagination.

  His knuckles flex as his grip tightens. “What?”

  “I’ve never held hands with anyone before. Well, besides Rae. And Mom.”

  “Didn’t you date someone before me?”

  “I went out with a guy named Ron when I was fourteen, but I wouldn’t call it dating.”

  “Ron Wilkins from our art class?”

  I look up into his face. “Ew. No.” Overachieving Ron Wilkins has serious halitosis. “Another Ron. He left last year.” This feels like a good time to ask the undesirable questions. “And you? You had a girlfriend back in New York, didn’t you?” I bite my lip. “Actually, forget I asked. I don’t want to hear about your ex.”

  “Good. Because I don’t want to talk about my exes either.”

  Exes. “Were there many?”

  “I thought we weren’t talking about them.”

  “I changed my mind when you used the plural.”

  “Only about”—he screws up one side of his face—“nine.”

  “Nine?” I squeak. “Did you start dating when you were eight?”

  A smile slinks over his lips, which makes me think he’s kidding. Or is he? Rae says guys usually double the number of conquests to heighten their playerness.

  We’ve reached Mrs. Dabbs’s classroom, so I let go of his hand.

  “Nice of you to join us, Miss Conrad and Mr. Dylan.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Dabbs,” I mumble.

  “Just hurry and take your seats.” I’m a little stunned by her complacency. When her tiny eyes dart toward Ten, I conclude she must’ve heard of the dreaded family encounter and pities him. Or maybe she’s a huge Mona Stone fan and wants to ingratiate herself with Ten.

  At some point during class, I write 9? in my notebook in huge bold characters and circle the number twice.

  Ten grabs my chair legs and drags me closer to him. I glance at Mrs. Dabbs, who’s busy writing a lengthy formula on the whiteboard.

  He leans over and whispers, “I dated five girls, but only one was serious.”

  Ha!

  “What about you?” he asks softly.

  I’m tempted to say three—three would be acceptable, right?—but it would just prove how insecure I am. “I’ve never had a real boyfriend.”

  He frowns. “Really?”

  He studies me, but so does Mrs. Dabbs, so I don’t say anything.

  “The formula’s on the board, Mr. Dylan, not on Miss Conrad’s cheek.”

  That snaps Ten’s attention off me. For the rest of class, even though he glances my way several times, we don’t speak again. As soon as the bell shrills, I toss my books into my canvas bag and sling it over my shoulder.

  Ten’s still looking at me funny.

  “If you don’t believe me, ask Rae—”

  “So your first time was with a stranger?”

  “What?” When it dawns on me he’s referring to the drunken conversation I had with him after the game of “Never Have I Ever,” my body temperature soars. “Not a complete stranger.” The lie sneaks out of my mouth. I should tell him the truth, but what if my lack of experience scares him off? I don’t want to scare Ten off.

  “Not a complete stranger, but not a boyfriend?”


  I roll my shirtsleeves up to cool my scorching skin. “I thought we weren’t talking about our pasts.”

  He nods, but a shadow falls over his face. Does he sense I’m lying, or is he disgusted that I fake-lost my virginity to a sort-of stranger?

  Ten hangs his backpack on one shoulder.

  “We should never have talked about exes,” I mumble.

  “At least it’s out of the way now.” He sighs, then grabs my hand and drags it away from my tote strap.

  Relief floods me at the contact, and I curl my fingers over his.

  “Can’t wait to see the look on Bolt’s and Archie’s faces when they hear I finally made my move.”

  “You haven’t told them?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “No need for telling when the kissing is so public.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  I tip up my face and meet his worried gaze. “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good. Because I sort of want to do it again.”

  He backs me into the cafeteria, which is thankfully empty, pulls me behind a potted palm, and flattens me against the wall. I’ve never been so appreciative of our school’s tropical decor.

  Bracketing my head with his forearms, Ten kisses me. Hard. And I feel his kiss everywhere. And even though it’s not a competition, I think this kiss beats all the kisses we shared Saturday night. My arms wrap around his waist and my hands venture up his back, over the knobs of his spine.

  Something rings. Probably my heart. Hearts ring when they’re happy, right?

  But then Ten is tugging me out of our hiding spot, out of the cafeteria. He releases my hand and starts walking down the hallway toward his next class. Before going inside, he pivots around.

  “You’re going to be late,” he says, a brazen lilt to his voice. “You can put the blame on me.”

  I most definitely won’t be putting the blame on him, because that would mean explaining why Tennessee Dylan made me late, and that’s not a conversation I ever plan on having with a teacher.

  51

  The Fame Game

  Even after a couple of days of long make-out sessions—in stairwells, in the parking lot, against the lockers, in his car—dating Ten feels utterly unreal.