Not Another Love Song

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “This isn’t a race. You’re bound to see her, whether in person or on TV. And not just because she’s your mother but because she’s Mona Stone.” I lay my palm on his neck, feel the play of tendons. “But remember, the only way someone can get under your skin is if you let them.”

  His jaw is set so tight it feels like metal. “You got under my skin.”

  “Because you let me.” I move my face closer to his until our noses touch. “Do you regret it?”

  His eyes darken as fast as the Tennessee sky before a thunderstorm. “Don’t ever ask me that again.”

  Even though my pulse now fills my mouth, I manage to say, “That’s not an answer.”

  “Do you regret waking up in the morning?”

  I frown.

  “Do you regret being able to laugh?” He puts some space between our bodies, but doesn’t let go of me. “Even though you drive me insane sometimes, you also make me insanely happy. So asking me if I regret letting you in is like asking if I regret breathing. The answer is no.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I love you.”

  I swallow his words, let them fill the void he left when he ran from me. Slowly he slants his face and fits his lips to mine. The kiss is deliberate and gentle.

  Oh so very gentle.

  After a minute, or two, or ten, I rip my lips off his. “Oh my God! Mrs. Larue wanted to speak to me! Your petals completely derailed me.”

  Ten grins. “Mrs. Larue didn’t need to see you, Angie. I did.”

  My cheeks grow hot. “She was in on—”

  “Had to get you out of class early.”

  “So she knows about the rose petals?”

  “Yeah, but she made me promise to shovel them up once I was done making things right with all my heart.” He air-quotes that last part. Probably one of her inspirational sayings.

  Even though more heat rises to my face, I smile. “I can’t decide whether I’m mortified or relieved.”

  Ten chuckles. “You’re cute when you blush. Almost as cute as when you’re mad.”

  I swat his arm but laugh, and my heart, which has felt as bloated as Rae’s outsized inflatable flamingo since I saw my name on my social media feed, finally shrinks back to its normal size.

  57

  My Last Stand

  The days fall like dominoes. Tuesday knocks into Wednesday, which topples over the next two days. Too soon, it’s Friday. The day before I’m supposed to meet Mona.

  Even though Ten suggested having his father read over the fine print of the contest to see if we could void my entry, I insisted that it was okay. Besides, asking Ten’s father to get me out of a situation he still believes I voluntarily signed up for would probably raise red flags. I don’t doubt Jeff will find out, but I’d rather it happened once it wasn’t all so fresh. I’d rather he keep thinking Nev cut school because she was overwhelmed by the talk of her mother’s contest and the attention she got from her peers.

  Nev has been dropping by my house almost every day after school. Rae and Laney have also spent the better part of their week with me. If anything, the bonding that ensued from the mess has made the entire thing almost worth it.

  As soon as I step through Lynn’s parlor door on Friday, she and Steffi shower me with praise and then give me a thin chain with a tiny diamond star for their “rising star.” I weep into Lynn’s newly purple hair and then against Steffi’s knob-of-steel shoulder.

  Tomorrow, I will sing my song for the very last time. After that, it will belong to Mona Stone. I’m at once nostalgic and relieved. I don’t want this song anymore because it already feels as though it doesn’t belong to me.

  I practice it with Lynn, and then I ask her if she’s been practicing it with Nev like I asked her to, and she nods. She doesn’t know why I asked this of her, though, and I don’t explain.

  Tonight I’m having dinner with Mom. It’s the first time all week we’ve been alone since she came to fetch me from school on Monday. We talk about a lot of things—mostly about what’ll happen once I sign on the dotted line and how it’ll affect my life.

  “I’ll have enough money to pay for an entire year of college.” I feel dazed by this fact, because even though it was never about the prize money, it’s pretty insane how much I’m about to earn.

  Mom runs one finger around the rim of her wineglass, creating a vibration that fills our kitchen. “College, huh? Is that back on the table?”

  “It was never off the table. It was just shoved under a lot of other things.”

  Mom smiles. I think it might be the first real smile she’s given me all week. She sets down her glass, then leans over and touches my cheek. “I’m real proud of you, baby.”

  “For considering college?”

  “No. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly happy to hear you talk about college. What I’m proud about, though, is how you’ve dealt with everything that’s come at you.”

  If she knew what I have planned for tomorrow, I’m not sure she’d be saying this.

  “Now off to bed,” she says, sending me off with a kiss on the cheek and a reminder that she loves me more than anything else in the world.

  For the first time in forever, I don’t take her words for granted, because not everyone gets to hear this from their mother.

  58

  The First Stage of Stardom

  I don’t sleep. Not for a second. When dawn creeps through my curtains, I throw the covers off my legs and get up.

  I catch my reflection in the mirror—red-rimmed eyes with purple circles, a complexion that’s never been paler. I look exactly how I feel—strung out.

  My phone’s screen is flooded with messages. From Rae and Laney. Notifications from the senior WhatsApp wishing me luck. And then several texts from Ten saying to come over the second it’s done. That he’s making lunch—all my favorites.

  ME: Blondies?

  BEAST: There will be blondies.

  ME: Is Nev ready?

  BEAST: She’s ready.

  ME: Will your dad hate me for this?

  BEAST: No.

  Although Ten tried to dissuade me from bringing Nev, I made him see that she needed this. Good or bad, she has to form her own opinion of her mother.

  When we get into the car, I tell Mom we need to stop by the Dylans’ house. I’m sure she imagines I want to see Ten. I turn on the radio until I hear the host discussing my performance at the Ryman Theater, which they’ll broadcast on their channel as well as on their website. I flick the radio off. I don’t need any more wasps flapping around inside me. Yes, wasps. I’m reserving butterflies for the good feels.

  When the mansion comes into view, I text Ten that we’re out front. He comes out with Nev and walks her all the way down the path. Nev donned the little black dress with red hearts we bought during our mall expedition. She wears it with a pair of black cowboy boots and a denim jacket.

  No jeans or leggings.

  “Hey, kids,” Mom says through my open window.

  “Hi, Jade.” Ten opens the back door.

  “Oh. Are you … coming with us?” Her eyes zip to the house, as though she’s expecting Jeff to come barreling down the path.

  “Yeah,” Ten says.

  I spin as I watch him slide into the backseat beside Nev.

  “You’re coming too?” I ask breathily.

  “I missed your first performance,” Ten says. “Wouldn’t want to miss your second one.” I must look like I’m two seconds away from crying, because he adds, “I promise to be on my best behavior.”

  I blink, heart all squashed up in my chest. I know how much he despises Mona. I know how much he wishes I had another passion than music. And yet, he’s here.

  He clips himself in. “Seat belt, Nev.”

  Nev rolls her eyes but drags on her seat belt.

  Mom still hasn’t started the car. “Uh. Does Jeff know?”

  “Yeah. I told him,” Ten says.

  “You did?” I squeak.

  Ten nods.

  “An
d he’s okay with it?” Mom asks.

  “He’s okay with it.”

  Mom cocks an eyebrow.

  “I promise, Jade,” Ten says. “I would never get you in trouble.”

  “Okay, then.” Mom finally puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.

  After a couple of minutes of air-conditioned silence, Nev asks, “Are you nervous, Angie?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t return the question because I sense how Nev is feeling.

  She’s been joggling her knees and coiling a long lock of hair around her index finger since we left their house.

  When the Ryman comes into view, the wasps become more insistent. I press my hand against my stomach. I’m suddenly not sure if I can do this but then remember why I’m doing it. For Nev.

  I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as Mom slides past a horde of paparazzi corralled in by police barricades. We sent our license plate number ahead of time so they would know to let the car through.

  Flashes go off anyway, but hopefully the images will be too grainy to use. At least Ten had the presence of mind to get his sister to duck a block ago.

  We park behind a shiny chrome van with Mona Stone’s logo. The woman with the curly hair and glasses I ran into back at the hotel approaches the car. When she sees me exit the vehicle, her eyes grow a little wider.

  “I know you,” she says.

  When Ten and Nev get out of the car, the woman turns so pale I worry she might faint.

  “I wish you’d informed us … that you were being accompanied,” she says.

  I loop my thumbs through my jeans’ belt buckle. Unlike Nev, I didn’t doll myself up. I’m wearing a plain white tank top and my favorite pair of skinny denim. “I emailed you I would come with my family.”

  The woman’s nostrils pulse. “Your family?” she has the audacity to say. “I’m not sure I can get you all in.”

  “Maybe our mother can get us all in?” Ten says tauntingly.

  The assistant’s eyes blaze with annoyance. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She vanishes through the Ryman’s heavy doors.

  “You think she won’t let us in?” Nev murmurs.

  I wind an arm around her shoulders. “If you don’t go in, I don’t go in.”

  The assistant comes back out, pressing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She holds the door open and gestures for us to step inside the temple of music.

  Mona is standing in the aisle, pointing out something on the stage to a man with a headset, her smooth, honeyed voice trickling like caramel and sunshine through the converted tabernacle.

  Nev’s shoulders stiffen as her mom looms larger and larger. When Mona turns, Nev stops walking. And then she starts trembling.

  59

  Ad Lib

  Mona Stone’s golden eyes flash over her daughter and then her son. My heart holds perfectly still. I barely dare to breathe, afraid to taint the air with my apprehension.

  Ten leans toward me and whispers, “I’ll go find a seat somewhere in the back.”

  As he walks away, Mona’s gaze follows him, before settling back on me. Finally she steps forward. “It’s a mighty small world.” She extends her hand toward my mother first. “It’s a pleasure to meet the woman who managed to produce such talent.”

  Mom’s stiff jaw tells me the compliment is lost on her. Thankfully, though, she shakes Mona’s hand. “Jade,” she offers politely.

  Mona’s berry-red lips curve into the smile that has blinded her fans for the past two decades. “Nevada.” She makes her daughter’s name sound like the opening of a song.

  Did she ever write songs for her children? I’ve never heard her sing one about motherhood, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t locked one up inside a drawer.

  Nev responds in a voice as light as morning fog, “Mom.”

  A camera surges up behind Mona, disrupting the intimacy of the reunion. I swivel my head and come nose-to-lens with a second camera.

  Mona lifts her palm in front of the camera next to her. “No filming,” she says. “My kids are off-limits.”

  Mom blinks and so do I. Here I was expecting she’d milk the moment.

  “We’ll blur their faces,” the cameraman says.

  “No.” Mona shakes her head, her mass of curls gleaming as they settle over her red silk button-down, from which a rhinestone-encrusted bra peeks out. “Can I ask how y’all met?”

  “Angie’s mother is our interior decorator,” Nev explains.

  Mona nods slowly.

  “And we go to the same school,” Nev adds.

  “And Jeff knows y’all are here?”

  Nev nods, her combed hair quivering from the intensity.

  “Okay, then.” Mona tips her head toward the stage. “Let’s get you set up, Angie. I wanted you to sing the song first, and then we’ll go somewhere quieter to discuss the terms of the contract.”

  I gulp as I take in the stage set up with a gleaming black baby grand. Like in the Bluebird, some of the world’s most magnificent voices have filled this place, have resonated among the pews and against the red and blue windowpanes.

  As Mona leads us down the aisle, she says, “Kara will get you and your momma the form authorizin’ filming and broadcast of your performance. You’ll need to sign that one before you go onstage.”

  Nev’s head keeps swiveling around as she takes in the place and then her mom and then the people milling around. There are a lot of them …

  When we reach the front row, the curly-haired assistant arrives with a clipboard, which she passes to Mom. My mother squints at it, reading it over carefully. Once she’s signed, she hands me the clipboard, and I append the autograph I left on the recording studio’s couch.

  “Nevada, Jade, why don’t you two take a seat over here while I set Angela up onstage.” Mona points to the front row. After Mom takes Nev’s hand and leads her toward the curved pew, Mona says, “I’m surprised my kids wanted to come.”

  I find Ten sitting all by himself in the back row, watching me like a hawk. I hope this isn’t too painful for him. “Why? They’re your kids. Kids want to see their parents.”

  An almost imperceptible groove appears between Mona’s eyebrows. If I hadn’t been standing so close, I would’ve missed it.

  “Mrs. Stone, I have a request to make.” I say this softly so that no one else can hear me.

  She cocks a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I’m listenin’.”

  Weeks ago, being the object of Mona’s attention would’ve been the highlight of my life. But that was weeks ago. “I’d like to sing my song as a duet.”

  Her arms slide back along her sides, her rings sparkling wildly. “I suppose we could do that.”

  “I want to sing it with your daughter.”

  “With my”—she lowers her voice—“with Nevada?”

  “Yes.”

  She peers in Nev’s direction. Nev flushes as scarlet as her mother’s blouse.

  “Is this some sort of practical joke?” Mona asks.

  “No.”

  Mona’s looking at her son now.

  “That’s one of the reasons I asked her to come today, although she’s not aware of it. I didn’t want to get her hopes up in case it wasn’t a possibility.”

  “Can she sing?”

  I smile. “Better than I can.”

  Mona scrutinizes my face for a long second, her pupils pulsing in time with my heart. “The only way for her to sing is if her legal guardian—Jeff—signs off on it.”

  “Not if it isn’t filmed, right?”

  She bites her lips. It doesn’t ruin her lipstick. “I suppose.”

  “Can we start with that? It’ll allow my voice time to warm up before my segment.”

  For an interminable moment, Mona is quiet and still.

  “Please? You won’t regret it.”

  “Will my son be performing too?”

  “Ten? No. He’s here for his little sister.” And for me. “That’s all.”

  An ex
pression—I can’t tell whether it’s sadness or frustration—mars her perfect face. “Kara!” she calls out, the intensity of her voice startling. “All cameras off. Phones too. Now!”

  The few conversations buzzing around us die out.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Stone,” I tell her as she goes to find a seat.

  She gives me a tight nod, and I climb onto the stage. Once seated on the bench, I move the mic around until it’s at the right height. And then I say, “Nevada Dylan, get your skinny butt up here.”

  Nev’s eyes bulge. Mom’s too.

  “You owe me, remember?” I add.

  Nev sinks lower into the wooden pew.

  I start playing the opening chords of my song. “I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you.”

  That makes her jolt out of her seat. Perhaps because she’s afraid of what more I might confess. She looks at Mom and then at Mona. When Mona tips her head toward the stage, Nev scampers forward as though propelled by an invisible force. And then she’s scaling the stairs, knees quaking, eyelashes batting.

  I tip my head to the bench, and she rushes to take a seat.

  “It’s not being filmed, don’t worry,” I tell her.

  Nev’s complexion has turned the waxen gray of someone about to face their greatest fear. I knock my shoulder into hers.

  She raises her eyes to mine. “Is that why Lynn—”

  “Made you practice my song?” I nod, then, without taking my eyes off hers, I whisper, “Ready?”

  She shakes her head no.

  I lean in and whisper, “Well, I wasn’t either, but you didn’t give me a choice, so here I am returning the favor.”

  60

  Hear Us Roar

  I press down on the piano keys, so focused on Nev that the theater and everyone in it melts away. “One, two, three,” I say, marking the beat with a slight nod of my head.

  And then I begin playing the song that led me onto this stage.

  As I reach the end of the intro, Nev’s lips are still sealed shut.