by Meg Haston
“OMG,” Molly hissed. “She’s totes napping. No fair.” Technically she didn’t have to whisper. It was a well-known fact that Finnster was legally deaf in one ear. During a fire drill last year, she’d woken from a nap after all the kids had evacuated, thought school was out, and gone home for the weekend. It was a Tuesday.
“At least her spirit hasn’t crossed over to the other side.” Liv twirled her jet-black ringlets into a messy bun on top of her head and secured them with a cotton ikat-print head wrap she’d made from one of her Italian grandma’s old-lady skirts. “Yet.”
“Shhhh.” Nessa glared at us from her pop-quiz fortress.
Twirling one of the vintage brass button earrings Liv had given me as a make-up gift, I tore a fresh page out of my notebook and scribbled a quick note to Molly.
Guess who’s the new Party Planning Committee chair for the dance next Friday??
A.) You, B.) You, or C.) YOU, BABY!
P.S. You’re welcome, Madame Chairperson.
Molly squealed, and Finnster let out a loud snort, jerking upright in her seat. “Question six,” she trilled, not missing a beat. “How many blowholes does a baleen whale have?”
“Blowhole.” Quinn snickered, then fist-bumped Jake Fields. Ugh. Why had I ever crushed on him? I refocused on Zander, who was now tapping out a rhythm on the edge of his desk.
“A.) One, B.) Two, C.) Three, or D.) Four.”
“You got me the job?” Molly leaned in and squeezed me in a side hug. “You’re the best.”
I wrote B on my quiz and hugged her back. “Now you can tell Phoenix you totally have a thing.”
Molly breathed a grateful sigh.
“And the last question. How long can a sperm whale stay underwater?” Finnster trilled the r on sperm, which made everyone, Zander included, burst out laughing.
“Well! I’m glad to see that you all have so much enthusiasm for marine biology.” Finnster scrunched her face in pleasure, looking the way Nessa’s pug puppy, Chunk, did just after he relieved himself on the entrance hall rug. “I hope you’ll show this degree of interest on Monday’s field trip to Shedd Aquarium.”
“If I was in charge around here, we’d take a trip to Wrigley Field.” Quinn raked a tanned hand authoritatively through his sandy hair. “Every Friday.”
Jake hooted his approval. Aaron Peterman balled up a piece of paper and pitched it to Quinn, who whacked at it with his pencil.
“If he was in charge around here, the average IQ in student government would take a nosedive,” Paige muttered under her breath. Then she looked at me. “No offense.”
“I’d just gotten braces and glasses, which is tantamount to being traumatized. I can’t be held responsible for my crushes.” I poked the brackets on my front teeth with my tongue.
“You should run for eighth-grade president, bro,” Jake suggested as everyone passed their quizzes to the end of their row. “Like, for real.”
“Please. Can he even spell ‘executive branch’?” Paige’s neck was turning bright red above the collar of the frumpy, faded black cardigan I’d advised against.
“He’ll forget about it by lunch,” I reassured her.
“For the remainder of class, we’ll be discussing Echinoidea, more commonly known as sea urchins.” Finnster rubbed her veiny hands together and turned toward the board, sketching out a detailed diagram.
Translation: Enjoy your free period, boys and girls.
As the guys in the third row divided into teams for paper football, Nessa slid her belongings down the row and rejoined our group.
“So. Breaking news.” I let my eyes flicker over each of my best friends. “Molly’s gonna head up the Party Planning Committee for the spring dance!” Under the table, I squeezed Paige’s arm, begging her not to pull a presidential power play. “It’s official!”
“Thanks to Kacey.” Molly’s cheekbones flushed a shade almost identical to that of her slinky peach pullover.
“You’re welcome!” Paige coughed.
“Ew.” Molly glared at Paige, then lifted the hem of her sweater and dabbed at her cheek in slo-mo. “Cover your mouth!”
“Oh, please.” Matching Molly’s dramatic flair, Paige rolled her eyes in a full circle. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I want you planning the dance. As president of the seventh grade, it’s my duty to—”
“To what?” Molly sneered. But she tucked and retucked her hair behind her ears and kept glancing at me nervously. “Change out the good stuff in the vending machines for rabbit food? Act like you’re smarter than everybody else?”
“Time!” Quinn paused the football game in the third row and turned around in his seat. “Catfight.”
“Girls!” I hissed, gripping Molly’s wrist with one hand and Paige’s with the other. “Chill out.”
I had never been friends with both girls at the exact same time before. It was great for me, but they were acting more territorial than my old pet ferret, Oprah Winfurry, when Ella brought home a guinea pig and insisted they were going to get married. Mom said there was only room for one diva in Oprah’s cage, so Enrique Piglesias had to go back to the pet store.
“I’m just saying,” Paige huffed. “If I wanted to veto her appointment, I totally could. She doesn’t just automatically get to plan the dance.”
Quinn perked up again. “You guys are planning the dance?” He looked at me when he said it. “Cool. Can there be, like, no chaperones?”
“Ask Molly.” I shrugged. “She’s in charge.”
Molly’s face flushed like she was about to explode with power. “I’ll think about it,” she said, with forced nonchalance. Milliseconds later, her right eye started to twitch.
“Sick.” Quinn gave me a hair toss and turned around again.
Molly yanked her notebook out of her backpack and flipped to a new page. “Okay. So who’s gonna do what for the committee? Liv, you’ll be my creative consultant. And Nessa? You’ll be in charge of lists and things. Okay?” She started scribbling furiously with her purple glitter pen. “And Kace—”
“Wait. Lists and things?” Nessa tightened her cognac leather corset belt two notches.
“It’ll look good on your transcript,” I offered. “Like you’re a team player.”
“Deal.” Nessa fished around her bag and unearthed an electronic organizer.
“Okay, so we have to come up with a theme first,” Liv started. “What about—”
“No. Wait!” Molly slapped the table with her palm, then swiveled her stool toward me. “Kace? Are you in?” Her Burt’s Bees–waxed lower lip protruded slightly. “Pretty please? I really feel like this is my calling, like, in life. And I can’t do it if you won’t—”
“I’m in, I’m in.” I squeezed her hand. “Whatever you need.” In the second row, Zander ducked to fish something out of his backpack. His blue streak lulled me into a comatose state for just a second.
“Awesome.” Molly settled back in her chair and gave her hair a satisfied shake. Maybe it was the new cut, but her face-framing layers made her seem way older than she had over the weekend. I wondered if it had anything to do with Phoenix from ninth. “So now all we have to do is decide who we’re taking to the dance. Me first. I’m taking the person I like more than I’ve liked anybody else, ever—”
“Yourself?” Paige sulked.
“—my BOYFRIEND, Phoenix.” Mols straightened up a little in her chair, probably so the word boyfriend would find its way to the second row. But if he heard her, Zander didn’t look up. I swallowed the stampede of butterflies in my throat.
“Ummm…” Liv twirled the ends of her scarf and lowered her voice to a whisper. “There’s this cute guy from my early-morning meditation class.”
“Maybe I’ll bring that French exchange student I told you guys about? Mattieu?” Nessa’s long, dark lashes fluttered. “Not that I need a guy to validate me.”
“Definitely not,” I said. With her shrink mom and professor dad, Nessa had been all over the world. But despite han
ging with boys in at least six different time zones, she had even less boy experience than I did. Only Molly, Liv, and I knew she’d never even come close to kissing a boy. That was because her super-strict parents set her curfew at 8 P.M. According to Molly, most boys didn’t even get warmed up until eight thirty.
Suddenly, I realized that all the girls were staring at me.
“Kacey?” Nessa’s almond-shaped eyes were wide, hopeful. Begging me to take back the spotlight. “Who’s the lucky dude?”
All the girls glanced meaningfully at the back of Quinn’s head.
Well, all the girls with the exception of Paige, who pinched me under the table. Hard.
“Ow!” I squeaked, slapping her hand away. Half the class turned to look at me. This time, Zander did look up and smile. His eyes were like mercury: a silvery gray color that was different every time you looked. Even if you looked as often as humanly possible.
“Well?” Molly hissed excitedly. “Who’s it gonna be?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I murmured, without taking my eyes off of Zander. And I would.
Eventually.
LOFTY FEELINGS
Tuesday, 3:45 P.M.
I stood on the street corner outside Zander’s loft fifteen minutes before rehearsal was supposed to start, my breath shallow in my chest. I’d been to Zander’s block tons of times. This is just an ordinary rehearsal, I told myself, adjusting the guitar strap that crossed my chest. Nothing is different.
“Let me in!” Rapping on the metal door made my knuckles sting. “It’s arctic out here!”
“It’s open!” Zander’s voice was barely audible over the shriek of jazz music coming from inside the loft.
I hip-bumped my way through the door, almost tripping over Hendrix, Zander’s salt-and-pepper mutt. Hendrix bristled and took a few wary steps back. Even the dog didn’t think my being here was a good idea.
“Easy,” I murmured, trying to remember whether it was dogs or cats that could smell impending disaster. “It’s gonna be fine.”
“What’s up, Miss Simon?” Zander yelled over the music. He was stretched out on a brand-new pool table. His right foot dangled several inches above the painted concrete floor, twitching in awkward rhythm to the erratic trumpet squeals emanating from the speakers. Nelson Lund, Gravity’s keyboardist, was twirling a cue stick like a martial arts weapon. The Beat was filming Nelson with his handheld camcorder. And Kevin, our bassist, was watching from the kitchen table.
I stabbed the POWER button on the stereo by the door, plunging the loft into silence. “How can you listen to that stuff? It sounds like Ella throwing a marathon tantrum. Only more off-key,” I said, eyeing the rest of the guys with surprise. Did Zander really want to give me my “surprise” with an audience?
Zander tsked at the forty-foot ceiling. “That’s like saying Ella could paint a Jackson Pollock just by flinging finger paint at a canvas.”
“You said it. Not me.” I rested my new guitar against the wall, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and perched on the arm of the brown leather sofa in the living area. The spacious, open loft looked exactly the same as it had the last time I’d been here: Two spiral staircases led to sleeping spaces, and exposed metal pipes lined the ceiling like modern industrial sculpture. The smooth concrete was painted different colors to distinguish the kitchen from the living area from the dining room. There was a small breakfast nook in the back corner, where several stools and a mic stand sat in anticipation of Gravity’s reunion.
Only one thing felt different: Seventy-five percent of the band was blatantly ignoring me.
“Um, guys? Hello?”
The Beat briefly swung his camcorder toward me, then refocused on Nelson.
“That’s dude for Welcome back, in case you missed it.” Zander sat up and hopped off the pool table, feet hitting the concrete with a slap. “You guys want a snack before we get started?”
On the copper dining table, his phone started to vibrate. Kevin reached for it, but Zander practically sprinted the few feet from the pool table to the dining area.
“Got it.” He checked the screen, then stuffed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “Text.”
“Who was it, bro?” The Beat asked as we moved to the kitchen. Kevin buried his head in the pantry and Nelson whipped open the door to the fridge.
“Nothing. Nobody.” Zander reached for the box of Cocoa Puffs on the marble-topped island and tore it open.
The guys exchanged glances, but nobody looked at me.
“HEY. GUYS. I’M RIGHT HERE,” I shouted, the ball of nervous energy in my stomach suddenly unraveling into full-on anger. “The least you could do is say hi.”
“Okay. You wanna talk?” Kevin hoisted himself onto the island. The cuffs of his gray jeans were so frayed they looked like cowboy fringe. “Why don’t you tell us if you’re back for good, or if we should get you an understudy just in case?”
I balked. His words stung, mostly because deep down, I knew he had a right to be worried. I had bailed on the band once before, when Molly had made me choose between music and my friends.
“I’m in,” I said emphatically, taking a seat on one of the backless silver bar stools. “For good.”
Kevin just shrugged.
“Give her a break, Cho. She said she’s in.” Zander nodded his blue streak at me in encouragement.
“Yeah. Girl deserves mad points for saving us at the showcase,” The Beat piped up in my defense. “If she hadn’t taken over lead vocals, we’d probably still be stalling up there.”
“True, but—” A question mark lingered in Nelson’s voice.
“I saved you because band members have each other’s backs. Which is why I would never bail on you guys again.” I wiped a thin layer of sweat from my temples. It felt like someone had turned up the heat in the loft for the sole purpose of making me squirm.
“I’m just saying, you left once before.” Kevin shook his head, unconvinced. “What’s gonna stop you from bolting again?”
“I said I’m not gonna bolt, and I’m not gonna bolt,” I snapped, whipping my head in Zander’s direction. “Can we change the subject, please?”
Right on cue, the loft’s front door swung open, and a red rolling suitcase toppled through the doorway. Behind it was a girl about our age wearing shiny over-the-knee black wedge boots, distressed gray jeans, and a mesh sweater that hinted at a neon-yellow bra underneath. Her glinting jet-black hair was swept into a messy side braid, and a black-studded wrap encircled her head. Two hot-pink plastic skulls dotted her earlobes.
The girl kicked the door closed with the heel of her boot and headed for the kitchen without a second’s hesitation. She moved with the unhurried confidence of a guy, but her hips were all girl. High school girl, specifically.
“Heyyy!” Zander practically tackled the hot intruder in a giant bear hug, lifting her in the air and twirling her around. Her laugh echoed in the loft. I stared stupidly, feeling like I was watching one of those cologne commercials that promised a rock-star life for those willing to smell like wood chips.
Zander turned back to us and said, “Surprise!”
My stomach bottomed out. Surprise? This strange, gorgeous girl was my surprise?
I should have trusted my instincts. I knew I hated surprises.
Who was this girl? Desperate, I looked to the guys for clues. But Kevin was staring like he’d never seen her before either. His mouth was slightly open and his eyes were clouded. It was the same expression I’d seen on plenty of guys’ faces when Molly wore her leather miniskirt to school.
The worst part was, I couldn’t blame him. The girl was objectively, scientifically gorgeous. Her skin was a deeper olive than Liv’s; her eyes a light, grayish green. And her lips…
… were way too close to Zander’s neck.
“You made it!” Zander said.
“Of course I made it,” she said breathlessly when Zander let her down. Her hair floated in perfect, wispy layers around her heart-shaped face. “What
’d you think, I wouldn’t be able to tear myself away from Seattle?”
Seattle?
“Wasn’t sure.” Zander grinned, and then the two of them just stood there, staring at each other with these lame, goofy smiles on their faces. I ran my tongue over my braces, feeling the beginnings of a cold sore on the inside of my right cheek.
Behind me, The Beat coughed.
“Oh, right.” Zander shook his head, like he’d completely forgotten about us. “This is Nelson, Kevin, and The Beat. From Gravity.”
“Hey,” the guys managed.
She waved hello, her clear pink bangle bracelets clacking together. “Aaand… this must be your new girl?” The girl narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at me. The liner extended past the outer corner of her eyes and slightly upward, giving an exotic twist to her features.
“You must be jet-lagged,” I said sweetly. “You’re the new girl. I’m the lead singer. Kacey.”
“Mrow.” Kevin made a catfight noise in my ear. I elbowed him in the gut, but even I was surprised at the edge in my voice. I sounded like the old Kacey. Not the newer, more secure version of myself—the one who wasn’t even supposed to be into Zander because of the Girl Code.
“Kacey.” The girl smiled to herself like my name was some joke the rest of us couldn’t possibly understand. “Oh. I get it. It’s, like, supposed to be retro. Kacey. Cute.”
My face felt hot. “And you aaaare…” Resolving to be nice, I unearthed my best fake Simon Smile, which I hadn’t used since I’d retired from Channel M.
“Stevie,” she said smoothly, locking her gaze with mine. “The lead singer from Hard Rock Life.”
The and your worst nightmare part was implied.
SIXTH SENSE SAYS…
Tuesday, 4:34 P.M.
I didn’t know how much rehearsal time we’d wasted by the time I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor in Zander’s living area, wedged between Nelson and The Beat, a B.B. King record crackling in the background. Stevie sat on the couch between Zander and Kevin, her boots kicked off on the floor like she owned the place.