Tone Deaf

by Olivia Rivers

  Copyright © 2016 by Laura Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-707-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-708-0

  Cover design by Sarah Brody

  Jacket photo credit: iStockphoto

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Mom,

  for your endless love and unwavering support.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Due to the limits of written English, italics are used in this book to signify the use of American Sign Language (ASL). However, please note that ASL has its own vocabulary and grammar system that separates it almost entirely from English. If you’d like to learn more about the unique beauty of ASL and Deaf culture, check out the nonfiction resources listed in the back.

  1

  ALI

  ROCK CONCERTS AREN’T meant to be watched like silent movies. Period. End of story. No exceptions.

  So what the hell am I doing here?

  I turn toward Avery with my arms crossed, ready to ask her this exact question for like the fiftieth time. She doesn’t notice me, not that I can really blame her. Surrounding us is a sea of girls wearing blue and green, all of them screaming, jumping up and down, waving their hands to a beat I can’t hear. The vibrations of the noise strike me from all sides, like some sort of tidal wave. We’re close to the stage, and even though there’s not a single person sitting, at least the rows of seats keep a bit of space between me and the strangers packed around us.

  It’s still not enough.

  Avery finally glances over at me, her eyes wide with excitement and a goofy grin plastered on her face. Typical. If I even mention the words “Tone Deaf,” my best friend turns into a babbling, fangirly mess. Usually, her enthusiasm is contagious—I might not get Avery’s love for the pop-punk band, but I’m no stranger to feeling passionate about music.

  Tonight is different. All my enthusiasm for this concert fled about three hours ago, when we jostled through the crowded gates of the stadium and plunged into the unruly mass of Tone Deaf fans. Between the ruthless Los Angeles heat and the anxious pounding of my heart, I’m now covered in sweat, and my nerves are screaming at me to get the hell out of here.

  Avery pulls me into a quick, giddy hug, and I wince as her fingernails accidentally dig into my shoulder. Her nails are painted in alternating shades of blue and green, the same colors on Tone Deaf’s album covers and the posters plastered all over Avery’s bedroom. Honestly, her boy band obsession is more endearing than annoying, but of all the musicians in the world, did she have to pick Jace Beckett to fall in love with? Jace is the sort of lead singer who gives the entire music industry a bad rep—he completely ignores the fans who praise him, and he goes out of his way to bad-mouth anyone who criticizes his band. Flip through any entertainment magazine, and there’s bound to be some story about Tone Deaf’s lead singer publicly mocking a music reviewer or giving a journalist the finger. My former piano instructor had a name for famous musicians like Jace: “popular disgraces.” Personally, I prefer the more accurate term “total jerk.”

  I’ve tried to point Avery toward some very cute up-and-coming prodigies from the classical scene, but nope, she wants nothing to do with the sweet nerds I grew up performing alongside. Her heart belongs solely to Jace Beckett and his pop-punk band.

  He is a good performer—I have to give him that. Tone Deaf’s lead singer jumps around onstage, singing into his microphone, expertly strumming his electric guitar. Every step he takes is in sync with the pulsing beat, and even though his movements are quick and energetic, he seems perfectly in control of both the music and the audience. His eyes are half-lidded, and it’s obvious that his focus is on the song, not the crowd. Even after hours of performing, a small smile lifts his lips.

  Avery grabs my shoulder excitedly as she bounces up and down in Converse that have “I Love Tone Deaf!” scribbled across them. Her blue and green shirt reads “Jace’s #1 Fangirl,” and her pigtails bounce around with her, showing off the green streaks she’s dyed into her dirty-blond hair.

  My best friend doesn’t take the title of “fan” lightly.

  She screams something, but she’s twisted toward the stage so I can only see half of her lips. I shove her hand off my shoulder, which gets her attention. She turns toward me and blurts out something. I raise my eyebrows, trying not to look too impatient, and she repeats her words in both speech and sign language: “They’re announcing it!”

  She clasps her hands together and opens her mouth in an excited squeal. As I look around, I see other girls doing the same thing, everyone’s eyes wide with anticipation as they focus on the stage and the huge LCD screen right above it. I’m close enough to the front that I have to crane my neck to see the screen—we’re fifth row, middle. Avery has been saving up for these tickets for an entire thirteen months, insisting I come along since “even deaf girls need to experience their first real concert.” I’m not exactly sure why performances at Carnegie don’t count as real, but I know better than to argue with her when it comes to anything related to Tone Deaf.

  Jace has finished his performance for the night, and he gives a short bow. As he looks down on the mass of fans in front of him—all squealing and jumping and ready to kiss his feet—his smile turns into a cocky grin. It looks completely fake, like the expression painted on a Ken doll, but none of his audience seems to notice.

  The image on the screen changes to a close-up of Jace’s face as he addresses the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out, and a second later, little subtitles dance across the bottom of the screen with his words. I squint as I struggle to read them. Stadiums have to provide subtitles to comply with disability laws, but apparently there aren’t any laws against making the letters ridiculously tiny.

  The vibrations of the crowd die down a little, and Jace repeats, “Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for coming tonight and helping to kick off Tone Deaf’s summer tour.”

  More cheers. More crazy jumping and blown kisses.

  “Tonight a special fan will receive a special prize,” Jace says. “Tone Deaf is giving away a backstage tour, so one of you can come meet us right after the concert.” The subtitles are quickly replaced with a tiny legal disclaimer, and even though the text is too small to bother reading it all, I get the gist of it—crazy fans can win a half-hour meet-and-greet with the band, but the tour is of the stage and not anything in Jace’s pants. Then Jace announces, “Everyone in the audience has received a wristband with a raffle code on it,” as if every girl wasn’t already aware of this.

  I stare down at my own band: A632D9. I wanted to rip it off as soon as the ticket guy at the entrance put it on, but Avery had started freaking out, signing frantically that the code was defunct if I took off the wristband. I kept it on
, just to please her, but not before arguing back a little.

  “In ten seconds, the winning code will appear on the main screen,” says Jace. He points upwards, and all eyes turn to the huge LCD screen I’m already staring at. A large “10” appears on the screen, quickly followed by a “9,” then an “8.”

  A chant goes up in the crowd, and whatever else Jace wanted to say is drowned out as the concertgoers count down. At the “1,” a roar of sound hits me, even more powerful than before. I clutch my arms to my chest and turn to the side, trying to ward off the sensations.

  Something slams into my shoulder, and I yelp, glaring at Avery. She excitedly clings to my arm as she jumps up and down, and a huge, shocked grin spreads across her face.

  Which can only mean one thing.

  “You won?” I scream, hoping I’m loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

  “Ali!” she shrieks. “Ali! It happened! Oh my god, I told you it’d happen!”

  A bubble of excitement rises in my chest as I watch her smile grow even wider. Avery babbles a long string of words, but no amount of lip-reading skill could help me interpret what she’s saying. Then she points eagerly toward the screen, and I turn, grinning as I read the code. I have Avery’s code memorized; she’d been chanting it like a good luck charm before the concert started, drawing out all the O’s like she was practicing for a kiss.

  My grin falls from my face. I blink, hoping I’m seeing things wrong. But every time I blink, the screen just grows clearer.

  It’s not Avery’s code. Not even close. Instead, the bright screen proudly displays: A632D9.

  Well, shit. I just won myself a date with a rock star.

  2

  ALI

  BODIES BRUSH AGAINST me as I struggle through the crowd, and I try not to shudder. My face must be pale, because Avery reaches down and takes my hand. If it were anyone else, I’d jerk away, but she gives my palm a comforting little squeeze, and I gratefully squeeze back. Avery doesn’t skip a beat as she continues babbling about the raffle prize.

  “—can’t believe—Jace is just so—still can’t believe—make sure he signs all of them?”

  I glance up at her lips every once in a while and catch snippets of her words, but I don’t bother with a response aside from a couple nods. What I want right now is to escape this crowd, not to hyperventilate over Jace Beckett. Although Avery has made it very clear that I’m not to leave the tour without getting as many autographs as possible. I have four of her CD albums and a rolled up poster in my purse, along with the metallic blue pen Avery brought for this very purpose. Earlier, I’d been teasing her for actually believing we’d get a chance for autographs, but I guess her optimism paid off.

  I glance down at my raffle wristband, wishing Avery were wearing it instead of me. But I’d checked the tiny print on the back of my ticket, and it made the rules clear—in order to accept the prize, the code on my wristband has to match the code on my ticket, and the name on my ticket has to match the name on my ID. So passing off the prize to Avery isn’t an option, but at least I can get all the autographs she wants and take some cool pictures for her.

  Although, I guess I should try to be at least a little excited about meeting a rock star. Aren’t I supposed to have some whole monologue planned out about how I love Jace and adore Tone Deaf and think their music is the best and want to marry him? I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of stuff fans are supposed to say.

  We near a small ticket stand at the back of the arena, which is apparently where I’m supposed to redeem my raffle code. There’s a ticket-box in the side of the building, along with a line of girls all sporting wristbands and determined expressions. The worker behind the counter looks beyond exasperated. One girl marches up and displays her wristband, only to have the worker shoo her away. Huh. Who would have thought girls would try to fake their way into a raffle prize? But, then again, Tone Deaf fans are about as fanatic as they come.

  Avery marches me right past the line of girls and straight toward the counter, staying by my side like some sort of personal wristband guardian. The other girls glare at me, and I glare right back. It’s not really them I’m mad at, but they provide a good excuse for the scowl. Truth is, I really don’t want a date with singer-boy. Tabloids might be sketchy sources at best, but when every single one of them prints stories about Jace Beckett mistreating his fans, it makes me suspect they’re on to something.

  Avery steps up to the counter, tugging me along. The worker gives a sharp flick of her manicured nails, gesturing for us to move to the back of the line. “Wait your turn,” she snaps.

  Avery says something, but her back is to me, so I can’t see her words. The worker just scoffs and says, “Your friend’s the winner? Just like all the other girls behind you?”

  Avery puffs up, straightening her shoulders and standing on her toes. For someone who’s only five foot four, she looks pretty intimidating. I shuffle my feet and try to disappear in her shadow. I don’t want to get into any argument, and even if I could puff up like that, I’d probably just look ridiculous.

  No, I’d definitely look ridiculous. I’ve always been the “cute” one: I’m barely over five feet and have way too many freckles, and glow-in-the-dark pale skin. The fine art of makeup is one I learned early on, so at least I no longer have the issue of people mistaking me for being super young. But no matter how old I look, it’s kind of hard to come across as intimidating when I always need to look up to meet people’s eyes.

  Avery, on the other hand, is quite adept at transforming into teenage-mutant-ninja-girl. She’s waving her arms around in what looks like kickass karate moves but is really just her version of exasperated flailing. The worker finally rolls her eyes and waves me forward, and I offer her an apologetic smile that she totally ignores.

  Okay, time for tactic number two: I shove my wrist up on the counter, displaying the code on my band, and then lay out my ticket and ID next to it. The worker lets out a sigh—probably of relief—and waves her hand in a shooing motion at the girls behind me. “Okay, everyone, leave. Now. The winner is here, and she isn’t you.”

  The girls waiting in line glare at me hard, but slowly disperse, hands on their hips. I’m sure Jace would much rather spend time with the tall blond who is shooting me daggers, or the redhead flipping me off. But, nope, I’m the winner. Little ol’ deaf me, who hasn’t ever heard a second of his music.

  Whoop-dee-doo, hooray, and all that jazz.

  The worker gives me a bored look and says, “Hang on. I’m going to phone backstage and get someone to pick you up for the tour.”

  I glance back at the retreating girls and take in their expressions: anger, sadness, jealousy. Lots and lots of jealousy. For one impossible second, I actually smile. Someone in this world—more than one someone—is actually jealous of me.

  Then Avery tackles me in a hug, and something crazy happens: I start laughing. It all hits me then; I got the winning code. I get to spend the rest of the night backstage on a tour. I get to meet a freakin’ celebrity.

  Me. Not any of those other girls, but me.

  I probably look like a maniac standing there in a near-abandoned area of the arena, laughing my head off. But then Avery also starts giggling, and I couldn’t rein in my happiness if I tried.

  We only calm down when we see a middle-aged guy heading toward us, his mouth pursed in concentration as he attempts to type on his smartphone while he walks. The wire of a microphone earpiece is tangled on the frame of his glasses, and he’s wearing a polo shirt that states, in bold letters, MANAGER. He only tears his attention away from the phone when he reaches the ticket booth. The worker points to me and gives a thumbs up, and the guy shoves the phone back in his pocket as he reaches out his other hand for a shake.

  “So you’re the lucky winner,” he says, offering me a smile that looks forced and haggard. He introduces himself with a name I don’t quite catch, but then I see the smaller, embroidered letters on his polo: TONY ACCARDO, LEAD ARTIST MANAGER.
<
br />   I accept the handshake and try not to pull back too quickly. Being surrounded by a crowd all evening has left my nerves ground down and raw, and physical contact is the last thing I want right now.

  “I’m Ali Collins,” I tell him, and then point to Avery. “This is my friend Avery Summers.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ali,” Tony says. As if he’s reading my mind, he shoots Avery an apologetic smile and says, “Sorry, but we can only bring the one winner on the tour.”

  “That’s fine,” Avery says, and she gives me a stern glance as she adds, “Isn’t it?”

  “Totally fine,” I agree with a sigh, realizing she’s not going to give me a chance to back out of this.

  Tony nods a couple times and says to me, “Are you one of Jace’s UK fans? You sound like it. We’ve been seeing more tourists come to his concerts since Tone Deaf hit the charts over there.”

  “No, I’m American,” I say, and then my entire face flushes red. Really, really red. I know because Avery winces a little, and Tony has to hide an amused smirk. I quickly explain, “I don’t really have an accent, I just kind of talk strange.” Seven years of not being able to hear your own voice does funny things to it. But Tony just cocks his head, clearly not understanding, so I add, “I’m deaf.”

  Tony’s expression falls for a moment, then he quickly plasters on a smile. But he’s not quick enough for me to miss his reaction. I bet he’s thinking the same thing I am: Why should a deaf girl be the one to meet a music idol?

  Tony slowly inclines his head toward the stage. “Well, come on. I’ll show you to Jace. He’s waiting backstage.” He tries to smile again, like this is exciting, but the expression comes off as almost nervous.

  What, does he think I’m some crazed fan who’s going to go bonkers when I meet Jace? Maybe I should tell him the truth: that I’ve been mentored by some of the greatest pianists alive, and I know to act normal around celebrities. But I don’t say a word, because that was the past.