Tone Deaf

by Olivia Rivers

  “Your band seems to have a thing for unique names,” I say, continuing the conversation to distract myself from thinking about Avery. “Why do you guys call yourself Tone Deaf?”

  Killer smirks. “We used to practice in Jace’s garage, and his neighbor was this grouchy lady who hated our music. So one day she comes over and tells Jace that having a deaf father is no excuse for having zero musical talent. He tried arguing back, but she just kept cutting him off and saying, ‘Well you might not be deaf, but your band is tone deaf!’ We were looking for a name at the time, and yeah, that’s how we became Tone Deaf. ”

  Interesting—Jace has a parent who’s deaf, which explains why he knows ASL. I try to cover my surprise by nodding to Arrow. “What about your name? Is Arrow short for something?”

  The curve of Arrow’s smile grows sharper. “Yeah. It’s short for Poor Fool With White Trash Parents.”

  “Oh,” I mumble.

  I must look as uncomfortable as I feel, because Killer gently places a reassuring hand on my arm. I deftly remove myself from his touch, doing my best not to grimace.

  “You were sleeping for a long time,” Killer says, his smile fading just a little. “Do you want some food or something? Maybe something to drink?”

  “I’ll, um, get something myself. If that’s okay?”

  “Of course.” He nods toward the kitchen and hops up from the couch. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  I follow him into the small kitchen, where he proceeds to point out the refrigerator and cupboards full of health food. Whole-grain cereal, sunflower seeds, protein drinks, and fruit seem to be Jace’s staples. Whatever happened to young guys living off junk food?

  Killer is chatting excitedly, and I quickly lose track of his words. He doesn’t seem to understand the concept of lip-reading. Namely, that it involves me looking at his lips, and not watching him twirl around the kitchen as he fetches me a cup of some natural energy drink that looks like pee. Apparently, he’s not going to let me get a drink for myself, which is kind of annoying and kind of sweet.

  I sit at the counter, which has two little stools pulled up to it. Killer plunks the drink beside me and sits on the other stool, once again way too close. But he’s still smiling, not at all put off by the fact that I haven’t replied to a word he’s said in like two minutes.

  “Here,” he says, shoving the drink toward me. “It’s lemon-lime. No caffeine, so it’s good for dehydration.”

  I take a long gulp of it and find out a moment too late that it’s carbonated. I start coughing the moment I pull the cup away, but can’t stop myself from taking another gulp. After I’ve chugged half the glass, I realize that Killer is staring at me, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  He laughs a little and says, “So much for Jace taking care of you, hmm? Eight hours in, and you’re already dying of thirst and pale as a ghost.”

  I blush as I look down at my arm, finding he’s right. My skin is still totally white. It’s going to take more than a few sips of energy drink to make up for my dehydration and lack of food.

  “Sooo.” He props his head up in his palm, leaning his elbow against the counter. “How’s your road trip been so far?”

  “Um, good?”

  “You don’t sound very sure of that.”

  I bite my lip as I struggle to think of a way to deflect this conversation, but Killer just shakes his head.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” he says. “Jace can be a jerk, but he’s not the type to back out of promises. If he says he’ll help you stay safe, he means it.”

  His smile is soft and a little pitying, which probably means Jace told him more about my situation than I would have liked. Although I imagine it couldn’t be helped. Jace told me he doesn’t keep lies from his bandmates, and I doubt they would have been okay with me being here with zero explanation.

  “Thanks,” I murmur hesitantly.

  Killer winks and quickly moves the conversation along. “You got a phone?”

  “Not with me. Why?”

  He rolls his eyes, but in a playful way, not a mean one. “Why do you think? I want your number.”

  “Oh.”

  He stares at me for a long second, his face crumpling into a puzzled expression. Then he throws his head back and laughs.

  “What?” I demand.

  Killer just keeps chuckling. “You just gave me the least enthusiastic response I’ve ever gotten from asking for a girl’s number.”

  His hand flies toward me, and I nearly topple off the stool trying to dodge it. But he just lazily tosses his arm over my shoulder and pulls me into an awkward hug. Killer considers me for a moment, then reaches into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out his own phone. Popping up a blank text, he quickly types a message and tilts the screen so I can see it:

  You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s refreshing to not have a girl freak out when I ask for her number.

  “Oh.” I cringe, realizing I’ve just given another lame answer, and try to slip out from under his arm. Thankfully, he lets me.

  Killer cocks his head, his smile fading as his gaze locks on my bruised cheek. He types a little more on the phone and then shows it to me again. You’re not exactly the huggable type?

  “Um, not really.”

  He shrugs and pulls his arm back toward his side and away from my personal space. That’s OK, he types, keeping the screen tilted so I can see. His fingers glide across the screen impossibly fast as he adds, I think I’m starting to understand why Jace likes you so much.

  Likes me? Yeah, right. He pities me, sure, but that’s a far cry from liking me. But I keep all that to myself and say, “What do you mean?”

  Jace isn’t into hugs either.

  I frown, trying to come up with an appropriate response other than “bullshit.”

  Killer catches my skeptical look and types, You mean Jace actually tried to hug you?

  “Well, um, yeah. Um, he did.” I wince at how stupid I sound. I’m seventeen; I should know how to talk properly by now. But it’s like my brain doesn’t realize that and is determined to make me sound like an idiot.

  Killer’s eyes grow wide and he leans forward a little, staring right at me. He must be looking for some hint that I’m joking, and when he doesn’t find one, he slowly pulls back and frowns. “Wow,” he says, and I’m not sure if he means for me to read his lips or not. “That’s a first.”

  I blush, not sure how to reply. A first? Definitely not. There’s no way I’m Jace’s first anything.

  He really likes you, Killer types.

  I look down at the counter, pretending to study the granite. “I don’t think so.”

  Killer nudges at my side until I look back at his phone. No. Jace likes you. I’m sure of it.

  “Okay . . . thanks?”

  Killer quickly changes the subject again. So you don’t have a cell phone?

  “No, I had to leave it.” I don’t elaborate on why: because my dad will never just let me go, because he could use it to track me, because I can never, ever let him find me.

  I’ll fix that for you, Killer types. Before I can reply, he jumps off the stool and leaves the kitchen. He gives me a little wave before disappearing into the next room.

  I roll my cup back and forth between my palms, unsure if I should follow him. Probably not. Even if he’s being nice to me, he didn’t sign up to have me trailing along after him like some sort of puppy. I take a little sip of the energy drink, even though I’m not really thirsty anymore; my spinning thoughts have completely ruined my appetite.

  The drink tastes too sweet, like it’s made purely of sugar. But I ignore the taste and chug down the last few drops. As I set down the glass, I stare into it. It reflects my face, paleness and bruises and all. What am I doing? I mouth, watching my lips in the glass as they move with the words. Then I add, I don’t belong with these people.

  But just as I mouth the words, the RV hits a bump in the road, tilting the cup over
and ruining the reflection.

  15

  JACE

  I COLLAPSE ON the couch and bite back a groan. After an entire day of driving, my shoulders are aching from their old injuries. Usually when I get like this, I go on a run and let adrenaline numb my pain. But I’m hesitant to leave Ali, who still looks nearly as stressed as she was when we met up this morning.

  She sits on the other couch, staring out the window into the darkness. With the shades drawn, there’s only a little sliver of the night sky exposed at the top of the window. Ali has an opened magazine in her lap, but she seems too anxious to focus on reading, and she keeps nervously crinkling the corner of one of the pages.

  Night fell about an hour ago, and our caravan stopped at a rest station right outside this dusty little town called Blythe. With our first day of travel behind us, we’re perfectly on schedule. Thank god, because when we aren’t on schedule, Tony throws hissy fits that scare pretty much everyone.

  A scratching sound comes from the other end of the RV, and I recognize it as Cuddles trying to get out of my room. Usually, I take her for a long run in the evenings; she needs the exercise, I need the physical challenge, and fans need a giant pit bull to get the message to stay the hell away from me. It’s a good setup for all of us.

  But Cuddles is going to have to wait for a run, because I’m not going to leave Ali when she’s wearing that scared expression. I wave my hand a little, pulling Ali’s attention to me. I have zero clue how to comfort her, but I’m pretty sure awkwardly ignoring each other isn’t the ideal option.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I sign. I’m still a little surprised at how easily ASL is coming back to me. Technically, it’s my first language, but I haven’t signed in years. And I never thought I would again. Amazing how that’s changed so quickly.

  She raises her eyebrows. “What about me?”

  “Anything. Like, do you have any pets?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Any sort of job?”

  Another head shake, and another thing that makes us different. I glance out the window behind me, using the movement to hide my groan. Is there anything we have in common, besides parents who aren’t overly fond of us?

  “Friends?” I sign. “Come on. You’ve got to have one of those.”

  Her expression brightens just a little, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.

  “A-v-e-r-y,” she finger spells, and I assume this is her friend. “She’s the one who dragged me to your concert.” She blushes as soon as she signs that, and I can tell she’s regretting her word choice. Too bad. I think it’s cute that she had to be dragged to see me perform. It’s kind of refreshing, actually.

  “We’ve been friends since we were ten,” she rushes on. “She lives across the street from me. She’s like my sister.”

  As soon as she says that, her expression falls again. I raise an eyebrow and sign, “She didn’t want you to run away, did she?”

  “She wants me to be safe,” Ali signs, her hands moving a little slower now. “But I’m not sure she’d think this is a good way to go about it. So I didn’t tell her exactly where I’m going or who I’m with. I know my dad is going to ask her questions, and I don’t want to put her in a bad situation.”

  “You’re a good friend for that,” I sign.

  She nods and looks away, but I can tell she’s still upset by the way her jaw clenches.

  Then she signs, “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For saying that. I needed to hear that I’m doing the right thing for her.” She takes a deep breath and then signs, “How about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Who are your friends? Other musicians?”

  I laugh, not even trying to hide it. She cringes, but I ignore it and say, “Rock stars don’t make friends. The band is my family, but aside from them? No. I make fans and haters, but not friends.”

  She purses her lips. “But you have to have some.”

  I shrug. “I’ve got my band, and that’s all I need.”

  She nods and then signs, “So . . . what do rock stars do for fun?”

  “Play music. Write music. Perform music. What else?”

  She shakes her head. “That’s your career. What do you do when you have time off?”

  “Like I was just saying, I don’t have much time off.”

  “You have to have some time off,” she insists.

  “A little.”

  “So,” she signs, giving me an expectant look, “what do you do with that time?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re kind of relentless, you know that?”

  “Yep. Now, come on. Tell me what you do in your free time.”

  “I like to read.” I gesture to the small end table, where I have a stack of fitness magazines and some books. Ali tilts her head sideways, reading the titles on the spines.

  “You like mystery novels?” she signs.

  “Yeah.”

  She gives me a small, knowing smile. “Because the bad guy always gets caught.”

  It’s not a question, so I don’t bother with an answer, aside from a small shrug. I’m not sure I like her being able to understand me so easily.

  She gestures to the fitness magazines stacked next to the books. “You’re an athlete?”

  “Not really, but I work out a lot. I like to stay healthy.”

  “Okay. So what else besides reading and working out?”

  “Sometimes I sketch random stuff.” I shrug. “You know, like scenes from my songs. Killer’s trying to teach me how to use Photoshop—so I can draw digitally with that—but I kind of suck at it.”

  She laughs a little. “I can’t do Photoshop, either. There are way too many buttons. I mean, why not just use a pencil?”

  I tilt my head, considering her. “You draw?” I don’t know why I find it surprising; her hands are delicate and precise when she signs, so I guess it’d make sense for them to make art along with words.

  Ali nods. “Yeah. It’s kind of my hobby. Well, that and . . .” She trails off and gives a shy smile.

  “That and what? Frisbee golf? Cat training? Knitting hats?”

  She tries to cover a laugh with a scoff, but totally fails. Her laughter seeps through, and it’s just as pretty as she is, the sound high and soft. “No!”

  I smirk. “So then your hobby is all three?”

  “No, you jerk.” She flinches the moment she signs that, but I just keep calm and shoot her an amused smile. As soon as she realizes I’m not going to get angry, she hesitantly adds, “My other hobby is coding.”

  “Coding?” I repeat. “Like with computers?”

  “Yeah. I design websites and stuff.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “You don’t have to say that. I know most people think it’s lame.”

  “Not me. Killer’s really into that. I don’t understand it at all, but he seems to enjoy it.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, motioning to the laptop on the desk behind me. “He has some coding programs downloaded on there, if you want to check them out.”

  Her eyes light up, like I’ve just offered her a free sports car. “You’d let me use your computer?”

  I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, sure. Just . . . don’t mess with the desktop background, okay?”

  She quickly shakes her head. “No. Of course not. I won’t change a thing.”

  She looks all anxious again, like she’s honestly worried about upsetting me by simply using my computer. And here we go again. Excited Ali is gone, replaced by Cautious Ali. The fear in her eyes is gut-wrenchingly familiar, and I hate knowing I’ve just accidentally caused it.

  I rub my temples, trying to clear my head. Her fear shouldn’t matter, because she’s not actually in danger right now. My job is to get her safely to NYC, not to be her personal counselor. As long as she’s physically safe, she’s okay.

  “We need to figure out sleeping arrangements,” I mutter abruptly.

  “Um,” Ali says hesita
ntly, “I . . . I can just sleep here.” She pats the couch.

  “Cool,” I say. “I’m going to turn in early. I’ll be in my room.”

  With that, I stand from the couch and head toward my bedroom. As I glance back at her one more time, I can see Ali frowning. She’s probably wondering what just happened, but I’m too rattled to stop and explain things: The more I get to know her, the more I like her. And the more I like her, the more I want her to like me. Which was never supposed to be a part of this. My goal was to get her to safety, not to dredge up a bunch of memories and emotions I’ve shoved away for years.

  I press my bedroom door firmly closed and collapse on my bed. My pillow smells like Ali. Kind of sweet, like apricots or something. Maybe plums. I think back to the duffle bag she brought and wonder just how many things she was able to fit in there. Should I offer to buy her some soap and stuff, so she doesn’t have to worry about sharing mine? Or is it just going to embarrass her if I bring it up?

  I groan and squeeze my eyes shut. I know what happens when people make an effort to care about others: they get taken advantage of, and then they get hurt. Ali is already bumming a ride with me, so I should draw the line there. There’s no need for me to do anything else for her.

  But I want to. I want to help her in every way possible, and that can only lead to trouble.

  Although, if the trouble came in a form as sweet as Ali, it might be worth it . . .

  16

  ALI

  IT’S BEEN THREE days since I left Los Angeles, but it feels like an eternity has passed. Jace has been strangely quiet since our awkward, bumbling conversation the first evening of my escape. I keep catching him frowning at me like I’m some sort of baffling jigsaw puzzle, but every time I try to talk with him, he shuts down the conversation the moment it starts to get personal. With the adrenaline of my escape wearing off, and with no one to talk to, boredom is starting to gnaw at me.

  I click on the desktop’s coding icon, bringing the program to life on the computer screen. Ever since Jace told me I could use the computer, I’ve been madly coding every moment I have. All my works in progress are trapped on my computer back in Los Angeles, but I’m almost glad I have to restart all my projects. It means I’m going to have to spend hours re-creating things, and the intense work is a welcome distraction from the monotony of traveling.