There’s a tiny window right next to the desk, and I’ve opened the shades just a sliver, so I can watch our progress as we travel. We’re still in the desert and surrounded by rocks, rocks, and more rocks. There’s not much sand anymore. The RV caravan is stopped at a rest station for its usual afternoon break, and even though we’ve only been here for ten minutes, I’m already itching to get moving again. We’re only seventy miles outside of Albuquerque, the city Tone Deaf will be stopping at for the next three days, and the city where I’ll branch off and start traveling on my own.
I give up on the coding program, having made no progress since we stopped. I’m thinking too hard to focus on something as difficult as this. I click on the little Internet icon, silently cursing Jace for using Internet Explorer instead of Google Chrome. I hate Explorer, but it’s easy enough to pull up a search engine and type in “A–X Lyrics Database.” Aside from coding, that’s the other thing I’ve been doing to keep busy: surfing the Internet and reading Tone Deaf’s lyrics. About two-thirds of the songs aren’t half bad; they’re typical, cliché pop-punk songs about relationships and parties and other stuff I have no experience with. But they’re catchy, and I can see why so many fans love them.
Then there’s the remaining third. They’re songs like “Criminal,” and they’re probably what made Tone Deaf famous. Dark and depressing, the lyrics would fit death metal songs better. But, somehow, Jace manages to make the lyrics beautiful and haunting, almost like a well-written eulogy at a funeral. His style is a huge variation from the normal pop-punk stuff, but, put to music, I can see the lyrics being enchanting, in an oddly morbid way.
A hand taps my shoulder, and I give a little yelp of surprise as I whirl around. Killer stands there, although I’m not sure exactly when he came inside the RV. He peers over my shoulder at the screen, and, even with his nerd glasses, he has to squint.
Killer nods toward the laptop. “What’cha doing on a lyrics site, darling?”
Without any invitation, he sits on the edge of the desk and leans in to get a closer look at the screen. I take a deep breath and resist the urge to shove him away. Killer seems to take the hint, because he backs off like half an inch, which I have a feeling is a pretty big move for him. Then he proceeds to nudge my hand away from the mouse, click on the History bar, and scroll through my latest page visits. He turns and grins at me, like he’s not doing something totally invasive and annoying.
“Sooo,” he says, drawing out the word. He clicks open a blank text document and tilts the keyboard toward himself, his fingers flying across the keys as he types out a message: You like Jace’s lyrics?
I shrug. “They’re all right.”
He rolls his eyes and types a little more, then spins my chair so it faces the screen directly. Millions of girls don’t fall in love with “all right.” Jace’s lyrics are phenomenal. The dude’s got talent.
I raise my eyebrows. “You do realize you’re calling your own band talented, don’t you?” Killer just busts out laughing, like my response is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Then he squeezes my shoulder in an awkward little hug. “Darling, I like you,” he announces.
“Um, okay?”
You’re cute, you know that? he types, turning back to the screen. I forget how cute girls can be. It’s just not cute at all when they’re strangely obsessed with you. But you’re not obsessed, and that makes you cute.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I just nod. Killer smiles in return and, to my relief, backs away another inch.
Then he wags a finger at me, like I’m a puppy who’s peed on the carpet, and types out another message. And Jace is a fabulous musician. His lyrics are awesome, and his music is awesome, and you can’t deny it.
“Okay?”
He sighs, and his glasses slip to the tip of his nose as he stares down with an exasperated look. Can’t you sound a little more enthusiastic about his awesomeness?
“Yippee?”
No. Try ditching the question at the end.
I give him my best you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Jace is awesome. Hooray.”
Much better! Now add some excited arm flailing.
Jace strides out of the kitchen and turns to me, a frown on his lips. “Why are you talking to yourself?” he asks, and heat floods my cheeks as I realize how crazy our half-typed conversation must sound. Then Jace sees Killer and the messages on my screen. “Oh.”
Killer waves him away. “I’m just teaching Ali how to get excited over something,” he says out loud. “I don’t think she’s quite grasping the concept, but with a little coaching, she’ll have it down eventually.”
“I’m sitting right here, you know,” I snap. “And I can read lips.”
Killer winks at me, his mouth lifting in a playful smile that tells me he’s just teasing. Oh. I try to smile back a little, making the expression apologetic. I might have good reason for mistrusting guys, but I guess I shouldn’t assume Killer is the type to intentionally cause harm.
Jace’s chest moves up and down in a groan. “Excuse him,” Jace says to me as he strides over to the desk. “Killer is socially inept and an idiot and very rude to company.”
I cross my arms over my chest and look Jace right in the eye. “I like him.”
“Well, then you can keep him,” Jace says. “Seriously, keep him with you when you get to New York. It’d solve a lot of problems.”
Killer turns to rattle off some retort. I can’t see his lips from this angle, but judging by Jace’s amused expression, Killer’s language is getting pretty colorful.
Turning back to the computer screen, I leave the two to their bickering. I close the text document and the Internet browser, before Jace can read anything and start asking why I’m so interested in his lyrics. Not that I’d answer him. It’s like I keep finding a little piece of myself in each of his songs, and some part of me thinks that maybe if I read all his lyrics, then I’ll understand myself. But that sounds stupid even to me, and I’d never admit anything like that out loud.
As I click out of the browser, I find myself staring at Jace’s desktop background again. When he asked me not to change it, I figured it would be some sentimental picture. I should have known better. Instead of a picture, the desktop is a plain white box with the words Serva me, servabo te written in it.
“What does that mean?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“What does what mean?” Jace asks.
I point to the computer. “Your desktop. What do those words mean?”
“It’s an old Latin saying,” Jace says. Then he hesitantly adds, “My mom used to always wear this locket with those words engraved on it. It was a family heirloom. My dad lost the locket, but I like to keep the phrase around.”
“But what does it mean?” I insist.
He bites his lip and stares hard at the screen. Then he murmurs, “It means hope.”
Okay, that’s not exactly helpful. But I just shrug, like I really don’t care about his cryptic explanation, and turn to Killer.
“Are you going to stick around until the next rest stop?” I try to keep my tone neutral, and not at all pleading. But if Killer stays, then I’d have someone to talk to and help fend off my boredom. I’ve given up on engaging Jace in a conversation that’s not awkward and stunted.
“We’re not heading to the next rest stop until tomorrow,” Jace says. “We’re done driving for the day.”
“What?” Killer says. “But I thought Tony wanted us to get to Albuquerque by tonight.”
Jace shakes his head. “Check your phone. He just texted. One of the trucks is having engine troubles, so we’re stopped until that gets fixed.”
Killer curses at this news, and then says to me, “Sorry, sweetie, but you’re on your own with Jace for the evening. I promised I’d spend some time with Arrow.” He offers me an apologetic smile and adds, “We’ll catch up tomorrow, okay?”
I have no idea what we need to catch up on, but I nod anyway, even though I don’t plan
on doing any hanging out tomorrow. By the time we get to Albuquerque—hopefully in the late morning—I’ll have hundreds of miles between me and Los Angeles. It should be far enough away to make it safe to find an airport and travel the rest of the way by plane. No one is going to know to look for me at an airport in New Mexico, and if I have Jace buy the ticket under his name, it should be completely safe.
Killer says a quick good-bye and leaves, and I sigh as I feel the rattle of the front door closing. Jace strides away from the desk area and collapses on the couch. With Killer gone, I guess we’re back to normal: Jace awkwardly avoiding conversation with me, and me pretending I don’t notice.
I glance back at the desktop screen one more time, trying to find meaning in the words. Googling the phrase would get me an easy answer, but I don’t want to give Jace the satisfaction of knowing I care enough to bother researching it.
Jace waves at me to get my attention, and then scowls at the computer as he signs, “I’m going to need to use that for a bit.”
“Are you going to write?” I ask. After reading most of his lyrics, I’m curious about his process for creating them.
He shakes his head. “I only write lyrics freehand. I never type them until they’re finished.” He grimaces at the computer. “I’m just going to be working on marketing. My manager set me up with a bunch of social media accounts, so now I’m supposed to spend a few hours every week charming fans with my delightful personality.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re sure you shouldn’t hire a new manager? Because you are neither charming or delightful.”
He shrugs, but doesn’t bother protesting. “I just respond to the messages about my music, and try to ignore all the other ones.”
“Ignoring people is also not charming or delightful,” I sign, giving him a pointed look. I’m not exactly sure why he’s been avoiding me the last couple days, but if he gets the hint that I’m annoyed, he doesn’t show it. Instead, his eyes suddenly widen, like he’s been struck with an idea.
He points to me. “But you are.”
“I’m what?”
“Charming. Delightful.” He raises his eyebrows. “And hopefully merciful enough to take over my social media duties.”
I shoot him a skeptical look. “You want me to post on your accounts?”
“Yes,” he signs. “It’ll be easy for you, I promise. Just reply to messages from fans and pretend to love everyone and be super excited.”
As I consider this, my stomach lets out a growl. I haven’t eaten in a while, but I don’t even want to go into the kitchen and grab food. All Jace has to eat are things like sesame seed crackers and seaweed sticks and carob chips. In other words, disgusting stuff I’d never touch in a million years.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say out loud. “I’ll do your social media stuff if you get me a bowl of mac and cheese. And not some gross healthy version. I mean the good stuff with ten thousand carbs and chemical cheese.”
He cringes at the thought. “I’m not going to let you poison yourself as part of our deal.”
“Too bad. Either get me mac and cheese, or do your social media on your own.”
Jace lets out a relenting sigh and signs, “Jon always keeps like ten boxes of that stuff around.”
“So do we have a deal?” I ask.
He smiles a little, and it makes me remember why I decided to trust him in the first place. His smile makes him seem real and genuine, not to mention extremely handsome. I realize I’m staring at him, and glance away, my cheeks flushing with heat.
He chuckles and signs, “I’ll get you your mac and cheese. It’s a deal.”
17
JACE
ALI TURNS OUT to be a natural at social media. Her responses to fans sound personalized and thoughtful, and to keep things interesting, she throws in quite a bit of self-deprecating humor. Or, at least, it would be self-deprecating if I was the one actually writing the messages. Coming from Ali, I think it’s subtle payback for flipping her off when I first met her, but it’s not like I have any right to complain.
She spends the whole evening answering messages and shooting me victorious looks as she munches on her mac and cheese. I hang out on the couch and practice one of our newer songs, although my attention keeps drifting away from my guitar and back to Ali. Sitting there at the desk, her slim legs crossed and her head tilted in concentration, she looks more attractive than ever. Not just cute, not just beautiful, but confident and intelligent.
I keep wandering over to peer at what she’s doing, and she doesn’t move away from me as I look over her shoulder at the messages on the screen. She’s obviously at ease working with computers, and it gives her a sort of calmness I haven’t ever seen before. It’s getting late, and I pack away my guitar, but I don’t suggest she stop for the night. Ali seems to be enjoying herself for once, and I don’t want to ruin that.
I grab the TV remote resting haphazardly on the couch’s arm. From the bedroom, Cuddles lets out a bored whine, and I know I should probably take her out on a run. But I turn on the TV instead, deciding that bringing out Cuddles is just going to make Ali nervous.
I flick to the news channel and let myself zone out. News stories flash by on the screen, one by one, some of them happy, but most of them depressing as hell. Then a red banner appears at the bottom of the screen, along with the words “AMBER ALERT.”
I turn up the volume just as Ali’s face appears on the screen. It looks like a school photo, her hair carefully styled, her makeup carefully applied, but her smile fake and strained.
“According to authorities, Alison Collins went missing three days ago from her home in Los Angeles,” a woman reporter says. I stare at the screen, too shocked to react.
What the hell? The girl is seventeen, and they’re putting out an Amber Alert? She’s almost a legal adult, so no one should care if she’s gone, at least not enough for an emergency alert to be raised. Unless there’s some other reason they’re concerned about her safety?
As if answering my question, the reporter says, “Alison, who goes by Ali, has been diagnosed with multiple mental health disorders. Her father states that she has a history of self-harm, and it’s urgent that she be found quickly.”
I blink a few times, hoping I’m dreaming, that I’m about to wake up from a nightmare. Mental health disorders? Self-harm? Ali sure as hell didn’t mention any of this. She led me to think the exact opposite—that she was running from someone hurting her, not doing it to herself. Is everything she’s told me some sort of sick lie?
I whirl toward the desk, opening my mouth to demand answers, but stumbling uselessly over the words. The report has to be a mistake. Ali’s face goes pale as she flicks her gaze between me and the flashing red banner on the screen. She jumps up from the desk, and I wait for her to launch into some explanation that’ll clear everything up.
Instead, she runs. Ali slips out of the room, and a second later, I hear the bathroom door slam closed and the click of a lock. I curse and jump up from the couch, my bones screaming in protest, my heartbeat crashing against my chest as I race after her.
She lied. I believed her, I trusted her, I tried to help her, and all she gave me in return was lies.
I hear muffled crying from inside the bathroom, but Ali doesn’t come to the door when I knock. I grab the emergency master key from the top of the doorframe, using that to pop the lock open.
Ali sits in the corner of the bathroom, tightly hugging her knees to her chest, like she’s trying to put a barrier between us. She stares up at me, her eyes wide and terrified. Or is she really even scared? Is her fear even real, or is it just another lie?
“I’m sorry,” she signs.
Is her sign language a piece of her act? Is she even deaf? My head pounds as I try to sort out the truth, and I reach up to rub my forehead.
As soon as my hand moves, Ali lets out a strangled yelp and draws closer to the wall. Her cheeks grow paler as more tears join the initial rush. One drips down from the tip of
her nose, and she flinches as it brushes against her chin.
Shit. Maybe she could pretend to need help, and maybe even pretend to be deaf. But she can’t fake fear like that. Her gaze flicks wildly between my face and my hands, and I know that sort of terror can only be the result of one thing.
I take a deep breath and hold up my hands in a gesture of innocence. It doesn’t do anything to calm her, and my thoughts keep whirling in confusion. What the hell is going on?
I crouch beside Ali, ready to voice the question, but she cringes and rips her gaze away from mine. I remember that so well: Don’t look him in the eyes, don’t make him mad, don’t make things worse. Those words were my personal mantra for years, and now . . . now those same words are probably running through Ali’s head.
Because of me.
I shudder and stumble back a few steps, giving her space. Then I just freeze in place and wait for her to look up so she can see my words. It takes a long time. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour; I’m not sure. All I know is that it feels like an eternity. Tears stream down her face, landing with soft plops on the linoleum floor, creating a quiet beat that sears into me. Then Ali runs a shaking hand across her eyes, clearing them of tears, and finally looks up.
“Explain,” I say, keeping my voice soft, even though I know she can’t hear me.
Ali bites her lip and stares at me for a long second. Her teeth cut through her chapped skin, and a tiny drop of blood leaks out. She doesn’t even seem to notice.
Then she raises her hands, and the story comes tumbling out. “My mom died when I was ten, right at the same time I lost my hearing. I was sent to live with my dad, and . . .” She shudders at some past memory. “And he didn’t like having me around.”
Tone Deaf Page 11