Tone Deaf

by Olivia Rivers

  “You need something to eat before we go,” Killer declares. “You’re skinny as a stick.”

  He jumps up and grabs my hand, tugging me toward the small kitchen. “Come along, sweetie,” he says. “I think there are still some pancakes in the fridge, but they’re some weird bran thing, so you might be poisoned. But all of Jace’s cereal is bound to turn you into a raging health-hippie, so—”

  I quickly lose track of his words, and I don’t even try to focus on his lips after that. He’s talking too fast and not looking straight at me, which makes it practically impossible to know what he’s saying. But he doesn’t seem to mind the fact that I’m not responding to a word he says, and he continues chattering as he runs around the kitchen retrieving a plate of pancakes for me.

  I try to help him, not wanting him to have to serve me again, but he shoos me back to the counter and points at the stools. I take the hint and sit down, letting him continue his little pancake-fetching frenzy.

  My stomach grumbles as he opens the microwave and pops in a huge plate of pancakes. They’re dark brown and grainy-looking, and I can practically hear my taste buds sobbing over the lack of carbs and sugar. But at least I got my mac and cheese last night, so I guess I can’t complain too much about eating a healthy breakfast.

  Something brushes against my arm, and I turn to find Jace sitting beside me on the other stool. He’s sitting so close our forearms touch, his tan skin a strange contrast against my pale freckles. His touch is a warm comfort, and as uncertain as I am of him, it feels good.

  I’m not hungry anymore. My stomach knots as I stare down at our touching arms, wondering what the hell is going on. Does Jace like me? Well, yeah, if he’s helping me to this extent, he has to like me at least a little. But does he like like me?

  Ugh. I’m thinking like a third grader.

  Jace rests his hand on my knee. I freeze. Part of me wants to snap at him to back off and make up his mind about how he’s going to treat me. But the other part is too satisfied with his touch to bother pulling away.

  Before my instincts can sort out themselves out, Killer slides the plate of pancakes in front of me, and Jace pulls away. I pick up the fork on the side of the plate and start picking at the meal, my appetite gone.

  Jace walks to the refrigerator, leaving me alone at the counter. Killer quickly fills his spot, and I’m not sure if I should be relieved or resentful. I settle on relieved. It’s probably a good thing Jace isn’t next to me anymore, because his touch does weird things to me, and I’m getting close to . . .

  To what? Falling for him? No, I’m not letting that happen. Jace is a player—a player with a very long, very public track record of breaking hearts—and I’m not going to let myself get swept up in his fleeting touches.

  So why can’t I take my eyes off him? I watch as he leans over and grabs a water bottle from the bottom shelf of the fridge. There’s something about the way he moves that’s almost hypnotic. He’s all grace and power, wrapped up in a package of complete nonchalance, like he’s not even trying to look hot. Which he’s not, of course. He has no one to show off for in this room.

  Killer nudges me in the side, making me cringe and effectively getting my attention. “So Arrow and I saw you on TV last night,” he offers. “I had no idea you were planning to outdo us in the fame department.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Jace, hoping he’ll save me by changing the subject. After all the stress of last night, I have no desire to talk about this anymore. The Amber Alert doesn’t immediately change anything—traveling with Jace is still my safest option, so I’ll just have to keep lying low and staying out of sight.

  Jace catches my glance and pins Killer with a glare that would melt me into a puddle of shame. But Killer doesn’t even react, and I get the feeling he’s used to this grumpy side of Jace.

  “Now really isn’t the right time to be making jokes, Killer,” Jace says.

  Killer rolls his eyes. “You just have no sense of humor.”

  Before Jace can retort, Arrow strides into the kitchen. He nods to Jace and Killer, but doesn’t bother acknowledging me. Jace tenses a little, and I wonder if it’s because Arrow is being rude, or because he’s anxious to get out of here before Killer annoys him any more.

  Arrow lays his hands on Killer’s shoulders, then leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “Jon’s ready to go,” he says. “You want to take off?”

  Killer nods. “Yeah, just one sec,” he says as he pulls out his phone. He quickly types out a message and tilts the screen so only I can read it:

  Jace is trying to pretend he has no emotions, which is always a sure sign he’s feeling too many. Sorry he’s being a grump. Just give him some time. He’ll eventually work up the nerve to talk about whatever’s going on between you two.

  I give him a grateful smile, and Killer winks before hopping down from the stool. He grabs Arrow’s hand and pulls him away from the kitchen, his lips moving at the speed of light while he plans their trip into the city. As Arrow is tugged along, he looks back and flicks his gaze between Jace and me. His expression tightens with uncertainty, and he says to Jace, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Jace just rolls his eyes and sticks up his middle finger. Arrow doesn’t get a chance to return the gesture as Killer pulls him away from the room.

  As soon as they leave, Jace turns to me and signs, “Sorry. Arrow’s still worried you’re going to get the band in trouble. But he’ll warm up eventually.”

  I nod and try not to look too relieved. As awkward and quiet as Jace has been this morning, I was starting to wonder if he was still okay with me traveling with them. Apparently he is, but I’m also guessing that Killer is completely right. Jace isn’t going to open up a discussion about last night unless he absolutely has to.

  Jace sighs and rubs at his temples. “And sorry for Killer being insensitive,” he says, although he looks away a little, and I get the feeling he’s not apologizing for just his bandmate. “I swear he’s the dumbest human being to ever get accepted into Mensa.”

  I try to hold back a laugh, sure that I read his lips wrong. “Mensa?”

  Jace nods. “As ditsy as he acts, Killer is technically genius. Mensa is a high-IQ society he tested into.”

  “Yeah, I know what it is. I was—” I snap my mouth shut, cutting off the words about to emerge. Because none of that matters anymore. My life as a musical genius is done, over, finished, kaput. And there’s no going back.

  Jace leans against the counter and cocks his head. “You were . . . ?”

  I sigh, realizing it’s too late and I’m going to have to give him an answer. “I was in Mensa.”

  “Isn’t it like a lifelong thing? Like, once you’re in, you stay in?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “So shouldn’t you say you’re in it, not you were in it?”

  “Why are you suddenly so interested in grammar tenses?”

  He holds up his hands, as if warding off my sharp tone. Then he signs, “It’s just, most people like to brag about that stuff. And you’re not. I’m just wondering why.”

  “I don’t really belong in it anymore,” I sign.

  He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Why not? Did you get a bad grade or something?”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  Jace nods. Apparently, he’s one of the few people in the world who can actually drop a subject, because he snags his water bottle off the counter and starts walking out of the room. He pauses at the exit to sign, “I’m heading out to a local studio for the day. They’re doing some promo thing, and I’m supposed to be their poster boy. You stay here and lie low, okay?”

  He looks a little hesitant, and I wonder what he’s worried about. “Sure,” I reply.

  He flashes me a quick smile, which makes my stomach do one of those little butterfly-dances. I quickly look away, knowing I’m about to blush and not wanting him to see my reaction. Jace just waves at me and quickly signs, “Catch you later.” Then he walks out of the kitche
n, and a few moments later, I feel vibrations run through the RV as the front door closes behind him.

  My stomach finally quits its tap dancing, but I decide to give up on breakfast. I toss the last of my pancakes and clean up my plate—along with the syrupy mess Killer made on the counter—and then pad into the living area. It’s empty, so I assume Jon left with the others.

  I let out a long breath and collapse on the couch, and something hard pokes at my scalp. I snatch up the pillow and find a notebook that looks just like the kind I use at school. On the marble-print cover, someone has scrawled in messy handwriting, THE PERFECT SONG.

  I know it’d be rude to read it, but I’m more than a little curious. I like most of Tone Deaf’s lyrics, and if they have a perfect song . . . ? Well, it might be worth being caught snooping to read some perfect lyrics.

  I peer around, making sure no one else is in the RV, and crack open the notebook. When no alarms go off, I flip to its first page. There’s a little printed box that says, This notebook belongs to . . . In scrawled handwriting, the line under it reads, Jace B.

  I turn to the second page, which is wide-ruled and smudged with pencil lead and eraser marks. Lyrics fill the page, one song repeated over and over again, with little tweaks on every line. Sometimes there’s a different starting sentence, sometimes a different ending word, sometimes different musical notes scribbled above the lyrics. That one song goes on and on, filling almost the whole notebook. I watch as Jace’s handwriting slowly grows different, changing from boyish scrawling to the nearly illegible mess of a professional writer. It’s clear he has been working on this one song for years.

  I brush my fingertips over the last page with writing, which is filled with pen smudges and crossed out sections. The lyrics on this page are very similar to the ones from a few pages back, so Jace must be pretty happy with how they turned out. But the pattern of musical notes above the words keeps changing, and I read the line closest to the bottom of the page:

  AADDCFG

  That doesn’t sound right. But it sounds . . . close. Not quite perfect, but not far away.

  I strain my memory, trying to remember the sound of each note and how they work together to create harmonies. It’s been so long since I thought about music in this way, and I wait for the bad memories to come crashing down. Memories of the surgery, of the accident, of the loss.

  But, instead, there’s just now. I’m stuck in the present with familiar adrenaline racing through me as the notes play song after song inside my head, trying to find the patterns they like best. I’m not sure how long I sit there, just staring at the page, struggling to figure out this puzzle with no solid answer.

  Then it hits me. Not really an answer, but a solution that just might work. Before I can stop myself, I grab a pen from the small stand next to the couch and start scribbling.

  21

  JACE

  I WANT TO punch something. Hard. The studio that hired me as Mr. Promo Boy ended up being a dinky little place with a broken AC and a jackass manager. I spend the entire day in the sweltering Albuquerque heat, sweating through my T-shirt and forcing smiles for all the fans that showed up. Add that to the guilt I feel over leaving Ali alone all day, and my frustration is ready to boil over. I swear, if I hear one more squeal come out of the mouth of a teenage girl, I’m going to dissolve Tone Deaf and move to a secluded island.

  I shove open the door to the RV and take a deep breath as a blast of cold air hits me. “Ali?” I call out, and then roll my eyes at myself for forgetting she can’t hear.

  Despite that, I can’t help the nervousness that runs through me when she doesn’t respond. After seeing the sheer panic in her eyes last night, I didn’t want to leave her today. I wanted to spend the day with her, apologizing for not being there when she woke up in the morning, making sure she was okay, and assuring her that she’d make it safely to NYC. I wanted to spend the day . . . with her.

  As I walk toward the living area, I hear a scratching and a low whine come from my bedroom. Poor Cuddles. My dog is going to disown me if I keep locking her up like this.

  Cuddles lets out another whine, but I don’t hear anything else as I head toward the couches. The TV is flicked on, with no volume coming out of the sound system and subtitles flitting past on the bottom of the screen. Ali has changed the channel away from the news station, so now it’s tuned to some boring cooking show.

  She’s curled up on the couch, her head tucked close to her knees. She breathes softly, and I watch her chest rise and fall for a long moment, making sure she’s not hyperventilating like she was last night. I cringe as I think of her nightmare; her expression had looked so freaking terrified. How could I not have stayed close to her afterward? I mean, maybe the whole cuddling thing wasn’t necessary, but it’s not like I could have left her.

  I back up a few steps, figuring it’s best to leave Ali alone so she can rest. Besides, Cuddles needs a walk, and it’s not like she can go out by herself.

  As I leave the living area, I glance back one more time at Ali. She shifts slightly in her sleep, letting out a tiny whimper, and the sound is like a shard of glass trapped in my chest. Is she having another nightmare? Maybe I should wake her up. I don’t want her to have a freak-out episode while I’m gone.

  I walk over to her, but as I reach out to shake her shoulder, I notice the notebook. My notebook. I let out a loud curse as I see it sitting on the armrest next to Ali’s head. It’s open, and I didn’t leave it that way.

  No one reads my notebook. Ever. Never, never, ever.

  I snatch up the notebook, holding it protectively against my chest and wishing it would stanch the pain blooming there. It feels like a part of me has been ripped away and destroyed. That song was mine. Mine. I swore not to share it until it was perfect, and it was so close.

  Now it’s ruined.

  Then I notice the pen marks scratched across the page. What was she thinking? Doodling in my notebook, on the same page I was writing my almost-complete lyrics? That’s just wrong.

  I peer down at the notebook, wondering what the hell could be so important that Ali felt the need to draw it on my lyrics. What I see . . . they’re not doodles. They’re letters and words, musical notes and lyrics. I blink a few times, wondering if maybe I wrote this last night and just don’t remember doing it. But, no, the handwriting is curly and neat, the cute sort that belongs to a girl. It’s the first half of my song, but it’s definitely not my handwriting.

  I think back to what she told me when I first met her: “I used to play.” I’d just assumed she was messing around, but she must have been telling the truth.

  I shake my head and hesitantly trail my finger down the blue lines of the notebook, reading the song our words have combined to create:

  Close Your Eyes

  When clarity’s gone and logic is done and love flees out the doorway,

  When kisses hurt and your heart is cursed and so carelessly cast away,

  When life’s tumbling down, down, down,

  And nothing’s there when you look up,

  Except the innocence you let life corrupt.

  Just close your eyes,

  Feel my hand in yours and know you’re alive,

  Just close your eyes,

  Feel my lips on yours and know you’ll survive,

  Oh, close your eyes,

  And in the darkness of the hour,

  Know that I’ll be here forever,

  Forever yours,

  I’ll never go.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there staring down at the notebook, reading her lyrics over and over again. In my head, I hear the notes she’s neatly written above the words, and they flow together seamlessly. They’re complex but effortless, in a haunting sort of way. Ali has only written adjustments for the beginning half of the lyrics, but it still feels like the closest my song has ever been to completion.

  I glance around the room, looking for my guitar. I’m desperate to try out these lyrics, so I can see if they’re as
good as they sound in my head. I hear a slight rustling and look down to find Ali peering sleepily up at me. Her eyes grow wide as she sees the notebook in my hand, and she looks like a kid with her hand caught in a cookie jar. She blushes, making her freckles pop.

  “Hey,” she signs uncertainly.

  I set down the notebook next to her and sign back, “Hey. I read your adjustments.”

  She looks down and purses her lips. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean to write that much. I kind of got carried away.”

  “Yeah. I can tell.”

  By the way she presses back against the couch, I can tell she’s trying to disappear, like she’s expecting me to be pissed. Which I should be. And I was. But I can’t bring myself to be upset anymore, not when my song is finally starting to sound right.

  I kneel next to the couch and tilt her chin up, so we’re eye-to-eye. “You weren’t lying when you said you played, were you?”

  She shakes her head. “I played piano for years.”

  “And you still haven’t forgotten how music sounds?”

  A small, sad smile plays at the corners of her lips. “I’ll never forget.” She hesitantly tilts her head up until she’s directly looking at me. I take in her hazel eyes, which are so beautiful, so pained.

  “How did you end up like this?” I gesture to the notebook. “This is brilliant, Ali. Freaking brilliant. You’ve got talent, and you say you belong in Mensa, so . . . what happened?”

  Her expression wavers between hurt and anger, and she swallows hard, like she’s trying to gulp back painful memories. “I started playing when I was three. My mom inherited this old piano, and I just sat down one day and banged around on it until I figured out how to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’ I had perfect pitch, so I could replicate pretty much any song I heard.”

  I raise an eyebrow in surprise, but don’t say anything. I don’t want to interrupt her.

  She takes a shaky breath and says, “When I was about four, my mom enrolled me in lessons. We were totally broke, but I loved playing, and she didn’t want to keep me from my passion. She was the best mom ever. I mean, she gave up so much for me, and . . .”