by Tracy Deebs
“That’s awesome.” I shove as much fake enthusiasm in my voice as I can manage. “When are they again?”
“Mid-December this year. The last big awards show before Christmas. The thing is, we’re going to need you over there for at least two weeks. I want to do a big campaign with you before the awards—get you on as many TV and radio stations as we can book. Maybe try to arrange an intimate get-together with some of the European DJs to get your songs in rotation more often. You know the drill.”
My hands clench on the steering wheel as nausea slams through me. “I’m not doing those meetings, Ben, and you know it. My dad’s not in charge, I am, and there’s no way—”
“Just one or two, babe. To grease the wheels, kick things off right—”
“No. Absolutely not. You can cancel the whole thing then, if that’s what you want.”
“Of course not! We’ll work it out. No big deal. The press tour will be crazy, but if we do it right, it will pay off big-time. So I’ll need you from December first—”
“I can’t take two weeks off school in December. That’s finals time.”
“It’s a performing arts school and you’re going to be performing—which is what they’re supposed to be teaching you to do. Take your finals early if you have to. Do extra credit. Or better yet, tell them to go to hell and come back to L.A. We’ll get you enrolled in school here. I already know where to send you. It’ll be easy.”
“You know that’s not going to happen, right? I’m not leaving NextGen.”
He laughs. “I know, babe, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
I can, actually, and I do—especially about those meetings he just suggested. I told him I was done with that when I ditched my dad, and he agreed. He said I’d never have to do something that made me uncomfortable again. And yet here he is, only a few months later, suggesting business as usual. Damn right I blame him.
But I don’t tell him that right now. Instead I just listen as he lays out his grand plan for Cherry. For me.
“We were planning on releasing a new single in December and then dropping the video in January. I want to move the video up to December. We’ll debut it at the awards show. Millions of people will be watching. It’ll be brilliant. Then we’ll book you a couple shows for the following week—one in London, one in Paris, one in Berlin. Nothing huge. In fact, we’ll do intimate venues. Maybe even go acoustic since you’ve been doing that singer/songwriter thing for a few months—”
“Really?” For the first time I feel a little excited. “I can do some of my new stuff?” I don’t have a lot yet, but I can get some things ready if it means getting a chance to perform them.
“Let’s not get carried away here. We don’t want to go too far off brand since we don’t have any of it available for purchase yet. We’ll do songs from your current album, a couple of the popular ones from the past. I’ll look into partnering with iTunes, see if we can get them to do some kind of exclusive release for at least one of the shows. Your fans are going to eat this up, Cherry, baby. It’s going to be amazing.”
“Yeah, amazing.” My tone says it’s anything but, but he doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.
“This is going to be big. So big. But you’ve got to get out to L.A. so we can film the video. Have you thought about what you want for ‘Smokin’’?”
“I want to not release ‘Smokin’’ as the next video. How’s that?”
“The label thinks it’s your best bet for a number one hit. You know that. It’s a hot song, great beat. People are going to eat it up.”
“Yeah, like junk food.”
Ben heaves a long-suffering sigh, like dealing with me is just so hard—despite the obscene amount of money I make him. “It’s a good song, Cherry. I know it’s not necessarily the vibe you want to put out there, but it’s what we’ve got right now.”
“It’s what we’ve always got. Just more of the same sexy pop stuff that doesn’t mean anything—”
“Because that’s what’s selling right now.”
“Maybe I don’t care about what’s selling. Maybe I just care about being honest with my fans, for once. Honest about my music, honest about my life. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Besides the fact that they’ll turn on you? Fans are fickle, fickle creatures, kid, and we’ve worked too hard to build you the fan base you’ve got to just throw it all away because you want to be an ‘artist.’”
“I am an artist.”
“You’re a business. You’re a really beautiful girl with a unique voice and fun, sexy albums and merchandise that showcase both of those things.”
“But what if that’s not all I want to be anymore?”
“Then you better get used to disappointment. The label has you for two more albums, and they aren’t going to take kindly to you messing with a winning formula.”
“You don’t know that. I’ve written a couple really good songs down here.”
“Two songs don’t make an album.”
“But once they hear them—”
“They’re not going to hear them, Cherry.”
“You don’t get to decide that. You work for me.”
“Yeah, and you work for them. In the end, you’ll do what they want or they’ll dump your ass.”
“Maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“Yeah, it is. Because they’ve got you for as long as they want you. You know that—to get the higher royalty rate your dad demanded, we had to give up your freedom. If they don’t want your next albums, they don’t have to put them out. But you can’t take them anywhere else, either. Not for seven years. And that is your whole career, gone overnight. In this business, seven years is a lifetime.”
The tears are back, burning my eyes and thickening up my throat until it’s almost impossible for me to breathe, let alone speak. Not that I would anyway. There’s nothing left to say and Ben knows it. He and my father made sure of that.
His voice softens. “Look, we’ll figure it out, okay? Take the next couple of months, write what you want to write, be who you want to be. Get it out of your system. We’ll talk at the end of the semester, have a whole state-of-the-union-type summit, and we’ll figure out what we want to do next. What we want your next album to look like.”
“We already know what my next album is going to look like. Isn’t that what you just said?” I know when he’s just trying to placate me. I’ve seen the moves enough times through the years.
“You know, now’s not really the time to deal with this. We should be celebrating. This is great news. Let me put together some possible dates to film the video—either here in L.A., if you can make it, or there in Austin if you can’t. Sound good?”
“I’ll be in L.A. next weekend.”
“Oh, yeah? What for?”
“I’m flying in with Finn McCain. We’re coming for Matt’s party, but—”
“Finn McCain? Are you two an item?” I can practically hear him salivating.
“No. We’re just friends, Ben.”
“Of course. Friends.” But I can already hear the wheels turning in his head, can already see him plotting God only knows what. “What time are you coming in? What airline are you flying?”
Shit. I really shouldn’t have said anything. “No pap pictures!”
“Of course not! What kind of manager do you think I am?”
“I know exactly what kind of manager you are.”
“I’ll send a car for you, babe. That’s it.”
“I can find my own way. But thanks.” It’s getting harder to talk, harder to hide the fact that tears are streaming down my face.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll send you those dates. Pick one that works for you.”
“Okay.”
He pauses. “It’s going to be okay, Cherry. I promise. You’ll have more fame and more money than you’ll know what to do with.”
“Yeah, I know.” I click off before he can say anythi
ng else.
It’s just in time, too, because the moment the connection ends, my stomach goes from churning to full-on revolt. I pull the car over to the side of the road and barely get the door open before the granola bar I ate on the way to school this morning decides to come back up.
When I’m finally done puking, I grab the bottle of water from my cup holder and swish some around in my mouth before spitting it out. Then I lay my head back against the headrest and wonder how the hell everything went so wrong.
Most people my age are looking forward to the future, looking forward to finally being able to do what they want to do. To be who they want to be. To love who they want to love.
I’d give anything to feel like that. Would give anything to have a future, a real future, instead of having to spend the next five years trapped in a past that had become a lot more than I counted on when I was excited about going to that first audition. But real life doesn’t work like that—or so my father has told me a million times through the years. At least, not for me. The sooner I learn to accept that, the better off I’ll be.
Chapter Seventeen
Where is she? Keegan wondered as he looked around for what had to be the millionth time. Lunch was half over and Dahlia had yet to show up at the flagpole. Admittedly, she hadn’t answered his last texts, but he’d figured her classes were just keeping her busy or something. No big deal, especially not since she’d agreed to lunch last night when he dropped her off at home.
But now he was beginning to think that she was deliberately ignoring him. Or worse, that something happened to her when she was driving to school. Otherwise, he would have heard from her, right? She wouldn’t have just left him standing out here waiting for her like some kind of idiot.
And yet here he was, and Dahlia was nowhere to be seen.
Pulling out his phone, he checked his messages for the tenth time in as many minutes. Still nothing. Dammit. What was going on? Should he be worried, or was he totally blowing this out of proportion? Had he done something to offend her? And if so, what? What could he possibly have done between early this morning and now, when he hadn’t even seen her?
“Hey, Keegan, you heading over?” Jacen stopped on his way down the front stops and nodded toward the park the seniors liked to hang out in during lunch.
“Yeah, I’m just waiting for Dahlia.”
“Oh, right!” Jacen grinned. “How’d the date go last night?”
“It went well.”
“Yay!” Jacen waved his hands around in obvious celebration.
“Seriously, jazz hands?”
“It’s a musical theater thing,” he answered in his favorite stuck-up voice. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“You mean a musical theater geek thing,” Keegan corrected.
“Tomato, to-mah-toe,” Jacen said with a laugh as he headed down the stairs. “See you over there.”
“Aren’t you waiting for Himesh?”
He rolled his eyes. “My man has decided he’d rather play with his AV equipment than me.”
Keegan’s brows hit his hairline. “And you’re putting up with that?”
“I know, right? He better bring flowers tonight is all I’m saying.”
“Obviously. And chocolate.”
“See, why can’t you be my boyfriend, Kee? I know you’d treat me right.”
“I would. But sadly, I don’t want to play with you, either.”
“That’s cuz you don’t know what you’re missing.” Jacen pointed his finger at him like it was a gun and then fired.
Keegan laughed as Jacen headed out, then checked his phone yet again. Still nothing.
It just didn’t make sense. Why wasn’t she here? And if she couldn’t make it, why hadn’t she at least texted to let him know? If he’d done something to upset her last night—like say, kissing her brains out on her front porch—then she wouldn’t have texted him before he’d even gotten his key in the ignition. And she sure as hell wouldn’t have texted him early this morning.
But she had texted him when she first woke up, even though she’d been running late. And now…now it was like she’d disappeared off the face of the freaking earth. He couldn’t figure it out. And if he couldn’t figure it out, then there was no way he could fix it.
He glanced at his phone yet again, told himself he’d give her five more minutes. And then he was going to forget about texting and actually call her. Because this whole thing was nuts and he needed to make sure she was okay before he drove himself absolutely insane.
He’d barely made it two minutes—and was already close to jumping out of his skin—when Prince Finn walked by on his way back into the building from who knows where. Keegan gritted his teeth as he waved him down, telling himself he wasn’t jealous of the guy—or the trip he planned to take Dahlia on to L.A. next weekend. It almost worked.
“Hey, man, have you seen or heard from Dahlia today?”
Finn gave him a weird look and he realized, suddenly, that despite what it felt like, he and Dahlia had only been hanging out a few days. It seemed like so much more because of all the things they’d done, because of everything they’d talked about, but in actuality it had been less than a week. Most of the people at school—Finn obviously included—hadn’t even had time to cop to the fact that they were friends, let alone that he had the right to be asking about her.
“No,” Finn finally said. “What’s it to you?”
“She was supposed to meet me here. I haven’t heard from her all day so I just wanted to know if she was okay.”
Another weird look. “She’s fine, man. Just taking the day off. She texted me an hour ago asking about English homework.”
“You mean she isn’t here?” He glanced down at his phone for what felt like the millionth time. Why hadn’t she let him know? It made no sense.
“That’s what taking the day off means,” Finn said, speaking with an exaggerated slowness that made Keegan feel like a tool. And also made him want to punch Finn a few times. In the face.
But all he said was, “Thanks, man.”
“No problem.” Finn eyed the phone in his hand. “But if you need to get in touch with her so badly, why don’t you text her?”
“Yeah, great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.
Finn held his hands up and backed away. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, dude.” Then he was gone before Keegan had a chance to formulate an appropriate response. One that didn’t begin with “screw” and “you.”
As he watched Finn walk away, Keegan told himself to grab lunch and then get to class. Senior seminar was starting in half an hour, and he and Himesh had a lot of work to do on the Web and marketing presence for the Lizzie Borden Diaries. Plus he had to rehearse The Zoo Story with Jacen, and he was supposed to be running an Amnesty International meeting after school. He didn’t have time to worry about whatever was up with Dahlia. Didn’t have time to freak out because she very obviously wasn’t texting him back even though she managed to text Finn, no problem. She was okay and would talk to him when she talked to him. That was what mattered.
And yet even as he tried to sell himself on that bullshit, he was pulling out his keys and jogging to his car. If Dahlia was freaking out over something he’d done—like say, not explicitly telling her that she was Dream Girl—he wanted to know about it. And if she wasn’t—and she was sick or upset or just hiding from the world—he wanted to know about that, too.
He wanted to help.
He was at Dahlia’s town house in a little under fifteen minutes. He slid into the first available spot he found, then bounded up the walkway and knocked on the front door. He knew she was home because he could see her car—not to mention the light was on in the living room.
She didn’t answer, so he pounded harder. When she still didn’t answer, he pulled out his phone and sent her the first non-emoji text he ever had.
Let me in.
When he heard no movement inside, he quickly
followed it with another.
I’m not going away.
Still nothing.
He had just raised his hand to knock again when he heard it. The slow, steady strum of a guitar cutting through the quiet afternoon air.
He listened for a moment, trying to place the melody, but he didn’t recognize it. Whatever song it was, though, it was obviously coming from Dahlia’s backyard.
More curious than annoyed now, he followed the sound. The gate into her backyard was padlocked—a smart move for a girl living alone, he figured—so he solved the problem by half climbing, half vaulting over the fence.
He’d just landed on the other side when Dahlia started to sing. That’s when he froze, his whole body turning to ice as his mouth dropped open in shock. And more than a little alarm.
Her voice was mesmerizing. Husky, haunting, heartbreaking, it filled up the air between them and had every hair on his body standing on end. Because it was one of the most beautiful voices he’d ever heard—and because it was familiar. Very, very familiar.
He knew that voice, heard it on the radio at least five times a day. And while this slow, dark ballad was a departure from the songs the radio usually played, that didn’t change the fact that it was her.
Part of him wanted to rush around the corner to see if he was right. And if he was, to confront her. But another part of him—the part that had fallen so hard for regular girl Dahlia Greene—wanted to hear what she had to say. She’d been stuck before the poetry slam, but now her words—and the emotions behind them—throbbed in the air like a broken, battered heart.
You said you wanted a Dream Girl
Wanted somebody to cling to
Wanted somebody to hold you
Your safe place to hide in this cold hard world
I think you might be dreaming
I think I might be leaving
Cuz I’m all out of fight