“Jesse,” I whisper. “How will I find another band? What if I can’t find people who want to play the same music as me? Should I just settle and play whatever?”
And right there in front of Gibson, on the busiest street in Nashville, he folds me into his arms. A whisper in my ear: “I don’t know what’s right for you, but even after I retire, I’m not gonna stop playing guitar and writing. Because that’s who I am.”
Me too. Even if I have to sing stuff like “When the Saints Go Marching In,” I love performing, so I might rejoin the show choir. And regardless of whether I find another band, I’m gonna sit on my front porch and play awesome covers of eighties songs. Because that’s who I am.
I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tight. A cacophony of cameras sounds around us as people take pictures with their phones, but I don’t care. Even if he didn’t answer my offer to be friends, I know we are.
“Can we go in Gibson now?” I ask. “I’m dying to see the new Les Paul.”
He pushes the door open, making the little bell on the doorknob jingle. We step inside a music utopia, and I feel crazy lust for the guitars.
A middle-aged man darts up, buttoning his gray suit. “Jesse! It’s a pleasure.” He keeps his hands folded in front of him.
“Nice to see you, Max,” Jesse replies. “Maya, meet Max—he’s the manager here.”
Max gives me a warm smile and a firm handshake. “I didn’t know you were coming or I would’ve closed the store,” Max says to Jesse, swallowing as he looks around at the other customers. Some of them are already staring.
“It’s okay. We’re just looking around.”
Jesse and I head over to the Les Paul section and look up at the new Jimmy Page limited edition electric displayed on the wall.
“Amazing, huh?” I say.
“I like the archtop series myself.”
“Want to try it out?” Max calls from across the room.
“Maya wants to,” Jesse replies.
A minute later, I find myself cradling this heavenly $15,000 guitar. Max even hooks it up to an old-time Fender amp, so I can hear what it truly sounds like. I pull my lucky pick out of my purse. With trembling hands, I play the first few measures of the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” and then I start blistering through the guitar solo—one of the toughest there is—and Max’s eyes grow wider than supper plates. Some of the other customers crowd around us, staring and beaming at me.
“She playing backup for you now?” Max asks.
“She could be,” Jesse replies, taking the Les Paul from my hands. “My turn.” He throws the strap around his neck and adjusts the guitar in front of him, and the other customers scream.
Jesse pays them no attention as he starts playing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive.” It’s like a little concert in the Gibson store, and everyone cheers and claps when he’s finished.
He hands the Les Paul to Max. “I’m gonna go look at the Citation for a sec.” He strides across the room to look at a guitar that must be worth more than my house.
Max says, “You’re welcome to come back and play anytime, Maya.”
I look over at Jesse. “Yeah, maybe sometime.”
“You don’t have to come back with him,” Max says. “You just drew a crowd playing solo.”
That makes me feel really good. “Thanks! I’ve always wanted to come in your store—I was excited when Jesse suggested it.” I smile over at him. He’s staring at the Citation’s toggle switch like a scientist examining a molecule under a microscope.
Max lowers his voice. “I’ve known Jesse for a long time, and he’s never brought anyone here but his manager, and even that’s rare. He usually makes appointments and comes by himself.”
Wow. So coming in here with me was a big change for him. Maybe he would be open to getting out even more. How can I show him he doesn’t have to stay holed up, alone and friendless?
“He’s such a nice person,” I say.
“I’m sure he is. It’s a shame he’s quitting…I’ve never had a student who’s that good.”
“You give lessons?”
Max folds his hands in front of him. “I teach advanced guitar to a few talented people. Some of my students have gone on to get scholarships at Vanderbilt.”
“Wow.” I would love to go there to study music, but it’s very expensive, and the only way I could go is if I win one of those scholarships. I’ve been planning to try out for one later this fall, but if that doesn’t work out, I’ll go to Middle Tennessee State. It’s more affordable, and the music program is pretty good.
“Are you still in high school?”
I stare down at my boots, then nod.
Max pulls a card out of his wallet and passes it to me. “If you’re interested in some lessons, email me. I could help improve your technique.”
My hand shakes as I accept the card. “Thank you.”
Jesse finally tears himself away from the Citation. “Gotta go, Max. I’ve got some sort of surprise waiting.”
Outside the store, we walk beneath a pink sky toward the waterfront. The sunset gives his face a rosy glow.
“That video Uncle Bob showed me doesn’t do you justice. You’re really good on guitar.”
“Thank you.” I tell him about Max offering to give me lessons and how some of his students went on to get big music scholarships. “I’d love to win a scholarship to Vanderbilt, but I don’t have the money for lessons…and I doubt I’d do well in auditions, you know, by myself.”
“You have to take chances to get a chance at your dreams.”
I pause. “Did you graduate high school? Would you consider going to college?”
He stops. “I got my GED, but I have no idea what I’d even study in college. I don’t really have other interests besides music. And with my life, it’s like I have nothing left to go for. I have all the money I’ll ever need. My goal was to win a Grammy, and now I’ve got three.”
“You need a new goal.”
“Like what?”
“Figure out how to be happy again.”
His face hardens into a frown. “I’ve been happy today, you know, talking to you about music and your life.”
“You really helped me with my technique. And you said you thought something was missing in your life…maybe you could give music lessons?”
He takes a step back. “No way. People don’t really want to learn; they’ll just want record deals and favors and shit. They’re not like you.”
I get right back in his face. “You can’t lump all people together like that.”
That’s when the boat whistle toots. It’s time. Shit, we’re gonna be late. I start sprinting down to the docks as best as I can in my booties.
Jesse calls out, “Where’re you going?” but I keep running. I wait until I’ve made it to where the boat is docked and turn around. He chases after me in his cowboy boots, holding his hat on his head so it doesn’t blow away. When he’s close, I run up the plank and hop down onto the riverboat’s deck. A sign reads, “Private Party.” I can already hear the music.
“No,” he says, still on land, out of breath. His eyes glisten as he stares at the Belle Carol Riverboat from the docks. “No way. I can’t.”
Suddenly the engines roar to a start.
“Come on!” I yell and wave at him to join me. Giving me a desperate glance, he rubs the back of his neck and jogs up the plank and jumps down onto the deck. Seconds later, a boat hand comes up to retract the plank as the boat casts off.
“Remind me to run next time the word ‘surprise’ comes out of your mouth,” Jesse says.
Darkness is beginning to dye the blue sky. I sneak down the hallway, heading for the stairs that lead to the upper deck where music is blaring.
“Maya!” Jesse whispers. “What are you doing? You’re gonna ruin the party.”
&n
bsp; I turn as he catches up to me. “Au contraire,” I reply, poking him in the chest. “Whoever’s party this is will love me forever.”
I dart up the steps and find, like, ten thousand purple and pink balloons.
And a hundred young teen girls.
A “Happy 13th Birthday, Katherine!” banner stretches across the wall behind the band.
Jesse emerges from the staircase and swallows hard. “Shit.” And the screaming starts.
Girls encircle Jesse, and he looks at me, shaking his head, his lips pursed. I expect him to flip out or be a jerk like the night we met in his dressing room, but then he cracks up. We laugh at each other as the girls swarm him and separate us.
I head toward the stage to approach the band. “Know any Bon Jovi?” I ask the lead singer.
“Sure.” The man nods past my shoulder. “Is that Jesse Scott?”
“Yes. And it’s his dream to sing on the Belle Carol Riverboat.”
“Well, get him up here then.”
I grab the mike and say, “Happy Birthday, Katherine! My gift to you is a performance by Jesse Scott!”
I swear, the shrieking is so loud, you could hear it on Pluto. Jesse makes his way up to the stage, the girls hanging all over him like barnacles. Narrowing his eyes at me, he grabs the microphone out of my hand. “Where’s Katherine?” he asks, and this skinny girl with glasses pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She raises a trembling hand.
“I also got you a gift,” Jesse says. More screaming. Girls are holding cell phones above their heads, taking pictures and recording.
“Thank you,” Katherine says, so happy, tears are rolling down her face. She’ll be the most popular kid at school after this.
“My gift is a duet,” Jesse says and grabs my hand.
“Oh no.” I shake my head as I back away. He keeps a firm grip and pulls me close.
He whispers in my ear, “Surprise.”
The band starts playing “Livin’ on a Prayer.” The drums make the stage vibrate, and the guitar’s squeal causes my arm hair to get staticky. I love it.
“Nice choice,” Jesse says. A mosh pit forms around the stage. We start to sing together, and Jesse’s face is happier than I’ve ever seen it—in person or in the tabloids. Together we belt the lyrics into the microphone, and the girls point at me and take pictures with their cell phones. The back of my neck is damp with sweat, and I shut my eyes, drowning in Jesse’s beautiful voice.
On the last verse, Jesse stops singing. I stop singing too, but Jesse elbows me.
“Keep going,” he says, dancing to the beat. “You can do this.”
I can’t let him—or myself—down. I fill my stomach with air like he taught me, and I’m careful not to sing out of my throat. I control my voice, and somehow, it doesn’t crack. The new technique works! I can’t believe I’m singing a solo in front of an audience. I don’t faint, and my voice doesn’t crack—I just sing. And, God, it feels good to hear those cheers. It’s just like in my dreams.
When the song’s over, I whisper-yell in Jesse’s ear, “That was so fun!”
“You were great,” he replies, helping me off the stage. “Really great.”
“Did you have a good time?”
The sun disappears behind the horizon as he whispers in my ear, “Definitely.”
“Jesse, how can you give this up?” I ask, grasping his T-shirt.
“Not every day is like this one.” His voice breaks. “I want to live.”
He gives a bunch of autographs and takes pictures with the kids. And it shocks the bejesus out of me when some girls ask to have their picture taken with me. One who recognizes me from the Access Hollywood video of me running from the horse cop asks for my autograph. News travels fast when it involves Jesse Scott.
“I love your dress,” one girl says.
“Are you Jesse’s girlfriend?” another wants to know, bouncing on her toes.
“No.”
“But he’s so great!” another girl squeals.
With my blood still pulsing like crazy, I turn to stare at him as he gets a photo taken with the birthday girl. “Yup, he sure is.” I try not to think about what’ll happen when this day’s over.
When Jesse gives up his love, his music.
When I go back to my life in Franklin.
He looks up from signing an autograph and grins. It’s a smile just for me.
Suddenly, I get the feeling this doesn’t have to be a one-day thing. That maybe the best day ever can develop into a lot more. Maybe it can become a life where I’m friends with Jesse Scott, where I can sing solos on a regular basis, where I can take chances.
I’m going to work for it.
Story of My Life
Neither of us is ready for our day to end.
When Jesse’s sick of schmoozing with the girls (only five minutes later), he gets the boat captain to make a special detour to drop us off at a dock near his motorcycle. The girls wave at us from the deck of the Belle Carol as the captain toots the horn.
Jesse hooks an arm around my waist. “Now what? Dinner?”
A text from Dave says he and Xander are heading over to the Coffee County Fair. It only comes once a year, and I usually go waste my money on the Ferris wheel and bumper cars. I also like to check out the biggest pumpkin contest and the mule races. And it could be another chance to help Jesse feel normal!
His phone rings right then. He pulls it from his pocket and checks the screen. His eyes grow wide as he answers. “Hey, Dad.”
The hope disappears from his eyes as he listens. I can hear the shouting. I hear the words “motorcycle” and “riding around town” and “blond floozy.”
At that word, Jesse steals a horrified glance at me before darting several feet away. Did his dad really just refer to me as a floozy? I bite down on my lip.
When Jesse hangs up, he lets out a long sigh and looks up at the dark sky.
“You all right?” I ask.
He shrugs, and we just stand here awkwardly. I have no idea what to do. Is Jesse okay? He doesn’t look okay.
“Want to hit up the fair? I’m craving a funnel cake,” I say, scared because his dad insulted me. I know Jesse wants to make nice with his parents, but I hope he doesn’t compromise by ending our day.
Jesse’s eyes darken. “I used to go to the fair with my parents when I was little.”
I wrap an arm around his side. “I have an idea. Let’s invite Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan to meet us.”
Your true family.
• • •
At the fairgrounds, we walk through cakey mud to the entrance. The smells of corndogs and popcorn and funnel cakes waft through the cool night air. Lights from the Ferris wheel and booths brighten the inky sky.
We see Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan in front of the arts and crafts booth before they see us. The publicists, Gina and Tracy, are with Mr. Logan, and Jesse’s manager and uncle are going on and on about something, hands flailing around. Jesse throws me this pompous knowing grin as we walk up.
My principal gives me the look he saves for kids who get high behind the woodshop at school. “Maya Henry, you have two weeks of detention.”
Mom and Dad will kill me. “I might want to rejoin the show choir.”
Dr. Salter smiles. “Okay, but you still have two weeks of detention.”
“But not tonight, right?”
“No, not tonight.”
Then Mr. Logan and Dr. Salter are all over Jesse about our afternoon. He tells them everything. Dr. Salter seems nervous that the press took pictures of us jumping around in a fountain and is worried about repercussions of us running from the horse cop. He’s worried the school board will cancel shadow day going forward. Mr. Logan and the publicists think it’s all great, of course, because any press is good. And my principal does seem pleased that Jesse is smiling. I was
worried after the call with his parents, but he seems okay.
“You wore a suit to the fair?” Jesse teases Mr. Logan.
Mr. Logan adjusts his gold watch and ignores Jesse. “What’s first?”
“Funnel cake, then the Tilt-A-Whirl.”
Later, the four of us do bumper cars, and Jesse keeps ramming us. Mr. Logan yells at him when his gelled hair gets messed up, which makes Jesse laugh so hard he snorts. Then we all ride the teacups and the Ferris wheel.
Jesse and I slide into the seat together, and the fair worker secures the bar in front of us. My shoulder nestles against Jesse’s, and he looks over at me. His hand grabs mine as the wheel soars toward the sky.
I pretty much love sailing over Franklin while holding Jesse’s hand. Thinking back to this afternoon when we were lounging on the purple cushion, I still can’t believe what happened, that he looked deep into my eyes and gently touched my arm. I felt sparks then, and I’m still feeling them now as the Ferris wheel plunges through rushing air back to the earth.
I decide right then that I’m going to take Mom’s advice this time: if Jesse really wants me, he’ll let me know. He’ll show me. I haven’t had time to pine over Jesse, and I don’t want to start. But his calloused fingers—rough like sandpaper from playing guitar—feel so warm and solid in mine. I can’t ignore that. I don’t know what I’d do if I had the chance to be with him, and that scares and excites me.
There’s this anticipation I get when I’m about to strum guitar strings. I get a similar feeling when I look at Jesse. It’s a feeling of I want to be near him, and what’s next?!, and I crave that sensation as much as playing guitar. My interest in him has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a star. I like him for his temper and his sweetness, his pranks, his protectiveness, his laugh. And damn, when he sings, my skin tingles as if he’s kissing me all over.
After the Ferris wheel, we go through the funhouse of mirrors, where Jesse gets trapped by a bunch of younger girls who want pictures and his autograph, so he gets his black Sharpie out and starts signing shirts and scraps of paper. An elementary school girl tells him, “I love ‘Agape.’ The way you played piano makes me want to learn how, but my parents say I can’t right now ’cause they just had a baby and piano lessons…aren’t as important.” Her voice trails off.
Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) Page 10