by Meg Haston
Top. Rated. Reporter. Not that I cared what these guys thought, but seriously. Get your facts straight, people.
Zander’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. “Yeah. Not a good fit.”
Why, because my hair color came from nature? I sucked in a deep breath and forced my fingers to uncurl. Big picture. Big picture. Big picture.
“Your call, Z.” The Beat cracked his knuckles and picked up his drumsticks again. “And one. Two. Three. Four.”
Gravity launched into a mellow piece with no vocals and I shifted in my seat, watching the guys jam out. Skinny Jeans had this strange, dreamy look on his face. His eyes were closed, and not once did he scan the stage to make sure he wasn’t screwing up. It was like he didn’t even realize he was playing in front of other people. I’d never seen anyone that relaxed on stage before. Not Mom at the news desk, not Quinn during our duet, and definitely not me. The whole point of performing was that you had an audience.
He looked so calm and at peace that suddenly watching him felt wrong, like I’d just walked in on him in his boxers or something. I focused my attention on the scuffed plate on the armrest, tracing the scratches in the brass until the song trailed off a few minutes later.
That was my cue. Gnawing at the cold sore inside my left cheek, I stood and moved slowly down the carpeted aisle, preparing for the biggest performance of my life. I debuted a close-lipped version of the Simon Smile. My character loved emo band boys, and it so didn’t bother her when they talked about her behind her back. And she wanted to front this band more than she wanted these five-pound frames off her nose.
Aaaand… action.
I leaned against the aisle seat in the front row and tossed my hair over my shoulder. “I’m in.”
Zander squinted down at me, his eyes flashing with something. Awe? Amazement? Annoyance?
“Well?” I pressed. “When are you rehearthing next?”
Zander rested his guitar gently against one of the speakers and tromped down the stairs. “What’re you doing here?” His voice was clipped.
My left butt pocket sagged under the weight of Paige’s note cards, and suddenly my mind went blanker than Molly’s algebra homework before she wheedled Nessa into doing it for her. Why hadn’t I reviewed the flash cards, like Paige suggested? What was I supposed to say again? Something about his hair? Tell him blue hair rocks. Hard. TELL HIM! TELL HIM YOU LOVE HIS COOKIE MONSTER BANGS!
But something in me was fighting the lie. Was it worth risking my journalistic principles, my reputation, on the off chance that he’d eventually agree to date Molly? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie. So I said something I actually believed.
“You’d be much better with a lead thinger.”
“Yeah, well.” Zander unsnapped the worn leather cuff bracelet on his wrist, then snapped it again, his gaze fixed on my feet. “Thought you weren’t interested.”
“Ummm…” I kicked at a worn spot in the carpet with the toe of my sneaker. “I changed my mind.”
Onstage, the rest of the band went quiet, clearly eavesdropping.
“Yeah, well, maybe I changed my mind, too.” He glanced up at me. I’d never noticed his eyes before. They were a steely gray—hard and unforgiving. Immediately, I wished he’d kept staring at my shoes. “We need a musician. Not an on-air gossip with a mean streak,” he said in a flat tone. “This is a drama-free zone, Simon.”
“What did you thay to me?” Spit from my lisp leapt across the space between us and spritzed his ratty Jimi Hendrix tee. I cringed.
The kid at the keyboard coughed, and The Beat hid a smile behind a cymbal.
“You heard me.” Zander shrugged. “You know, for a girl with a rep for dishing out the truth, you don’t really know how to take it.”
“For a drama-free guy, you’re doing a pretty good job of creating it,” I shot back, putting my hands on my hips.
“So, are you this mean to everybody, or just people you don’t know?” His voice was low and steady, but it felt like he was screaming.
“I’m not mean!” My voice cracked, and I instantly regretted letting him get to me. “I tell the truth. Not the thame thing.”
But from the skeptical look on his face, he didn’t believe me. It was time to step it up.
“Okay. You’re right. But I haven’t been hanging out with my old group anymore.” I plucked a piece of lint off my gloves. Now I was the one who couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’ve changed. Really. I’m… different… now.” My voice trailed off.
“Whatever.” He turned away, retracing his steps to the stage.
“Zander!” I croaked. What else did he want from me?
But he didn’t hear me, or he pretended not to.
“I’m… thorry.” The words were barely a whisper. I dropped into the nearest seat and took off my glasses, rubbing my eyes. Okay. This can’t be it. The real Kacey Simon doesn’t take no for an answer. The real Kacey Simon pushes until she gets exactly what she wants. The real Kacey Simon…
… disappeared when I got braces and glasses.
“Hey. You okay?” Skinny Jeans’s voice boomed over the microphone.
I shoved my glasses on and headed toward the door. “Fine,” I sniffed at the carpet.
“Audition’s at four thirty at my place. Get off at Berwyn and take Broadway to Balmoral.”
I jerked toward the stage.
“Audithon?” It was a major slap in the face. “You want me to audithon? But—”
Zander’s face hardened. “Forget it.”
“WAIT! OKAY. Four thirty.”
He lifted his guitar. “Any drama, and you’re out. Got it?”
“Right. Thank you. Thankth,” I babbled, backing up the aisle.
“Oh, and you see those records in my bag?” He nodded at the beat-up leather messenger bag slung over a chair in a middle row. A handful of colorful albums peeked out of the top.
I lifted the flap and inspected the titles. Purple Rain, Time Out of Mind, Déjà Vu. I hadn’t heard of any of them. And they smelled like Mrs. Weitzman, my ancient next-door neighbor.
“Listen to those before you come. Especially Dylan. He’s a freaking genius.”
Homework? I bit my lip and tucked the albums under my arm. “ ’Kay.”
“Four thirty,” he repeated as I headed down the aisle. “Don’t be late.”
WHO’S YOUR SUGAR DADDY?
Monday, 3:20 P.M.
Walking into Sugar Daddy alone that afternoon felt surreal. It had been my friends’ hangout since the very first day of sixth. We’d been looking for a place to debrief after the final bell that day, and had fallen in love with everything about the tiny bakery: the creaky wooden floors, the vintage student desks and colorful chairs, and the turquoise leather couches in the back.
This afternoon was the first time I’d ever walked through the frosted glass doors alone—and the first time I’d ever seen the couches in the back unoccupied.
Those couches had history. It was where we’d been lounging when Nessa found out she’d gotten into that super exclusive French language camp in Avignon last summer. Where we’d thrown Liv a surprise after-school birthday party, complete with vegan cupcakes. Where Molly had tried the triple espresso hot chocolate and discovered that Molly + caffeine = Bad Idea.
“You’re late.” Paige was already sitting at the two-top next to the Frost-It-Yourself cupcake bar in the center of the bakery. A half-eaten carrot cupcake topped with cream cheese frosting sat next to the chrome napkin dispenser.
I tossed my messenger bag under the table and propped Skinny Jeans’s albums between the napkin dispenser and Paige’s plate. “You’re looking at the lead…” I paused, trying to find another non-s-word for singer. Vocalist? Nope. Voice? Not that one either. “… you know what for Gravity.”
“So we can check that off the list,” Paige replied without looking up from the Marquette Gazette. “Do you want the bad news first, or the worse news?” Her foot shook at warp speed under the table, making the red
ceramic cup and saucer in front of her clink like a minor earthquake had just struck Lincoln Park.
“Huh?”
“I’m just gonna give it to you straight.” Finally, Paige looked up. Her brows scrunched together like one giant, hairy caterpillar. “It’s not looking good.” She snapped the paper in half and slid it across the table. “On the bright side, you made the front page.”
I scanned the headline.
UNDERSTUDY TO STAR IN SATURDAY’S PRODUCTION OF GUYS AND DOLLS
And in smaller letters beneath the headline:
RISING STAR: “FATE AND ORTHODONTIC DIFFICULTIES BROUGHT ME TO THE STAGE”
The newsprint swam in my field of vision. But the candid shot of Molly standing alone onstage, gazing into the spotlight, glared back at me in gritty black and white. That was supposed to be my front page shot! How could she possibly have made it above the fold before I did? I whipped off my glasses and sent them skittering across the table.
“Big picture,” Paige admonished, stabbing her cupcake with her fork. “Our new buzz phrase is damage control.”
“Don’t you think we’re a little late for that?” I felt torn between finding and burning every copy of the Gazette in the greater Chicagoland area, and reading the article until I had every word memorized.
Paige shook her head. “This is just a mock-up of tomorrow’s paper. So if we can get our own story in by deadline tonight, we’ll be okay. We’ve just got to think.” She lifted a pen next to her mug and started making notes in the margins. “Maybe we could do a blurb about how you’re in the band now, or something. What do you think?”
“Wait. How’d you get a mock-up?” I’d never been able to get the next day’s headlines this far in advance.
Her eyes darted back and forth behind her black frames. There was a smudge of cream cheese frosting on the left lens. “Do you get how full of yourself you sound, or is everyone else too scared of you to point that out?”
“Excuuuthe me! Do you get who you’re talking to?” I pointed to my face, for emphasis. The Kacey Simon, former and soon-to-be-reinstated seventh-grade advice guru, star of the stage, and object of Quinn Wilder’s affections part was implied. So I’d hit a little bump in the road. A BRIEF detour. But as soon as I picked up a lead singer gig and ditched the lisp (and Paige) everything would be back to normal.
“Who I’m talking to?” Paige took her glasses off, then slid them back on. Then she did it again. “I’m talking to a girl whose approval rating dropped forty percentage points since last Monday.” She reached for her water glass and chugged half its contents in one gulp. “A girl who doesn’t seem to get that the entire school, with the exception of yours truly, is, shall we say, enjoying your new look. It’s called payback, Kacey.”
“The entire school?” I wrapped my palms around my own sweating water glass to lower my spiking body temperature. “No way.”
In the old days, Molly would have shut up and dropped the subject. But Paige just kept going. “Who cares if you’re in a band if you’ve been a complete jerk and now everybody’s over you? Hello? John Mayer?”
Just then, the bell over the front door jangled, and in walked someone carrying a crooked stack of Gazette mock-ups. Molly.
When she saw me, she stopped in her tracks. One beat later, so did Liv and Nessa. Had the four of us always looked that choreographed?
“Oh.” Molly’s voice was sweeter than double-fudge frosting. “You saw it. Totally Sean’s idea. You know. For publicity.” She lowered the stack onto our table.
“Can I see?” Paige made a sudden, jerking movement toward the papers. Her teacup tipped and rolled, soaking Molly’s slate-gray micro-mini with dark liquid. “Oops. Sorry.”
I bit my lip as the stain expanded.
Molly sucked in a deep breath. She ripped a handful of napkins from the dispenser and started blotting her crotch. “Phoebe, right?”
“Paige, actually.”
“Whatever.” Molly dumped the soaked napkins in front of me and wrung out her “vintage” I’M WITH THE BAND T-shirt. “BTW? The only reason Kacey’s hanging out with you is because she doesn’t want to hang alone.” She flipped her blonde extensions over her shoulder. “So I guess you’re better than nothing.”
My chair screeched as I scooted back from the table.
“BTW?” Paige jumped in before I could. “The only reason Kacey used to hang out with you is because she needed someone to hold her purse with one hand and stroke her ego with the other! Got it, Millie?”
Hey! I wanted to yell. That’s not fair! But part of me wondered if it was.
“It’s Molly.” Molly crossed her arms over her chest, a new shade of crimson saturating her entire face. Liv’s mouth fell open, and she nudged Nessa with her elbow.
“Listen, girls.” Paige interlaced her fingers on the table. “You’re gonna have to find your own table. Kacey was just telling me about her plans with Zander later.” She shooed Molly and the girls away with an easy flick of the wrist.
“Wait. Zander?” Molly glanced at me again. This time, there was the slightest sliver of hope in her eyes. And something else. Jealousy?
“Yup.” Casually, I plucked a chunk from the side of Paige’s cupcake and popped it in my mouth. The sugary crumbles immediately lodged themselves in my braces. Worth it.
“So… buh-bye, now.” Paige blinked.
Without a word, the girls turned on their heels and stalked across the floor.
I shook my head at Paige and slow-clapped. “You. Are. Brilliant. And. Brutal.” I hoped it half counted as an apology. I wanted to ask her if she’d been serious, about Molly only being there to stroke my ego. But my lips couldn’t form the sentence.
The bell over the door clanged again, and I watched my friends leave me behind. Once they were outside, Liv slid her arm around Molly’s shoulders and squeezed, while Nessa’s purple mittens gestured wildly in the falling snow, like she was conducting an orchestra. When really, all she was doing was… gossiping about me. I turned away.
“I don’t get it.” Paige folded a stack of soggy Gazettes and dropped them on the floor. Then she rested her chin in her cupped hand, searching my face. “All this work, just so you can hang out with them?” I could tell from the tiny wrinkles around her eyes that she wasn’t being mean. She was truly confused.
It’s not that I wanted to be with them right at that moment, exactly. But they were acting like they didn’t even miss me a little. Like everything was just as good without me—better, even—although without them, my world was crashing and burning.
“They’re not… that bad.” I plucked a napkin from the dispenser and picked at the edges. I checked the window again. They were gone, and the white flakes were starting to fall harder.
Paige stayed silent, but what she wasn’t saying weighed heavily on me. The pile of shredded napkins in front of me was growing into a small, snowy mountain.
“Gotta go,” I said finally. “Rehearthal in twenty.”
Paige gave me a tiny smile. “I’ll leak the story that you’re in the band for tomorrow’s paper. Damage control, right?”
“Right.” I smiled back, then jumped up and tugged at my slouchy cream sweater. “I look hard rock, right?”
“Hard rock. Right.” Paige rolled her eyes. “Where’d you get that sweater, Anthropologie?”
“But I’m wearing it with fith-netth!” I protested. As payback, I swiped the rest of her cupcake for the road. “I’ll text you after.”
“Good luck.” Then Paige said something under her breath that sounded a whole lot like, “You’ll need it.”
YOU CAN TAKE THE GIRL OUT OF LINCOLN PARK….
Monday, 4:28 P.M.
I made it to Skinny Jeans’s house with less than three minutes to spare before my nonnegotiable call time.
At least I thought it was his house. Checking the number inked on my palm, I tilted my head back and stared up at a two-story brick warehouse with the words JACOB HARVEY & SONS stamped in peeling white block le
tters on the electric blue loading dock door. A row of tall, rectangular windows reached from the top of the door to a flat tin roof.
As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a front entrance. So I tromped around the warehouse, where I found a regular-sized blue door. It opened before I had the chance to knock.
“Hey. You found it!” Zander crouched in the threshold, holding back a giant salt-and-pepper-haired dog with pointy ears. “People usually think they’ve got the wrong address. Used to be a furniture warehouse, or something.” He tossed his blue streak out of his eyes.
“And you live here?” I asked, trying to send chill, confident vibes in the dog’s direction. Nessa volunteered at the Humane Society on Sunday afternoons, and once she told me that dogs could smell fear. I wondered if they could also smell social desperation.
“Yup.” Zander clapped the dog on its side and rose. “Oh. This is Hendrix.”
Hendrix bared his teeth and glared at me with one brown eye and one lazy, pale blue eye. Awesome. Even the lazy-eyed dog hated me. Maybe Paige was right.
“Come on. I’ll give you the tour.” Zander ushered me into an open square room with a ceiling that must have been forty feet high. Two spiral staircases and a green wooden ladder led to lofted bedrooms on both sides of the warehouse. Since there were no walls dividing the room, the concrete floor was painted in sections: a silvery gray for the living area, dusty violet for the kitchen, and eggshell beneath the brushed copper dining room table. Just being there made me feel cooler.
“Moved in three months ago, and we still haven’t totally unpacked.” Zander nudged a worn cardboard box marked Miscellaneous Junk XIV out of our path. He fiddled with a stereo on the table by the door, and some kind of heavy metal blasted from every corner of the loft. Hendrix whined and scrambled under the dining room table.
I examined the framed photos on the exposed brick walls: black and white, color, landscape, panoramic. Everything from posed family reunion portraits to an up-close candid of Zander strumming his guitar. I giggled at a small three-by-five shot of a little girl about Ella’s age in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, flashing a toothless grin and the peace sign. “LITTLE THITHTER?” I shouted over the music.