Once Upon A Sure Thing

by Blakely, Lauren

  They said I could pop in anytime, so I slip into the control room, whisper a hello to the engineer, and watch the pair. They look fantastic together, with a blue-eyed, fresh-faced style that matches their crystal-clear sound. My heart aches as I watch them, a pang of longing rocketing through me, sharp and sad.

  Well, maybe not as sad as I’d be if I had failed at my first attempt to save the entire world from beast or machine.

  But sad enough.

  I miss what that duo has. I miss singing with my brother.

  But life goes on, even though Kirby’s moving away. So must I go on. Right now, that means trekking to the hobby shop, since I have to help Chloe build a godforsaken castle.

  I tear my gaze away from the duo, head down the hall, and wave goodbye to the receptionist at Platinum Sky Studios. As I exit the building, I send a text to my good friend Miller, telling him I’m ready and raring to go. He’s been expecting me.

  Ally: This is the moment you’ve been waiting for all week. The chance to show off your prowess. Be there in thirty minutes or else.

  Miller: I can leap tall buildings in a single bound, I can win gold medals in boat racing, and I can make it to the hobby shop in Chelsea in less than thirty minutes.

  Ally: You beat ALL the fifth graders??? Every single one of them? I am so unbelievably proud of you.

  Miller: Sixth graders too, and seventh. So there. And you thought I couldn’t hold off those pesky kids.

  Ally: Not true. You know I always believed in you.

  Miller: You especially believe in my ability to save you from school projects.

  Ally: That’s scaling a tall building in a single bound for sure, my friend.

  As I duck into the subway entrance, looping my brown hair, with its one lavender streak, into a ponytail, I wonder, not for the first time, what genius decided that craft projects are the gateway to understanding everything from cellular structure to history. . . in the sixth grade.

  Why do kids need to craft a mailbox to look like a cat, a dog, or an actual blue postal box in which to receive Valentine cards from their classmates? Likewise, why do they need to bake a cake to demonstrate mitochondria?

  It’s a mystery of the universe right up there with why conditioner can never keep pace with shampoo, and why are cooked tomatoes ever a thing?

  After I reach my stop, I walk several blocks in the chilly late-November afternoon, enjoying the nip in the air as I do my best not to stress about the fact that my brother is moving several states away, and that means we won’t be making new YouTube videos that helped me pay for Chloe’s school bill.

  I’m not starving. I’m not struggling. Yet, I’m also not the one percent, and it can be hard as hell to live in New York City. But this is the life we have—the one I’ve carved out for her since she became mine so unexpectedly when she was only six years old.

  I shove all those worries aside when I see my favorite smile.

  Miller’s.

  It’s not a lopsided grin or a wicked smirk like the heroes in the books I narrate, since apparently wicked smirks began way back in high school.

  Miller’s is a toothpaste-commercial smile. There is only happiness in his grin. Only delight, since that’s Miller’s middle name and his mantra. I’ve never known someone to be such a joy-monger, but that’s precisely what my best friend is.

  He leans against the doorway of GigiAnn’s Hobby Shop on Eighth Avenue. When I reach him, that magnetic smile has extended to his hazel eyes, the flecks in them sparkling. For a moment, it’s as if all my worries are gone. The man is a happiness drug. He wraps his arms around me, warm and strong, and I hug him back, sighing contentedly.

  “Congrats on your boat racing gold medal.”

  “It was nothing. Tell me—did you vanquish many dwarves today?”

  I laugh as I unwrap myself from him. “Silly kitten, that was last week.” I thrust my arm up as if I’m leading troops into battle. “Today, I took on an entire brigade of cyborgs.”

  He shudders. “I can’t think of anyone more qualified to do that than you.”

  I flick my hair off my shoulder and raise my chin proudly. “I’m so adept at navigating the dangers of imagined worlds from my trusty studio C.”

  “How many books is it for you now? Five hundred?”

  I swat his elbow. Because I like swatting him. I like nudging him too. I’m not sure why, but I do.

  “Ha. You know it’s not that many. I’m at one hundred forty-two books and counting. And I still haven’t been hired to narrate a romance, despite submitting tons of auditions and putting the word out to all my publisher contacts.”

  He sighs sympathetically, knowing my dream to expand into romance has been blocked by cyborg-infested walls hundreds of feet high. “Look on the bright side. The publishers love your sweet style. You can’t help it if you have the perfect voice for a teenager. It’s like sugar. It’s like honey. It’s like a Pixy Stix, and those are damn good.” He flashes that winning grin again, one that seems to say don’t worry, be happy. “Note to self: pick up Pixy Stix for dessert.”

  “You have such an overactive sweet tooth.”

  “It’s well-exercised.”

  “And, yes, I’m thirty-one going on sixteen vocally,” I say with a what-can-you-do shrug. I’ve been trying to crack the romance genre for five years to no avail. I’m told my voice reads too young, too innocent for that genre. I’ve been working on vocal exercises to bring a tiny bit of a smoky, sexy vibe that might help me snag some romance deals. I love the work I do, and the number of great young adult stories has flourished in recent years. But I have to think of the future. What if the young adult genre goes bust at some point? What if my voice becomes overused in teen stories? I want to diversify, and romance seems the most natural segue, especially since I like romance.

  Miller holds open the hobby shop door for me. “After you, my warrior princess. I believe we have a castle to create.”

  “Chloe left me a list of items to pick up, since she’s seeing her therapist.”

  “Never miss a shrink visit, I say.” Miller stops in front of a remote-controlled helicopter display. “How are they going for her, anyway?”

  “Good. She’s almost done with the appointments. She’s doing so well now, but it took a while,” I say, smiling as we go inside, proud of my girl.

  “I’m glad she’s doing better. It’s all because of you.”

  I wave off the compliment as we head down the aisles. Pom-poms and fabrics abound, nestled alongside scrapbook boxes and glitter glue, which cuddles with glitter guns and ribbons. I stop at an aisle bursting with silver ribbons, polka-dot ribbons, and ribbons with tassels. I scratch my head. “I don’t understand why there are so many ribbons.”

  Miller leans in close and whispers, “The better to tie you up with, my pretty.”

  A tingle spreads over my shoulders, surprising me, even though I’m not surprised by his words. He’s a natural-born flirt, and I’m used to his naughty banter. It’s never directed toward me, per se. He’s just having fun. It’s Miller being Miller, like when we play Bananagrams and he tries to make as many naughty-sounding words as possible, like caulk and diphthong. “In that case, let’s make it a polka-dot ribbon. I can wear it with my famous polo shirts and ponytails,” I say, referring to the super-sweet style I wore when I sang online with my brother.

  “Ooh, that makes it even naughtier, and it proves my point.”

  “What’s that?”

  He holds up a finger. “I have a hunch craft stores are frequented by the Fifty Shades crowd.”

  I laugh. “DIY BDSM-ers?”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “Ribbons are for tying pretty wrists.” He circles his hand around my wrist, sending another unexpected charge through me. I do my best to ignore the sensation. He lets go quickly and leads me to an aisle of wooden frames, birdhouses, and, oddly enough, paddles. “Those paddles are not for school projects, I tell you.”

  “Whatever are they for?” I ask, feigning innocen
ce.

  Miller mimes spanking my butt. Next, he gestures to the candle-making section. “Exhibit B that hobby shops are fronts for kinky sex clubs—just imagine all this wax dripping on bellies and butts tonight.”

  “How on earth am I supposed to work on a project with Chloe now that you’ve put these thoughts in my head?”

  He runs a hand lightly over my hair and says in his raspy baritone, “I suspect those thoughts were already there.”

  Were they? Are they? Images scroll through my mind, mostly involving ribbons.

  Miller rubs his hands together and switches gears. “Now, let’s find some Styrofoam to make ramparts.”

  He walks ahead of me, and for a brief moment, or maybe longer, I linger on the feel of him near me, his hand on my hair, the comment about the notions in my head. Are the notions in my head involving him?

  I’m not sure what to make of this new zip that rushes through me. So I dismiss it, since that’s easier. I join him in the Styrofoam aisle, where he plucks the items Chloe needs from the shelf and drops them in a red shopping basket.

  I enlisted Miller’s help for Chloe’s sixth-grade project on medieval times, since he’s absolutely amazing at building things. I suspect that’s on account of the fact that he still has a ten-year-old boy inside him.

  He also used to be a Lego master, and he won several Lego contests growing up. A few years ago, he showed me pictures of his creations, and I promptly enlisted him as my secret weapon in the school project battle.

  As we head to the checkout line, Miller sneaks a peek at his watch.

  “Do you need to go?”

  He scoffs. “Please. I’m in this for the long haul, warrior princess. I’m just checking to see how many minutes until my feeding time.”

  Miller’s stomach keeps me busy—I’ve learned a few tricks. “Can I tempt you with Thai or Chinese takeout tonight?”

  Miller’s eyes light up. “Actually, can you get that pumpkin curry dish from Avatar’s Burritos?”

  “Anything you want. You know the rules. I feed you, and you help Chloe with the tenth circle of hell.”

  “It’s a fair deal to me.”

  As we leave and walk to the therapist’s office on Sixth Avenue, Miller clears his throat. “So . . . I made a decision.”

  The earnestness in his voice surprises me. He sounds vulnerable. I meet his gaze and ask softly, “What is it?”

  His hazel eyes look into mine. “You know how Campbell’s been pushing me again to start a new duo?”

  I nod, remembering that Campbell mentioned it when we met up with him recently.

  Miller shrugs happily. “I’m ready. I posted an audition notice on my way down here. I’m looking for someone to sing with me, do some local gigs, maybe record a few videos, see how it goes. Nothing too crazy yet, but we can start here in New York.”

  I bump my shoulder to his. “Good, because if you were on the road all the time, I’d be a sad panda.” I frown dramatically, but I’m more relieved than I let on that he’ll mostly be around.

  “You know I’d miss you, and Campbell and Samantha, and Jackson, and, hell, I’d even miss my doorman because that dude has the best advice on fantasy basketball picks.”

  I roll my eyes. “Glad I rank up there with your insider fantasy league coach, Miller.”

  He drapes an arm around me and squeezes. “Just messing with you. I’d miss you like crazy.” He lets go of my shoulder. “And I decided to take another piece of his advice.”

  “What’s that?”

  He holds his arms out wide. “I want to sing with a woman.”

  On Sixth Avenue, at four in the afternoon, my blood freezes.

  I’ve no idea why this news turns me to an icicle, so I do my best to find some morsel of warmth inside me. I try to muster a laugh, but all that comes out is a tight, “That’s going to be great.”

  “You think so?”

  I nod robotically. “Of course.”

  “Too bad we’d be absolutely terrible singing together. Otherwise, I’d say it should be you and me.”

  “We’re like orange juice on cereal.”

  We’ve attempted karaoke. We’ve sung a few times at Christmas parties. You’d think we’d sound great together—he’s a former teen idol who played in arenas with his brothers, and I used to sing duets to the tune of millions of views on YouTube.

  But our styles simply don’t mesh.

  My voice is a church voice. His is a rocker’s.

  “You’ll find someone who sounds amazing with you,” I say in my best supportive tone, even though there’s a part of me that desperately wishes it were me.

  I wish, too, that I understood why I want that.

  Chapter 3

  Ally

  Chloe emerges from the therapist’s office, giving me a quick wave then shoving her sleek auburn hair off her face.

  “Hey, Monkey,” I say, using the nickname I bestowed on her years ago when she scurried to the top of the rock climbing wall at the park in the blink of an eye.

  “Hi, Aunt Ally. Hi, Miller.”

  He offers a fist for knocking, and she knocks back.

  “Are you ready to become a medieval architect and build the most awesome castle in the world?” he asks.

  “I think so. Especially since Dr. Jane said I’m fixed now.”

  I laugh lightly and give her a squeeze. “You were never broken, Monkey.”

  She shrugs as we walk down the avenue, heading to our apartment. “I kind of was, Aunt Ally.”

  “No, you kind of weren’t.”

  She stares sharply at me over her green glasses—she picked out the color to match her eyes. “Maybe a little broken? Like a plate with a crack?”

  I wish I could take credit for her dry sense of humor, but she arrived on my doorstep that way. Deadpan, direct, and honest. She tells it like it is.

  “Not like a plate at all,” I insist. I don’t want her to think there’s anything wrong with her simply because life handed her a short stick when she lost her mom at age six, on top of not having a dad in the picture.

  “Dr. Jane says I’m almost done, especially since I sat with Hannah and Hailey at lunch this week.”

  Miller cheers for her. “That’s awesome. You’ve wanted to do that the last few weeks.”

  Chloe nods. “Dr. Jane said sometimes when you figure out what you want, you just need to go for it.”

  Once we’re back at my apartment, the two of them work on the castle as I demonstrate my dinner-ordering prowess, including tracking down Pixy Stix for Miller. As they finish the castle, I grab my knitting bag and complete a pair of purple mittens I’ve been working on, since mittens rule. Once the project is done and Chloe is reading in her room, Miller and I play a sudden-death game of Bananagrams. We’re neck and neck the whole time, but I keep thinking about the therapist’s advice.

  It’s simple advice so I ask myself what I want.

  I want to support Chloe, to provide for her in a way her parents couldn’t. I want to make sure we always have a cushion since that’s something she never had either. With my brother moving out of state, we won’t be able to make our music videos, and we’ll lose some of our YouTube money.

  But there are other things I want too.

  To expand. To push myself. To challenge myself.

  Figure out what you want and go for it.

  Over the next several days, as I slip into the persona of a jaded teen dealing with an inheritance of dolls, I find the answer.

  There is something I want, and I think I know what I need to do to get it.

  Chapter 4

  Miller

  I strut down Madison Avenue, listening to some kick-ass rock songs that fire me up. There’s nothing like a little mix of The Rolling Stones, Foster the People, and Muse to make a day even better. I’m an omnivore when it comes to genres—rock, jazz, pop, country. If it’s good, I’ll gobble it up. I’m like Owen Wilson in Starsky and Hutch—I’ll take anything.

  Right now, I’m enjoying Mu
se’s cover of Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”

  As I turn the corner, the chorus blasts in my ears, I’m bouncing in my Vans, and the December sun is shining brightly. The sun knows what it’s talking about because this day is going to be killer. I have a little silver laptop in my messenger bag, and more than two hundred auditions to listen to.

  Life is good.

  I turn into Dr. Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, where Campbell has promised to meet me later this afternoon, after I sift through the first batch of these sure-to-blow-me-away auditions.

  “Hey, Tommy, what’s shaking?” I say to the guy who owns the shop.

  “Not much, Miller. Want the usual?” he asks, offering a hand for one of those frat-style, made-up, secret shakes. I never rushed a frat in college. I glance down at my jeans, band T-shirt, and skater jacket. I am so not a frat boy. But I know Tommy well, so I’ve mastered the fist-bump, slap, smack back.

  “The usual sounds fantastic. Extra whipped cream, please?”

  “Consider it done.”

  A minute later, he slides a hot chocolate to me, made with whole milk, because life is too short to waste on coffee when there is sugar. I try to pay him, but he says my money’s no good here. Naturally, that makes me stuff a twenty in his tip jar. “Love you, bro.”

  “Same to you.”

  I grab a table in the back, pop on my big-ass headphones that make me look like the dude from Cloud City in Empire Strikes Back, and flip open my laptop. I have ladies about to croon into my eardrums, and chocolate to satisfy my sweet tooth.