Love Songs & Other Lies Page 4

  “You guys are weird,” Pax mutters.

  Vee points her fork at him, “You’ll regret that comment when I’m the one prepping you for your big interviews,” she teases.

  I keep forgetting that Vee actually came on tour to work. “When do you start working with the publicist?” I ask. “It’s Jenn, right?”

  “Probably tomorrow, when production starts, right?” She’s looking to Logan like he’s got all the answers. Logan who secretly invited her onto the bus. My friend, Logan. At least I thought we were friends, before he turned my life upside down again.

  “Is it weird that I haven’t gotten details yet?” Vee nudges him when he doesn’t say anything.

  “Right,” Logan’s eyes are fixed on the pile of eggs he’s poking at, like he’s digging for buried treasure. “I’m sure they’ll give you all the details tomorrow.” He sounds nervous. I think deep down, we’re all feeling the pressure of what happens tomorrow.

  By the end of dinner, everyone is talking about the cities they’re looking forward to. Anders wants to see whale sharks at the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta, and Logan wants to swim in the Atlantic Ocean for the first time in North Carolina. Pax is happy to be in any city where he can get out of the bus, away from his newly paired-up bandmates, Sid and Jaclyn. Reese is holding out for—no surprise—Sin City; the semifinals. Now all we have to do is actually stay in the game long enough to make it all happen.

  * * *

  It’s after midnight and, like most nights, I’m lying wide awake in my bunk. Tomorrow it all starts. The cameras roll and we begin rehearsing at the first venue, in Houston. Pulling back my curtain, ready to head back to the bathroom, I stop when I see the soft glow coming from Vee’s bunk. She’s lying on her bed, her face illuminated by her Kindle. And for the first time in days she isn’t wearing earbuds or surrounded by other people. The bus is moving and she’s in her pajamas. She can’t run. I lie back down, crossing my hands behind my neck and focusing on the bunk above me. I have to keep this casual.

  VIRGINIA

  “I got a tattoo.” His voice startles me out of the silence, and before I can stop myself, I’m looking at him. He’s lying on his bed in a pair of blue pajama pants and a thin gray T-shirt that clings to him everywhere. Everything about him is bigger than I remember. Why am I even thinking about this? Thankfully, he’s fully dressed. Most of the guys sleep on the warm bus in nearly nothing, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of guy parts. Having to mill about in close quarters with ten guys who have just woken up—it’s a constant game of divert-your-eyes. I pity the editing crew who will have to ensure the American public doesn’t catch a glimpse of any of the private parts of the tour bus—or the band members.

  Cam pulls up his sleeve to reveal an intricate black tattoo that wraps around his defined bicep. It looks like twisted lines of musical notes. It’s a blur in the darkness. “A couple, actually,” he says.

  “Um, congratulations?”

  “I bought a new guitar.” He nods toward the case lying in the lounge of the bus, leaning against the black leather couch.

  I turn and finally look right at him, maybe for the first time since I boarded this bus. “Cameron, just stop.” No one else is awake, and this is the last chance I’ll have to stop pretending. I don’t want to do this thing where we pretend like we’re two old friends catching up on the last year of our lives. But when it comes down to it, isn’t friends all that we were, really? I just need to get that through my head, and this will all get easier.

  “I tried fish.”

  “Excuse me, what?”

  “I tried fish.” He shrugs his shoulders. “And for the record, I hated it. Just like I knew I would.”

  “Great.” I let my eyes wander around the bus, looking into the sleeping cubbies that line the walls, out the windows, at the floor; anywhere but his face, or the tiny black curls of ink that I can see peeking out of the back of his shirt, creeping up his neck. Another tattoo. God, I’m curious.

  “Your turn.”

  My eyes are still fixed on the tiny curls of ink. Stop looking! “For what?”

  “Three things since I saw you last.”

  Three Things. Hell, no. He thinks we’re actually going to go back to playing this flirty little game? I don’t think so.

  “I’m tired, and we have a big day tomorrow.” I grab hold of the curtain next to me and give him a tight smile, reminding myself that soon the cameras will start rolling. And once my internship starts, I’ll need to put on this show 24/7. “Goodnight, Cam.” I try to keep my voice even as I say the words, even though the familiarity of it hurts my heart. “Congrats on the tattoo … and the fish.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THEN

  CAMERON

  The first day of school goes exactly like I knew it would. Lots of staring, plenty of curious questions to dodge. Thankfully most of my teachers are talkative, leaving little time for anyone to get past the basics of “Where are you from?” Wisconsin. And “Why did you move?” To be closer to family.

  The family part isn’t a total lie. I do live less than a mile from Gram. And nobody gives a shit about Wisconsin, so no one even asks me what city. Which is good, because I panicked when I said it. I’ve been to Wisconsin once and it was for my cousin’s wedding. I was ten. Lying about where I’m from wasn’t the plan, but I had this horrible vision of every kid in my class Googling my name. Right after they looked me up on social media and came up empty. “Cameron Fuller California” would be a gold mine of info. But “Cameron Fuller Wisconsin”? Sorry about your luck.

  A few people made it as far as asking me if I was pissed that my parents up and moved me my senior year. Nah, I said, casually. It’s cool being close to the beach. Most of them just nod and smile. I know they’re all looking for something interesting—a juicy piece of gossip or a flicker of scandal. They want to hear that I was expelled, or got a girl pregnant. Maybe I’m fresh out of rehab. Anything to spice up their small town. I don’t give them anything to work with, but by the end of the week I’m sure I’ll be pegged as a former gang member or recovering meth addict. People love a good story—I know I do—but unfortunately for them, my life and story are no longer public domain.

  As soon as school lets out Friday I show up at Gram’s. By 4:30 I’ve filled her in on the entire week, and by 5:30 she’s dozed off. When 6:00 rolls around I know I should just leave, but I just can’t get myself to do it. Fifteen more minutes, Cameron. The suspense is wearing on my nerves as every tiny sound has me holding my breath, waiting for her to come back. Like she promised. It’s been a really long week, and I’ve been looking forward to this visit way more than I should have. While Gram sleeps I work on my homework, the tiny black detective’s notebook already flipped open beside my textbook, ready to be filled. I’m using the metal food cart as a desk, scribbling out my World History notes, when I hear the door swing open and click closed.

  “Happy Tuesday, Nonni! It’s VA Day!”

  VA Day? Is this some sort of weird holiday? For veterans? How do I not know this?

  Her voice is so bouncy and light. Is she just one of those people who gets peppy and loud around old people? The nursing home makes me whisper, like there’s a sleeping person around every corner. Which is sort of true.

  The poster I found at school today is lying on the food-cart-turned-desk. MELON BALLERS is written across the top and a black-and-white picture of a band is stretched across the center. I don’t recognize anyone in the grainy photo, despite having paid extra-careful attention throughout the day. It was wishful thinking, really—it’s hard to tell if there’s even a girl in the picture. The poster says:

  WE NEED YOU!

  IN OUR BAND

  GUITAR PLAYER NEEDED ASAP!

  At the bottom there’s an email address, phone number, and a name: Anders.

  The room is quiet, and then the squeal of a metal chair being dragged along the stone floor cuts through the silence. Something bumps into the dividing curtain, sending i
t fluttering toward my knees. My heart sinks in my chest. She’s going to find me. The fabric brushes against my legs.

  Then nothing. Silence.

  I think maybe she left, until I hear the unmistakable twang of fingertips on metal and chords begin to fill the room. Her guitar. My own guitar had been sitting in my closet—untouched for months—until last night. I pulled it out to learn the song she played. Then I just kept going, for hours. I actually have two guitars—an acoustic Fender Dad gave me for my tenth birthday and a red Gibson that I bought right after I moved to Riverton. With my blood money. The same money that pays for my apartment. For everything.

  The sound filling the room is rich and comforting. Every note is precise as her voice joins in with the music. It’s nothing but a whisper at first, then grows louder and stronger as the song goes on. It’s beautiful. Strong but gentle; and somehow her voice conveys so much more emotion than the lyrics alone ever could.

  Push me, pull me,

  take me or leave me …

  the way I am, can’t be like them.

  Under the lens, out of the box,

  waiting to explode

  tick tick tock boom.

  Push me, pull me,

  it’s over once you hold me.

  Tick tick tock boom.

  Her voice trails off and the last note hangs in the air. It feels thick and heavy, like the words are still trapped in the small room with us. If I felt guilty before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel after hearing her sing. It’s so personal. I might as well have opened her diary and flipped through the damn pages. I didn’t deserve to hear that song and I feel more than a little guilty now. I’m a creep.

  “You should play it,” Evelyn says.

  I wonder if it’s one of her band’s songs. If she’ll play it at their bar gig next weekend.

  “I just did.” She pauses. “For you.”

  “Not for me. You should play it for someone else. Anyone else.”

  “I can’t, Nonni. Someday … maybe.”

  “Someday will be here before you know it, Ginny. Eventually we all run out of tomorrows.”

  True story, Nonni.

  “I know. I’m just not ready. It’s not ready, it needs more work.” Her voice is so soft, I wonder if she’s crying. “The second verse is still shaky.”

  The second verse was tight.

  “And there’s something off with the bridge.”

  It was perfect.

  The mood has changed drastically, her raucous, bouncing laughter from earlier gone now. The girl who was here yesterday was electric. Fierce. The girl I picture now is fragile and soft around the edges. I want the ringing laughter that cleared my head and made me forget.

  Playing my guitar has always made me feel free. Playing hers seems to be making her crazy. That song was perfection—what could possibly stop her from playing it for someone? It can be fixed, whatever it is. People underestimate how many things are capable of being fixed. There are so few things in life that are actually final. Just death. And I’m pretty sure she isn’t dying.

  Conflicts: Stage fright?

  “It will never be perfect,” Nonni says. “You just need to get out there. Take some risks. It’s your senior year, Ginny. Have fun.”

  “Nonni—”

  “Shush. I know you think you’ll have time for everything later. And you will. But I want you to do things now. I want you to put yourself out there.” There’s a long moment of silence. I can hear everyone breathing and I swear they must be able to hear me, too. Every muscle in my body is tensed. I’m afraid to make the slightest movement.

  “I want that too. I—I wish I could, but—”

  Evelyn doesn’t let her finish. “I want you to do something for me.” Her voice is pleading. “Will you?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “I want you to promise me.” Evelyn’s voice is firm, determined.

  “Sure. Yes, of course I will.” She sounds nervous, filled with anticipation.

  “I want you to say yes.”

  I have no idea what she means, and it seems that Ginny is just as confused, because the room is silent.

  “Say yes to what exactly?” Ginny asks.

  “To everything. To anything.”

  Silence.

  “Unless you’ll end up dead or on a MISSING poster, I want you to say yes.” There’s another long silence, and I hold my breath, waiting. “You’re a smart girl, you’ll know the right choice. The world won’t fall apart if you make a mistake.”

  “Nonni—”

  “I want you to do this for me.” Ginny doesn’t say anything. I wish I were one of those people who could swim the length of a pool underwater. All I can hear is my breathing. “Do it for your old, dying grandmother.”

  Boom. Just like that Evelyn goes nuclear. Old people love to play the I-won’t-be-around-forever card. It trumps everything. There’s a long silence and I’m starting to think maybe Ginny left.

  “Fine.” Her voice is strained, like she’s been asked to put her hand in a blender, but is still trying to sound happy about it.

  Habits/Mannerisms: Puts up a good front. Brave in the face of blendered hands.

  “But I’m not even missing out like you think I am.” She’s calmer now, her voice gaining some confidence.

  “Well, I certainly hope I’m wrong, honey. But you’ve made me very happy. I look forward to hearing about your adventures … big and small.”

  Ginny stays for another hour, making small talk and playing one more song. There’s still no laughter or teasing—none of the brightness she arrived with. When she finally leaves, this overwhelming feeling fills me; the desire to run after her and see who she is. To know her name, her story, ask her why she won’t play that amazing song for anyone. Why she doesn’t want to play it out in the hallway or on the goddamn street corner, so everyone can hear it. But that’s impossibly complicated, of course. What would I even say? “Oh, hey, I’ve been hanging out in your grandma’s room for hours, listening to you. I just thought I’d say hi. Maybe you could fill me in on the details of your life? Oh, and I’m also writing about you.” If I was lucky it would get me pepper-sprayed. Worst case, I’m labeled a stalker and watched by all three hundred students at Riverton High, who would no doubt hear of my treachery by morning bell.

  I stay for a while, giving Evelyn some time to fall asleep before I make my exit. There has to be an easier way to satisfy my curiosity. I pull the poster out of my bag and dial the ten-digit number scribbled at the bottom.

  * * *

  I’ve been sitting on the edge of my bed for the last hour, letting my fingers run over the cold strings of Betty, my long-neglected Fender. Each strum and pluck chases away another piece of the nervous energy that’s been rushing through me, setting me on edge. A sort of panic had rushed over me the second I sent that text. I expected some time to think things over. To talk myself out of it. Convince myself it’s a horrible fucking idea to meet her. The guy, Anders, was so excited he insisted I come to their practice tonight to try out. I’ve played in bands since middle school—I think the spot could be mine if I want it.

  Do I actually want it?

  At nine o’clock, I pull up to the house, set deep in the corn-filled farmland that lies beyond the beaches and downtown shops of Riverton. The driveway is full of cars, and the pumping rhythm of bass filters out of the house. I try the knob and when it gives way I let myself in, following the music to a set of stairs that leads into a walk-out basement. The first person I see is someone I recognize.

  “Cameron?” His hand shoots out toward me. “Hey, man. I’m Anders.” He’s severely skinny and in my World History class. Logan, a guy with a black Fender slung over his shoulder, nods up at me when Anders runs off his name. He never moves from his place behind the microphone stand. Donut Guy. The bassist is a junior named Steve and one of the few people in Riverton I feel like I haven’t seen before.

  Disappointment sets in when the introductions end. Where the hell
is she? I scan the large space, hoping I’ve missed someone. “This is everybody?”

  Anders is sitting behind his drum set, a black stick in each hand, twisting one around the tips of his fingers. “Yup.”

  “Who sings?”

  “We all do. A little.” Anders is only half paying attention to me as he taps one of the brassy cymbals. “Mostly Logan, but he could use help. Our old guitarist, Phil, sang most of the backup. He was crazy good, too. Dad got transferred to Minneapolis a few months ago.” His voice holds the same distress as the guys on the national news who deliver hurricane death tolls. “In Florida, three people were killed today in a tropical storm that swept off the west shore. In other news, a Michigan band has lost their beloved guitarist after a devastating job relocation. Details at ten…”

  “I sing.” The words spew out before I can think it through. Shit. I don’t even want to stay. She’s not even here! “A little. I mean … depends on the style.” This may be the most words I’ve voluntarily said to anyone in the two months since I moved here. And look how well it’s going.

  Anders continues tapping the cymbal. “Okay, let’s play. See how it feels.” Logan and Steve are tuning up as I plug in.

  This is a stupid idea.

  I spend most of the first song—a punky-pop cover I know well—wondering what I’m still doing here. I should just leave. I came to satisfy my curiosity about Ginny, and apparently she isn’t even coming. I make a mental note:

  Personality Traits: Pathological liar. Temptress. Not in a fucking band.

  By the second song I’ve drifted out of myself, letting my nerves slip away. By the third, I feel like someone else, and also more like myself than I have in months. I’ve forgotten about everything around me and everything behind me. Each time a song ends, Anders yells out, “Hell, yes!” or “Fuck yeah!” from behind his set. I guess he’s into it. I close my eyes and feel the vibration of the music run through me, the bass drum pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat, the heat in my fingers against the cold strings. The bass tingles in my toes.