Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) (2 page)

Jesse nods.

I can’t help but ask, “A Super 4? Like Elvis had?”

“Right…” A smile forms on his face, but a second later, he winces.

“So is it okay, Jess?” Dr. Salter asks. “Can Maya shadow you?”

Jesse studies me. “Mom and Dad’ll
love
that I’m hanging out with a sexy punk girl. So whatever you need, Uncle Bob.”

“Jesse!” Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan blurt simultaneously.

What a jerk.

Wait. Did he say sexy?

Mr. Logan claps his hands together again. “Well, I think Maya seems fabulous. I’m okay with her shadowing Jesse next week as long as it’s okay with him.”

Silence engulfs the dressing room.

Jesse takes a long look at his uncle, then bites into his burger and talks with his mouth full. “Fine, she can shadow me.”

“I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule,” I say, then turn and walk out.

• • •

Against my better judgment, I decide to stick around for the concert, because I’ve never been to the Grand Ole Opry.

Performing here is every country music singer’s dream, and while I’m not into yodeling, I still respect the Opry. When I looked at Jesse Scott’s website, it said he’s already done ten concerts here. I guess that means he’s really somebody. Which I could’ve told you, considering his face is on every tweeny bopper magazine down at the Quick Pick and he’s at the top of the iTunes charts.

I stand in line for what seems like hours to buy myself a puffy pink cotton candy, then head inside the main concert hall. Heat from the crowd presses against my skin as I squeeze past shrieking girls and make my way down to the stage, which looks like an old red barn.

“Maya!” Dr. Salter calls out. “Over here.” He gestures for me to join him in the center of the first row. The best seat in the house.

I edge around another pack of squealing girls to meet my principal. “I was wondering where you went,” he says.

I hold up my cotton candy, offering him a piece. He pinches some off and pops it in his mouth. The other reason I didn’t leave early is because I’ve always liked Dr. Salter, and I don’t want to let him down. He tells funny jokes during the morning announcements and always takes a turn in the dunking booth during homecoming. It’s odd, though, seeing him in a Van Halen leather jacket and not his usual sweater vest and bow tie.

I point at the stage with my cotton candy. “We’ve got better seats than God, huh? From this close, Jesse oughta be able to see me
not
clapping for him.”

Dr. Salter gives me a stern look. “I’m sorry about my nephew… He’s not used to… He doesn’t meet a lot of new people.”

“I figured he meets people all the time.”

“There’s a difference between meeting people and actually speaking with them.”

The banshee convention I met backstage was something else, all right.

“I thought…” Dr. Salter pauses. “I thought that shadow day might be good for both of you. You can get some music advice from Jesse…and he needs a break and needs to spend time with somebody his age… It’s hard when everybody scrutinizes every single thing you do.”

As the lights go down, the band takes the stage, and the screaming crowd crescendos to just about the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. A spotlight bathes the stage in blinding white light. Smoke billows in the wings. Dr. Salter puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles.

Then the most beautiful guitar lick rings out, echoing in the concert hall.

The screaming stops, because everyone wants to hear that sound.

Jesse Scott steps into the spotlight with his cedar-colored vintage Gibson strapped around his neck. He plays a riff and brings his mouth to the microphone.

“How you doin’, Nashville?” Jesse yells into the microphone in a deep Southern drawl, tipping his beige cowboy hat before starting to play “Campfires,” this country pop song about hiking and fishing with his grandfather. “Gimme fireflies, gimme trout, gimme burning logs, hell—gimme a mosquito, but keep your damned electricity.”

The bass ripples through the concert hall and makes the floor vibrate, and my heart beats in time with the drums.

During the chorus, Jesse flips the guitar around to his back, grabs the mike with both hands, and gives the audience a full view of his great body. He’s wearing the tight black T-shirt that hugs his biceps and chest, bright red cowboy boots, and a belt buckle shaped like a skull.
Hey, it matches the skull pajamas I wore to bed last night!
I feel silly for a beat, because my inner monologue sounds just like that girl backstage: “I like ketchup too!”

I’ve never seen anyone play guitar like him. Jesse blisters through the solo, and he’s so into his music, it’s like the crowd isn’t even here. Meanwhile, the girl next to me is bawling like her face is a busted fire hydrant.

When the song is over, Jesse grabs the mike with one hand and says, “Thanks for coming out tonight, Nashville. I may travel all over the place, but I want my fans to know this is my one true home.”

Everyone screams as Jesse looks down and tips his cowboy hat at Dr. Salter. Jesse’s face seems sad as he scans the rest of the front row. He gives me a fleeting look before starting to rock out on guitar again. The next song is “Agape.” It’s about how he lives for music.

After his third song (“Ain’t No City Boy”), Jesse wipes the sweat off his face with his T-shirt sleeve and says into the mike, “Damn, that popcorn smells good. Can I get some up here?” Ten seconds later, a stagehand rushes out with a bucket. Jesse eats a few pieces. “Perfect,” he says, licking his fingers. “Y’all want some?” The crowd roars, so he throws the bucket out into the crowd, sprinkling us with popcorn.

About halfway through the concert, Jesse makes everyone sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with him, but instead of singing “Root, root, root for the home team,” we sing “Root, root, root for the Braves!” And then with his eyes shut, he does this insane acoustic rendition of “Amazing Grace,” set to the tune of the Eagles’ “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”

Jesse performs all of his hits, but the encore, “Second Chance,” is the highlight. He sings, “She may have been Paris, but I needed the soft sun, so I let her fly.”

I actually clap when the song’s over, and he looks down at me again. The crowd roars. He may not have a great presence offstage, but when he’s onstage, he’s on.

He yanks off his cowboy hat. “Thanks everybody.” A pause. “As many of you probably know, in November, I’ll begin a six-week tour of North America and Europe.” The crowd roars again. He speaks over the noise. “And after that, in December—” His voice breaks. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll be leaving the industry.”

What?

Boos and cries—mostly cries—rattle the auditorium.

The
king
of
country
music
is
quitting?
Is this the announcement Mr. Logan mentioned to Dr. Salter? I turn to my principal. His eyes are watering.

“I just wanted to say—wanted to make sure y’all know—my fans mean everything to me.” His voice cracks again.

And my heart breaks for him, because whatever is going on must be pretty serious. I can’t imagine giving up music for any reason whatsoever.

“Thank you, Nashville!” he yells into the mike and jogs offstage, carrying his guitar.

I find Dr. Salter’s eyes. “He’s really doing this, huh?”

“I guess so… The thing is, Maya, I don’t think he truly wants to.”

After my morning shift at Caldwell’s, where I work reception and do the occasional oil change, I drive my Suzuki straight to Hannah’s garage for band practice. Even though Jesse was an ass and I still can’t understand why in blue blazes he wants to retire, his concert last night totally energized me, and I’m ready to rock out.

I speed the entire way, barely stopping at stop signs.

I formed The Fringe last year, handpicking each member. Nate as lead singer. Me on backup vocals and lead guitar. Hannah on synth, Brady on bass, and Reed on drums. I had planned to do covers of Madonna, Michael Jackson, and of course, Queen, but Nate has sort of taken over. I don’t mind that he wants to lead, but I wish we’d branch out in terms of musical choices. My throat hurts from scream-singing all the time.

But I want to perform. I
need
to play guitar. The only time I ever truly feel peaceful is when I’m strumming its strings. I don’t know how far I can get with my music, but I want to find out. The Fringe is really good. Nate has an interesting gritty tone, and I’ve been playing guitar since I picked up my dad’s in first grade. Which is why I want The Fringe to try out for
Wannabe
Rocker
, the competition Jesse Scott won.

The
Wannabe
Rocker
audition videos are due in three weeks, and first prize is a deal with Rêve Records. If I want to be a professional musician, I should take every opportunity I get, and it’s high time The Fringe tried out for bigger gigs than playing at the two heavy metal clubs in Nashville.

Wannabe
Rocker
is going into its twelfth season now, and it’s still as popular as ever. The bands and solo artists who win have all become super famous in the recording industry, in movies, and even on Broadway. It’s my dream to make a living with my music.

I park my motorcycle on the street outside Hannah’s house, pull off my helmet, and walk across the yard, kicking up red and gold leaves. As I get closer, I can see Nate and Hannah through the garage window. They’re standing close, talking. Hannah broke up with her boyfriend last week, and it’s really sweet that Nate’s comforting her.

I smile. I love hooking up with him, though I wish we could be more. He doesn’t want to
ruin
the
dynamic
of
the
band
by starting a relationship. I get that; a bad breakup could mess up everything, and I won’t risk the success The Fringe has had so far. Not many kids can say they’ve played at two clubs in Nashville.

None of the other band members know we fool around. They think Nate tutors me in geometry, which is true because I suck at it. But our “study sessions” are mostly kissing, and sometimes we go further. I just wish he’d use his
tutoring
skills
on me more often.

I’m fixing to open the side door to the garage when I see Hannah dragging her black fingernails up and down Nate’s arm. I hold my breath, watching as her fingertips then stroke his face, tracing his eyebrow ring. He hates when I touch it. He always pushes my hand away. He just smiles at her.

So
it’s okay if Hannah does it?

“Hey guys,” I announce. “What’s going on?”

They jump apart.

“Hey, Maya,” Hannah blurts. She turns on her synth and plays a scale to warm up, avoiding my eyes.

Weird.
Hannah always says that we spend too much time “dicking around with unnecessary warm-ups.” She doesn’t have to spend time tuning a keyboard like I do with my electric Fender Strat.

Nate turns on the mic and plugs his guitar into the amp. I do the same and begin running through licks to warm up my fingers. I glance at the set list Nate prepared for practice. I sigh when I see it’s only metal songs. I love music, so I’m willing to try anything that my band likes, but the thing is, metal doesn’t make me tingle. Sure, the vibrations shake my body, but they don’t touch my soul.

When Reed and Brady arrive and start settling in, I clear my throat and speak loudly over the drums. “Guys, I have something to talk to you about.”

“Like how you’re BFFs with Jesse Scott?” Nate asks with a laugh, and everybody joins in except me. Nate smirks, almost imperceptibly, but I keep my back straight and proud.
Take
that, buddy.
I won’t let him see that he hurt my feelings.

“No, but Jesse reminded me of something I want us to consider.” I strum my strings slowly. “I think we should audition for
Wannabe
Rocker
.”

Hannah abruptly stops playing keyboard. Reed’s drums go silent.

Nate crosses his arms on top of his guitar. “Why?”

“I figure we have a good chance of making the semifinals.” My voice shakes like the cymbals. “We’d get to be on TV. And who knows? We might even make it further! We could get a record deal.”

“The people on that show never end up playing the music they want to,” Brady says. “You have to perform a different genre every week.”

Reed starts nodding. “Like that rapper Ansel Richard. He had to sing that
Titanic
song during Celine Dion week and bombed in front of a billion people. Never would’ve done that if he’d just stuck to rap.”

“We’d be selling out,” Nate adds. “We’d be giving up our artistic freedom.”

“But it’s an opportunity to put ourselves out there and get recognized. Think of what it would be like to record an album!”

“Is money all you care about?” Nate asks.

“Come on. You know I care about the art. I love music…I only wish we played more than just the hard stuff all the time. That’d be another great thing about the TV show—we could really stretch ourselves. We need to experiment with our sound and try new things.”

My band looks everywhere but at me. Finally, Nate says, “Maya, can we talk outside?”

“About?”

“The band.”

“Shouldn’t we all be here if you want to talk about us?”

Nate glances from Reed to Brady. “We feel you don’t have the same vision for The Fringe. You keep trying to make us play music that’s just not
us
, and it’s wasting our practice time.”

What in the world is he talking about? “We were supposed to be an eighties tribute band,” I say. “You’re the one who wants to play heavy metal.”

“I’d rather play metal,” Reed says, and Brady nods.

Nate nervously adjusts his leather wristbands. “We’ve been talking to Bryan Moore about taking over as lead guitar.”

I carefully place my Fender back on its stand before I’m tempted to smash something, and it’s what’s in reach. “I’m lead guitar! This is my band. I started it!”

Hannah’s eyes grow wide at my outburst.

“Hannah?” I ask, but she looks away silently, confused and upset. I get the feeling she didn’t know about this. But why isn’t she speaking up?!

Nate sets his guitar down too. “We think Bryan’s a better fit for us.”

I mouth the name Bryan Moore. “Are you talking about that guy who plays down at Freddie’s Oyster Bar on Friday nights? Women only like him because he plays shirtless and has nice biceps. He can’t even play a B7.”

Nate takes my elbow, gently leading me outside to the driveway, where we stand next to a planter of wilting orange and purple mums.

“I want you to hear this from me and not anybody else.” He drags a hand through his hair and focuses on the pavement. “I asked Hannah out.”

I shut my eyes. Dig my teeth into my lip.
Is
he
freaking
kidding
me?
“But you said you didn’t want to ruin the band’s dynamic by dating another member. Last I checked, Hannah is the synth player!”

His voice is gentle. “I really like her, My. I have for a long time. I just never had the chance to tell her while she had a boyfriend.”

I try to think if I’ve ever seen him staring at her. I don’t think I have… God, this sucks. Obviously he doesn’t care about the band’s dynamic. He just didn’t want to date
me
.

I sniffle.
Don’t let him see you cry
, I tell myself. “Today really sucks, you know?”

He nods. He looks remorseful, but he’s still a dick.
How
could
he?

“But we slept together,” I whisper. One time, two weeks ago. I didn’t do it with him because he pressured me or anything. I did it because I wanted to, because every time we would hook up, I was left wanting more. I thought sex would make me feel amazing all over. I sort of liked it, but it didn’t live up to the hype. I’ve heard it gets better and better over time, and I kept waiting for us to do it again, but he never made another move, and I didn’t want to seem desperate by pushing to do it again.

“I thought you liked sleeping with me,” I say softly.

“It was good.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking at his heavy black boots. “But I want her. I’ve wanted her for a long time.”

“Asshole,” I say and storm back inside the garage.

“Maya?” Hannah asks, her voice trembling.

Ignore
her.
It’s not like we’re friends outside of the band.

Without saying a word, I pack my electric and acoustic guitars in their cases and carry them out to the road. I can’t drive my bike with them, so I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial Dave. Barely holding back the tears, I tell him what happened with the band…and with Nate. Dave’s the only one I told about hooking up with him.

“Babe, I told you he was no good,” Dave says over the phone, and I hang up on him, even though he was right.

When his ancient Nissan Sentra rattles up to the curb, Dave parks, and his Abercrombie-model-lookalike-self storms past me to the garage, where he throws open the side door and yells, “Nate, man, you’re a jackass! And to think I thought you were the hottest guy at school. No more!”

Slamming the door shut, Dave slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “C’mon. You need ice cream, stat.”

I laugh at my friend’s antics, but I’m struggling not to cry. I trusted Nate, and he betrayed me in every way possible. And now I’ve lost my band.

As a musician, I always thought the worst thing that could happen would be getting vocal cord nodules or arthritis in your hands. But I was wrong.

The worst thing is losing your band, the place where you belong.

Now what?

• • •

Later that day, after my whole damned life went up in flames, I’m sitting on my front porch, cradling my guitar. I thought I had the energy to strum its strings, but I don’t. What happened with Nate keeps playing over and over in my mind. It was almost as embarrassing as the time my knees locked during my “Scarborough Fair” solo in seventh grade, and I fainted in front of the whole school.

Dad pokes his head out the screen door. “You coming with us to your brother’s for dinner?”

I shrug. Might as well. I have no other plans for tonight. Dave has a mini golf date with Xander—the college boy he met at Taco Bell—and my former bandmates are probably somewhere
not
selling
out
.

Mom, Dad, my little sister, Anna, and I load up in the truck to drive across Franklin to Sam’s new place. He just turned twenty-four and moved into a house he rents with his girlfriend. Mom constantly complains that they are “living in sin” and wonders aloud why Sam doesn’t propose already, but I don’t really care how my brother chooses to live. I’m just excited I don’t have to share a bathroom with He-who-leaves-wet-towels-on-the-floor anymore.

When my dad pulls into the driveway, we all shuffle out of the car. I can already hear the screaming through the open windows.

“I said take them off!” Jordan yells.

“It’s my house too,” my brother hollers back.

My parents look at each other and roll their eyes. Dad knocks on the front door, and as soon as Sam lets us in, Jordan storms out of their bedroom with a set of Detroit Lions bedsheets, wrinkling her nose like she’s holding a dirty diaper.

“Those are three-hundred-thread-count sheets,” Sam says. “Who cares what’s on them?”

“You are a traitor not only to the Titans, but to the entire state of Tennessee!” Jordan throws the sheets onto the rug.

Dad lets out a low groan. When Sam and Jordan aren’t making out, they’re screaming at each other about sports. Growing up, they were both Titans fans, but during the time my brother went away to college in Michigan and Jordan went to school in Indiana, he became a Detroit Lions fan.

“The Titans are still my team,” Sam will say, “but I root for the Lions when they’re playing. Unless they’re up against the Titans, of course.”

Jordan’s response is usually, “It’s sacrilege!” She refuses to let him watch the Lions on TV. She even canceled their DirecTV package so he could only watch local games. One time, Sam snuck out to watch a Detroit game at a bar, and Jordan showed up and made a scene, dumping a beer on his head before storming out. My brother has a job working for the Titans, so I don’t think he’s actually a Lions fan. He just likes riling Jordan up.

I honestly don’t see what the big deal is, because I’ve never understood the appeal of sports. Growing up, Sam was a football and baseball star. He even got a scholarship to play football in college. My little sister, Anna, who is tall and buff like Sam, is the best player on her elementary school basketball team. I’m barely five feet two, and the only muscles I have are from holding my guitar and plucking the strings.

My family always shows up for my performances, and I know they love me, but I get the sense that they would rather be tailgating at a football game. Then again, I’d rather be listening to music than watching a game on TV with them. And don’t even get me started on how Mom tries to make me wear clothes that were made this century.

It wasn’t until I formed my band that I felt like I really belonged. At first, anyway. Now I know I didn’t fit in at all. Friendships come and go—I don’t hang out with the same people I did in elementary school or even junior high. But I know that other people have managed to keep their friends. What am I doing wrong? Why don’t I belong anywhere?