WHEN LIFE IMITATES ART

Thursday, 9:20 P.M.

When I got home from the concert, the townhouse was dark. The red answering machine light was blinking on the console table by the door. I stood there for a few seconds in my coat, grinning into the darkness like a complete moron. The music, the one-on-one time with Zander—everything had been perfect. Out of habit, I reached for my cell to call Molly, then stopped myself. What was I supposed to say? I just went on a non-date-but-who-are-we-kidding-it-was-totally-a-date with your ex? Screw Girl Code, I think he’s amazing?

I ditched my coat and shopping bags in the entrance hall and punched the button on the answering machine before heading up the stairs. I’d texted Stevie to meet me here, but I probably had a few minutes before she arrived.

“Hey, Kace, it’s Mom. It’s a little after nine, and I’m leaving the studio. I’m guessing you figured something out for dinner—I meant to leave money for pizza. Sorry. Picking Ella up on my way home. We’ll be there soon. Love you.”

Good, I thought as I whirled around the banister and took the second flight of stairs to my room. Mom wouldn’t be home until at least 9:45. That gave me plenty of time to explain the plan to Stevie and—

“Ahhhhhh!” I screamed when I opened my door and flicked the light switch.

Stevie was bent over my desk, sifting through my record collection.

“OH. MY. GODDDDD. How did you get in here, you psycho?” I snatched the Who album she was holding and wiped the cover with the hem of my shirt. My heart was thundering in my chest. “Seriously. How did you get in here?”

With a flourish, Stevie produced a glinting silver key. “You Midwesterners are so predictable. Who actually leaves their spare key under the flowerpot?”

“You just broke into my house,” I said, disbelieving. “You actually broke into my house.”

She shrugged. “By the way, I only have twenty minutes. And I had to tell my dad I was emergency tutoring you as part of my community service.” She kicked off her moto boots and nudged them under my desk. “So if he asks you how Slow Math is going… just play along.”

I gritted my teeth so hard my braces started to throb. “Do you want to hear the plan, or what?” I reached over her and plucked the photo strip of Paige in her green seaweed mask from the bulletin board wall behind my desk.

Stevie eyed the photos. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. If we can pull this off, Mom will definitely have to miss the date with your dad.” I stuffed the photo strip in my back pocket. “Follow me. My mom will be home in a few.”

We hurried down the steps to the second floor. “Her office is back here.” I opened the door next to the master bedroom and flipped the light switch.

“Huh. Not bad.” Stevie clucked her approval.

“I know.” Ella and I were under strict instructions not to mess around in Mom’s office, so it had been a while since I’d been inside. The room was small but inviting, with textured grass-cloth walls and a rich Persian rug she’d inherited from her mother. Leather-bound books, broadcasting awards, and framed photographs lined the built-in bookcases behind her desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the right wall looked over the soft glow of Clark Street and, beyond that, Lincoln Park.

“Here. Check Levi Stone’s website on your cell.” I plopped down in the leather rolling desk chair and jiggled the mouse. “He probably has a contact e-mail on there.”

“Levi Stone?” Stevie’s eyebrows shot up.

I sighed. “Just do it.”

“Fine. On it.” Stevie hopped onto the desk, knocking over a picture of Ella and me in the tub when we were little. She didn’t bother to pick it up, instead tapping away on her phone. Sighing, I straightened it myself.

“I’ll take care of the actual e-mail.” I found Mom’s Channel 5 e-mail icon on the desktop and double-clicked.

Password?

I typed in my birthday and hit ENTER.

Invalid password.

Password?

Next, I typed in Ella’s birthday.

Invalid password.

Our birthdays together. Mine first, then hers. Hers first, then mine.

Invalid password. Invalid password.

“Moooooom.” I groaned. I checked the clock over the door. They could be home any second. “Come onnnnn.”

“Password protected?” Stevie guessed. “My dad does the same thing with his. It’s like they don’t trust us or something.”

“Right?” As a last resort, I tried Murrow. She was always quoting Edward R. Murrow, basically the most famous newscaster ever. I hit enter.

Welcome, Sterling Simon!

“Yessss.” I opened a new e-mail. “Okay. Address?”

“LeviStoneRocks-at-gmail-dot-com.” Stevie’s heels banged against the desk. “What exactly are you doing—”

“I got it, I got it. Just give me a second.” My fingers flew over the keyboard, fueled by genius and desperation. This had to work. I couldn’t live in the rain forest with Stevie and Gabe. My hair could not handle that kind of humidity. “Aaaaaand, done,” I announced a minute later. “Here. Check it out.” I swiveled the desktop screen in her direction.

From: “Sterling Simon” <Sterling@Channel5.net>

To: “Levi Stone” <LeviStoneRocks@gmail.com>

Re: DYING CHICAGO GIRL REQUESTS LEVI STONE CONCERT BEFORE SHE CROAKS

Dear Levi,

My name is Sterling Simon. You’ve probably heard of me, but if not, I’m the solo evening anchor with Chicago’s Channel 5 news. And believe me, your series of concerts in Chicago this week is major news here in Chi-town.

I’m writing with a favor-slash-photo-op. Here in Chicago, at our own Marquette Middle School, we’re proud to boast your biggest fan, seventh-grade school president Paige Greene. Tragically, Paige is dying of infection from a terrible, rare, green flesh-eating bacterium called Verticopolus. (Don’t bother looking it up on Wikipedia. It’s a very technical medical term.)

It is brave Paige Greene’s dying wish for you to play a concert at her next (and probably last) school dance tomorrow night. It would mean so much to her. If you’re willing, Channel 5 would like to do a human interest segment on you tomorrow night on the news. Please contact me immediately to discuss this potentially huge publicity opportunity.

See you tomorrow, hopefully,

Sterling Simon

P.S. Please come.

P.P.S. If you do come, don’t mention this e-mail to Paige. She’s very self-conscious about her cracking green skin, poor thing.

A light went on behind Stevie’s eyes as she read. When she finished, I explained every minute detail, from the spark of an idea I’d gotten at the Burton Wells concert to the bitter taste of the coffee Zander had bought me. On our (non)DATE.

“So?” I felt jittery and alive, like I’d just tossed back another giant mug of coffee. “What do you think?”

“About the plan, or about your pathetic attempt to make me jealous that you were out with Zander tonight?” Her eyes were narrow with disdain.

I met her stare with silence. It was this trick I learned from Nessa and used on my toughest interview subjects. For some reason, silence makes people uncomfortable, so all you have to do to get someone to agree with you is wait them out. Eventually, they won’t be able to stand the awkwardness anymore, and they end up blurting out anything just to—

“About the PLAN, duh!” I shrieked.

Occasionally the method backfired.

Stevie took a maddeningly slow breath and leaned against the wall next to my computer desk, running her tongue over her irritatingly white teeth. “I think it doesn’t suck. It might bomb, but it’s the best we’ve got this late in the game, right?”

“It won’t bomb.” Not exactly the enthusiastic response I’d been hoping for. “And when he agrees, I’ll call in an anonymous tip to the station and say he specifically requested Mom, so she’ll have to cancel the date and do the interview. That’s the upside to having a mom who’s a workaholic.”

“Okaaaay.” Stevie twirled her silky black hair around a lavender-painted nail. “Oh. Don’t forget to put your cell number.”

“Right.” I bent over the keyboard and typed: P.P.P.S. It’s easier to reach me on my cell. Then I put my own number at the end of the letter.

“Wait.” Stevie suddenly sounded worried. “So if this works, does that mean Gravity won’t be playing the dance?”

“Oh.” I stared at the screen until the type in the e-mail blurred together. I’d been so blinded by my need to break up Mom and Gabe, I’d completely forgotten about Gravity. About our big break tomorrow night. “We’ll probably still play, right? I mean, he’s a busy guy. He’ll probably just come in, play a couple of songs for Paige, do the interview, and sketch out.”

“Right. Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.” Her brows unknit.

“Okay. Now for the visual aid.” I hopped up and pulled the photo strip from my back pocket. Four Paiges stared back at me in a cracked, bubbling, puke-green seaweed mask. Each picture was worse than the last.

“I don’t even wanna know why you have these.” Stevie’s hair brushed my shoulder as she hovered over the photo strip. “I want to look away, but I just can’t.”

“Right?” I cut out the picture where Paige’s mouth was twisted down and she sort of looked like she was dying. I think that was right after she’d threatened to kill me. Then I laid the photo facedown on the scanner and punched the START button. I attached the file to the message, my index finger hovering anxiously over the mouse. “Are we really doing this?” I asked Stevie. Suddenly, my stomach was a rubber-band ball of nerves.

She lunged across the desk and clamped her hand over mine. Then she smashed my finger into the left mouse button.

Message sent successfully!

“Guess so,” she said.