“Look here, I have bought this bonnet.
I do not think it is very pretty; but
I thought I might as well buy it as not.”
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Volume II, Chapter Sixteen
“Party at my house this Friday.”
At lunch on Monday, I eyed Kirk as I bit into my chicken wrap, forgetting the creamy-white dressing I’d drizzled on top of it a minute ago. The dressing dribbled down my V-neck shirt, a few drops scoring a direct hit on my cleavage. Drew, across the table, looked like he wanted to lick it clean for me.
“Yeah?” I scooped up a dab with my thumb and licked it myself, making Drew practically faint, but Kirk’s eyebrows just danced in amusement. “Who’s gonna be there?”
He held a hand to his heart. “It’s not enough that I will?”
I shrugged. It was, actually, unless he was talking him, Amber, and me. Ew. The schoolwide rumors of my sexual escapades were greatly exaggerated—understatement of the century—and usually by me, but they didn’t include three-ways.
Kirk touched a finger to my chin, coming away with another dab of creamy-white dressing, and licked it. This time, Drew wasn’t the only one who might have heart failure.
Kirk grinned at both of us. “The usual crowd.”
Which meant half of our class and, typically, dozen of kids I’d never even seen before. “Sounds good.”
“The band is playing.”
“Yeah?” I sucked in a breath, choking on my wrap until Kirk put his hand on my back. Not thumping it or doing the Heimlich maneuver or anything. Just holding it there. His hand was wildly hot, something I didn’t want to think about any more than I wanted to think about playing on Friday with his band.
Amber shot me a glare, which meant she knew exactly what I was thinking. At least about Kirk’s hot hand.
Just to annoy her, I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “Thanks.”
“No prob. So, you wanna play with us?” He tilted his head, waiting for my answer. “I know you said you wanted to play in a couple of weeks, but we don’t exactly get a lot of gigs, and I managed to swing this one.” Grinning, he winked at me. “I had an inside track with management.”
Amber started to gag, but no one held a hot hand to her back or even glanced at her.
I couldn’t afford to pay attention to her, either. I was too busy trying to calm my heart palpitations. “You probably want me to play with you guys first, don’t you? Like, practice the songs you’re doing?”
“Hey, we’re just playing in front of friends. I play lead, so you’d just be doing rhythm. That works, doesn’t it?”
Only in concept. In reality, I couldn’t even play a single chord, and I had a feeling I couldn’t change that situation before Friday.
“It’s just that—”
“You can come to the party, can’t you? I mean, you don’t have other plans?”
“Not exactly.” Unless I counted being locked in my room for the weekend, which was always a possibility where Dad was concerned. “But I’m not sure when I can get there.”
Hopefully, it’d be about ten minutes after the band stopped playing.
“We can play whenever.” Kirk smiled across the table at Amber, looking way too lovey-dovey for the good of my stomach lining, before turning back to me. “But if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I talked to another girl who might want to play with us. You know Heather MacAndrews?”
The sugary-sweet girl in my Speech class? No way. If Kirk asked her, he must be asking everyone in the world.
“If you want her instead of me, that’s cool. Like I said, I can join a different band.”
The glow dimmed on Kirk’s ever-present neon grin. “Hey, you’re the one who acts like you don’t wanna play with us. If you want to play, bring your guitar on Friday.”
“Fine.” I shrugged, like it was no big deal, even though I suddenly had a black hole in the pit of my stomach and might as well fling the chicken wrap out the cafeteria window. “I guess I’ll give you guys a try.”
But first I had to find a guitar. And someone to teach me how to play. And an excuse for why I had to skip school the rest of this week.
Because that was the only chance in hell I had of pulling this off.
“Sorry I bolted on you last week.”
No kidding. I glanced sideways at Lauren in Accounting class, even though I’d rather pretend she didn’t exist.
I hadn’t seen her in class since the drug-pushing fiasco, if that’s what it was, but I didn’t know if she’d been sick or in detention or maybe at a convention for high school kids who deal drugs.
Ignoring her, I stared at Ms. Frey, pretending to hang on every word she said, even though—let’s face it—Accounting had even less meaning in my life than English or Political Science. Like, less than zero.
Lauren hissed at me, like a snake, which probably wasn’t the worst analogy. “I said I was sorry.”
I shrugged but kept my focus on Ms. Frey. She had her back to us as she wrote on the board, and she looked all sweet and naive in her long flowered skirt, but I wouldn’t put it past her to have secret cameras installed somewhere in this room. All pointed directly at me.
Just like at Shangri-La.
“I’m talking to you.”
Lauren obviously didn’t care if there were secret cameras or snitches sitting nearby. She also must be pretty desperate for a customer—or, more likely, cash—to keep bugging me when I obviously wasn’t interested.
“Lauren? Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”
Like I said. Ms. Frey must have eyes in the back of her head or amazing hearing. Or, with my luck, both.
“Uh, no.”
“Lydia? Do you have an issue with Lauren?”
I had several issues with her, actually, starting with the long, pointy black fingernails she’d tapped on my desk a moment ago, which was probably why Ms. Frey was going after me now. Add in the goth look I’d seen too much at Shangri-La—black hair and lips and eyeshadow—and the fact that she could’ve gotten me busted last week by slipping drugs under my notebook? Yeah, she annoyed the shit out of me.
But I just shook my head at Ms. Frey.
Frowning, she turned back to the blackboard.
When the bell finally rang what felt like ten hours later, I grabbed my books and bolted out of my seat as fast as I could.
“Hey, wait up.”
Black fingernails clutched my sleeve, but I broke loose of Lauren’s grip and shot through an opening in the crush of kids at the door. I didn’t need this. I wasn’t a goody two-shoes, but I’d just spent a year at Shangri-La with girls who reminded me of Lauren, and let’s just say it wasn’t a good time.
The black fingernails grabbed me again. Unlike Chelsea’s, they didn’t gouge me, but that was the only good news.
I kept walking fast, shooting right past my locker, as I flicked a glance to my left. “What do you want?”
“You don’t have to be so rude.”
“Tell me about it. I’m not the one grabbing people.”
Her brow furrowed as she glanced down at her hand, still gripping my arm. With a jerk, she let go. “Yeah, well, you were hard to catch.”
“Maybe I don’t like to be caught.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” With a sharp frown, I picked up my pace, but I couldn’t exactly run in the heels I’d worn to school today. “Seriously. No idea.”
She chewed gum as we walked, then blew a bubble and popped it with a touch of a fingernail. “I’m talking about parties.”
So? My idea of a fun party was probably different from Lauren’s. I jerked to a stop. “Hey, I’ve gotta get to class, and I forgot to grab my stuff from my locker.”
“Maybe catch you after school?”
To sneak me drugs I didn’t ask for and get me busted? No, thanks. “I’m catching a ride with my sister.”
“Or at lunch tomorrow?”
Only if I didn’t see her first.
“But definitely in Accounting.”
I headed in the direction of my locker. “Sure. Whatever.”
Lauren was turning into as big a pain as my dad, but at least Dad gave me an allowance. Lauren offered me a one-way ticket back to hell.
And I didn’t plan on going.
Cat dropped me off at home, then peeled out before I realized she wasn’t coming inside, too.
Perfect. The person I’d missed more than anyone else when I’d been locked up at Shangri-La probably didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror as she zoomed down the street.
Sighing, I arrived upstairs to find my old bedroom door locked and an arrow pointing in the direction of Mary’s room. Ha ha. I live with the most hilarious family.
Unfortunately.
I flopped on my bed in Mary’s room. Mary’s old bed, which Mom had painted neon yellow a few years ago when she thought she’d beaten her bipolar disorder and went off her meds for a week, was nowhere in sight. I wish I could say that for the rest of Mary’s crap.
Her desk was still piled high with novels by writers from Germany, Russia, and Timbuktu. She’d left a few teen magazines, which surprised me. Her huge armoire was blessedly empty, but that was the only blessing about it, since it was chipped, leaning precariously to one side, and scratched all to hell.
When I shook my head, Boris leaped from the top of the armoire, landing in my arms. Man, he was trusting. Yet another thing we didn’t have in common.
“Boris, you moron.”
He purred in my arms, forcing me to stroke the fur on his back, even though we both knew I’d drop him in a heartbeat if anyone else showed up.
At least Boris and I understood each other. I couldn’t say that about a single person in my life right now. Not Cat, definitely, and not even Kirk. If he understood me at all, he would’ve already kicked Amber’s sorry ass to the curb and backed over her for good measure.
I looked around this tiny, disgusting room that wasn’t mine, blinking back tears I refused to let fall. I’d been home over two weeks now, and no one in my family or so-called group of friends had even asked me about reform school, let alone the crucial question: had I actually been guilty of what the police claimed and Dad oh-so-blithely believed?
Not Mom, not Cat, not anyone.
These days, the only person making any attempt where I was concerned was Lauren, a girl I didn’t even know, which told me exactly how low I’d fallen at Woodbury High School in the year I’d been gone.
But I could fix this. I would fix this. After I snagged Kirk’s attention with the guitar I wheedled out of Mom tonight, everything would fall into place. It always did.
Boris twisted in my arms, looking up at me with eyes at half mast, either because he was sleepy or questioned the sanity of my plan for world domination.
He squeaked as I gently tossed him on the bed, but I had things to do. A guitar to buy and conquer.
Boris could fend for himself.
I waited until Dad finished eating Mom’s Spam surprise and headed outside to smoke a cigar on the front steps before I sprang tonight’s shopping trip on Mom.
I gave her the sweetest smile I could muster. “Mom?”
“Yes, dear?” She barely glanced at me from the sink, where she was hand-washing the dinner plates and glasses even though the dishwasher was six inches from her.
I grabbed a dish towel from the drawer, knowing it’d be more helpful to her in the long run if I pointed out that we had a dishwasher that was perfectly capable of cleaning dishes.
In the short run, though, I wanted a guitar.
I picked up a glass from the drying rack, tried to ignore the fact that it was filled with soapsuds, and started wiping.
Mom glanced at me again, less distracted now. “Thank you for helping. But what did you want?”
A guitar or, better yet, an excellent excuse for why I couldn’t go to Kirk’s party on Friday. But Mom could help me with only one of those.
I sucked in a breath and let the words spill out of me in a torrent before I chickened out or Dad came back inside, whichever came first. “I really need a guitar. Mary’s old band is playing this Friday and they want me to play guitar, but I don’t have one.”
A groove creased Mom’s forehead. “I promised I’d get you a guitar, dear, but you don’t know how to play, do you? How could you play with a band this Friday? Can’t we wait until this weekend? Or look on eBay?”
I could’ve sworn Dad took away Mom’s eBay privileges a couple of years ago, after she went on that American Girl binge and blew a bundle on a bunch of dolls her daughters had outgrown a million years ago.
I gave her my best pleading look. Sincere, just a touch of desperation, and totally fake. Okay, not fake at all. Unless I came up with an amazing excuse for why I couldn’t play on Friday night, I was toast without a guitar.
“But I really need it now. And lessons, too.”
I decided not to mention how I also needed to skip school the next four days, which was my only hope of having enough time to learn a few chords and figure out how to fake the rest. They wouldn’t make me play a solo, would they? No way. Only the lead guitarist had to do solos, right? Please, God?
“I just don’t think—”
“Hey, I totally understand if you’re too busy. You could give me your credit card, and I’ll go by myself and buy it.” I’d get the most expensive guitar I could find, partly because that’s what Dad bought Mary and partly because it might make people not notice the fact that I didn’t have a clue how to play it.
“I’m not sure . . .”
Hearing the bang of the front door, I grabbed the dishrag out of Mom’s hand and tossed it in the sink. “Tell you what. Let’s both go. We always had the best shopping trips, didn’t we? And it’s been ages since we’ve had one. I’ll finish the dishes for you after we get home.”
Better yet, Dad would be so freaked at the dishes left unwashed in the sink, he’d do them before we got home.
But I realized I needed Mom. For one thing, Cat had taken the Jeep, and Dad said I couldn’t drive his or Mom’s cars after old Mr. Fogarty ratted me out about clipping his mailbox. Besides, if I went shopping alone with Mom’s credit card, Dad would call the credit-card company and cancel the card before I made it a block away. If dragging Mom along was the price I had to pay for a new guitar, so be it.
Maybe I could talk her into buying me some new clothes, too.
I had a new guitar. Nothing as fancy as I’d hoped, but it was a pretty shade of turquoise, which had to count for something. Mom also sprang for a really cute top and some red boots, so I was set. If Dad was all about Zen breathing and control, Mom was all about bright colors.
But I still didn’t have a clue how to play anything. I’d signed up for guitar lessons each of the next three days after school, even though the guy at the music store had warned me it’d take several months to learn how to play. He also suggested—like, five times—that I sign up for once-a-week lessons like everyone else.
I wasn’t like everyone else, though. For better or worse, I did everything on the fast track.
Mom and I got home to find the dishes undone—crap—and the Jeep at the curb. I didn’t feel like talking to Cat, so I trudged into the kitchen and got to work.
“You’re doing dishes? By hand? What did Mom pay you?”
Cat slouched against the counter, munching on a low-carb tortilla, and eying me as if she was trying to figure out my angle. She’d been doing that ever since I got home from Shangri-La, when all she’d had to do was ask me. About anything. Apparently, she’d rather come up with her own theories.
I scrubbed and rinsed plates, then set them on the drying rack. I couldn’t decide whether to let them air dry or wipe them with a towel, since Cat obviously didn’t plan to help.
When she didn’t leave, I shrugged. “I’m just helping out, not disappearing for hours at a time like some people I know.”
I said it loud enough for Dad to hear in the living room.
He snorted. Loudly.
“Whatever.” Cat glanced around the kitchen as if she wanted to know what Mom had bought me, but I left my loot in the trunk of Mom’s car until everyone went to bed. Dad would be apoplectic enough when he saw the guitar, but the new clothes would send him over the edge.
I couldn’t wait to see Dad’s face—and Cat’s, too—when they saw the matching friendship bracelets Mom had insisted on buying. Thinking about it, I laughed. Mom could be a little wacked when she skipped her meds, but I got a kick out of her. Sure, she’d always bought me anything I wanted except for an early trip home from Shangri-La, but it was sweet how she insisted on taking care of me even though I could take care of myself. And always did.
“What’s so funny?”
Watching me, Cat kept nibbling on her tortilla like a rabbit going after her first carrot in a month. I glanced up at the clock over the sink—just after eight—and almost asked why she hadn’t eaten before now. But I didn’t care.
“Nothing. Just thinking.” And, as much as possible, not about her.
“You’re not really gonna try to play guitar on Friday night, are you? I told you it took Mary—”
“I’m not Mary.”
“No. Unlike you, Mary actually knows how to play guitar. And piano. And knowing her, maybe even drums if she had to.”
I stared at her. “What’s really going on, Cat? You haven’t given a rat’s ass about me since I got home from reform school, and suddenly you’re feeling protective? Do you think they’re going to try to humiliate me the way they nailed you?”
When she finally spoke, her voice wobbled. “You don’t get it. You’re not the queen of the school anymore, and everyone you know has changed.”
“Not Kirk. And not me.”
“Yeah? Has Kirk ever gone out with the same girl more than a couple of weeks in a row? He’s been dating Amber for six months.”
I shrugged. “Desperate, obviously. Lack of decent prospects. Luckily for him, I’m back in town.”
“Funny he’s not falling all over himself to get you.”
It was a little weird, actually, but maybe Kirk still saw me the way I’d always seen him: as co-leader of the gang. I hadn’t told him I saw him in a new way now. As soon as I did, though, he’d want to go out with me.
At least, as soon as I learned how to play my cute new electric guitar. Like, by Friday.
“You don’t know Kirk as well as I do. We’ve been pals since forever. You guys never were.”
From the pinched look on her face, Cat and Kirk still weren’t. Even though she was dating a guy who played in Kirk’s band, it didn’t change the fundamentals.
“You might at least call Mary and ask for some pointers.”
Mary? She had to be kidding. “I’m taking lessons.”
“Lydia, she really knows her stuff.”
“Sure, if we’re talking math or science. About anything else? No, thanks.”
“She could even—”
I waved a hand, cutting her off. “I’m not asking Mary for advice about guitars. Not now, not ever. Unless hell froze over and no one mentioned it to me.”
Cat swallowed the last bite of her tortilla. “If you play guitar Friday night and don’t get laughed out of Kirk’s house, I’ll be sure to mention it to you. Because if you can learn to play guitar in four days, it’ll definitely mean hell has frozen solid.”
With a toss of her head, she flounced out of the kitchen, leaving me to my dishes and soapsuds and pruny hands.
Not to mention a massive dread about Friday night.
Guitars are stupid, vile, disgusting things, and only a moron would want to play one.
Biting my lip so hard I figured blood would start spurting any moment, I bent my head over the instrument of torture and tried tuning it the way my teacher suggested, but nothing I did sounded like it made a bit of difference. I sucked, and my guitar sucked worse.
I couldn’t even finger a stupid chord without my fingertips screaming in pain, let alone strum something that didn’t make the rest of me scream. I’d also ripped off the tip of a fingernail, and the jagged edge to it was driving me crazy.
My teacher was a young woman—Jazz—and nice enough as far as that goes, but I’d been hoping for a guy. I knew how to tease and flirt with guys to get them to do what I wanted.
In this case, I needed someone to work a miracle and turn me into a decent guitar player by Friday night.
With another jarring twang, I gave up trying to tune the stupid guitar. Running a hand through my hair and catching my fingers on a snarl, I groaned.
“Couldn’t you just tune it?” Wasn’t that what I was paying her for? “Like I keep telling you, I have to play this gig on Friday, and I don’t need to know how to tune my guitar. I mean, once it’s tuned, it’s tuned, right? So shouldn’t we focus on chords and songs? There’s this Green Day song I wanted to learn.”
Jazz smirked and rolled her eyes.
I waited for her to say something, but she just nodded at my guitar as if she was waiting for me to tune it and didn’t plan to help me one bit. I mean, except for telling me when I was doing it wrong. Like, all the time.
I frowned at her. “What? You don’t like Green Day?”
“Sure. They’re okay.” Her lips twitched in this really unattractive way, reminding me of the smirks Liz gave me when I said pretty much anything. “But trust me. You’re not ready for Green Day.”
“Well, not today. Duh.” Even though I’d been hoping. “It’s only Tuesday, so we have plenty of time. They told you I booked lessons for tomorrow and Thursday, right?”
She sighed. “I hoped that was a typo on my schedule.”
“Hey, if you can’t teach me—” I gave her the kind of pointed look I got all the time from Dad, which probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I was beyond frustrated. “Someone else here probably wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, I can teach you, all right. But no matter who teaches you, you won’t be playing Green Day by Friday. We’re maybe talking ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ tops.”
Slapping her silly was probably out of the question. “I told you I’m willing to work. I’ll do whatever it takes to play decently on Friday, and it’s just rhythm guitar, not lead.”
“Thank God for small miracles.” Jazz took another deep breath, reminding me of Dad and all the Zen breathing he did when he was around me for more than ten minutes. “No offense, but you can’t learn guitar in a few days, at least not more than a few chords.”
Then why did Kirk act like it was so easy? “But the band already has someone who plays bass guitar.”
Jazz choked on something. “Bass isn’t easy, either. Not at all.”
“Hey, I’ve watched guys play bass. Four strings and they just seem to pluck at them? How much easier—”
Jazz held up a hand, cutting me off. “Do you want to learn guitar or not? You keep telling me about this gig on Friday.” She rolled her eyes, the jerk. “But all you’re doing is talking, when you’re supposed to be learning to tune a guitar. I swear we’re spending half of your lesson talking.”
“You say that like it’s my fault. I asked you to cut the boring stuff and just tune my guitar for me. Then we can get to the music already.”
“Mistake.” Shaking her head, she grabbed my guitar and tuned it in about thirty seconds. “But you’re paying for this. We’ll try doing it your way and see how that goes.”
“Thanks. So let’s get started, okay?”
Another eye roll. “Whatever you want, Princess.”
I knew I should’ve insisted on having a guy teach me. For starters, when a guy called me “Princess,” it meant something entirely different.