CHAPTER 9

My Dad glad-hands people. It's not in his nature, but despite Haley's joke, he's come around to it. Usually, he doesn't invite me to these things, but tonight, he introduces me around. "This is my daughter, Emily Carlton. She's a junior at Oakwood." he tells one producer.. "And taking two AP courses." "One, actually." I say. My Dad frowns. "Since when, Emily?" I shift, twirling the drink in my fingers. "Since I've decided to drop calculus." "Excuse us." He stalks toward a spare room and yanks the door shut behind us. "You can't drop calculus, Emily" "I can. I checked the school's drop policies, and even though it's late in the semester, they'll allow it. And I wouldn't be losing a credit. I can get one for the musical. I have to turn in an assignment, but basically, it's as good as done." "You're not dropping calculus for a musical, Emily." His commanding tone sets my teeth on edge. "Calculus isn't a pre-requisite for Columbia University. Even if it was, I still have time to take it next year." "You're in school to learn, not to mess around on stage." He spreads his hands. "You can do that anywhere. Anytime. The education you're getting right now is important." I want to blurt that I can't think about proofs and second derivatives when I'm trying to hang onto the lead of the musical, but I know if I tell him, he'll just tell me it's better that way. Or look at me as if it's obvious that I could never command a stage like he could, like Timothy can. "Do you even get the irony?" I ask. "You're telling your own child music isn't important at a music education fundraiser you're keynoting." "I didn't say it's not important," he retorts. "But music's not the world." "It's your world, and you won't let me near it." The words hang between us because that's the crux of all of this. I'm the daughter he keeps at a distance, the one he shuts out from part of his life when he lets other people like Timothy into it. "You don't get to decide this, Dad. I've already made my choice. If you won't give me permission, I'll stop showing up to calculus." "Do that and you're grounded." I scoff. "You don't know what that means." "I'll figure it out. And so help me, you won't leave the house except to go to school for the rest of semester." I yank the door open and start into the hall. "Where are you going, Emily? We're not finished our discussion here!" Dad growls at my back. "If I'm going to be grounded next week, I'll enjoy my freedom while I can."
"Can you believe the chicks, Timothy?" Brandon goads me. "It's like a buffet."







I tune my guitar on the little box stage and survey the living room of the frat house packed with bodies. "We're her to play."







"Yeah, we are." The wicked inflection in his voice lets me know exactly what kind of playing he has in mind.







Brandon's a good guy. Sure, he's loaded and a little entitled, but he's a straight shooter.







I don't count on him to have my back, but then, I've learned that's an unrealistic expectation to have of anyone.







Tricia comes up on stage. She shifts close enough I smell perfume and plants a flirty kiss that tastes like beer on me before I can dodge it. "Thank you for doing this."







"Sure." I don't say she's paying me, though it's true.







She bounces away, and I turn to adjust my amp.







"So, that's how you do it." Brandon looks impressed. "You really don't give a fuck."







There's a short of things I care about, and girls aren't on it. I would never disrespect them, and I would never pretend to care when I don't which is why I've been candid with Tricia about what we are.







She helps me out with what I need. It's a transaction.







A couple times, things went further when my head was messed up,.







But that was a mistake, and I told her as much.







We're getting ready to sort when my phone jumps in my pocket. Brandon sends me a What the fuck look, but I shake him off when I see the number.







I duck out into the hallway and hit Accept.







"My Dad is an autocrat." Emily's incredulous voice has my brows lifting. 'I did what you suggested, and he lost his shit."







Warning bells go off in my head. "What did I suggest?"







"To do whatever it takes to be good. I told him I'm dropping calculus to focus on the musical, and he freaked out."







I pick at the corner of the wallpaper in the hallway, the bruises on my knuckles fading. "So, lock yourself in your room and crank The Struts for twelve hours. Problem solved."







"I didn't call you because I wanted you to solve it. I called because I needed to tell someone, and I can't tell anyone else."







Most people can't understand the pressure that comes with this life, with her life.







There's so much to say to that, but what comes out is. "I thought you blocked my phone."







"I unblocked it."







"When?"







Emily doesn't answer, but I want to know whether it was before Monday night when she came by the pool house or after.







What do you want?







I want to forget you.







But last night, I found the notes from the English class I'd missed on my doorstop.







No reasonable person would read so much into two sheets of paper, but it was almost as if she'd opened the door a crack and was waiting for one of us to step through.







"I'm playing a set." I hear myself say, "but I'll be back later if you want to talk."







Tricia's probably hoping I'll crash with her, but I can't stay here If I know Emily's spinning out across town.







"Forget it." she says.







I don't want to get sucked in. Emily's little rebellions are usually more like silent protests anyway.







But she has a car. Who knows where she'd go?







"Wait." I say before she can hang up. "I'm gonna give you an address. Don't get lost, and don't get into trouble."







Emily snorts. "I'm not coming to find you, and I never get into ---"







I click off, exhaling hard as I text her the address.







The girl's walking trouble. Everywhere she goes, people watch her. Not because she's Eddi Carlton's kid, but because she has this energy you can't ignore.







As we play our first few songs, I notice the ache in my hand has subsided and I'm almost back to a hundred percent. Not that anyone here's in a state to appreciate it. The crowd is plied with alcohol and noise. They want to drink and dance and judging by number of couples grouping and grinding to fuck.







My music's always been for me, first and foremost. As a kid, it was a way for me to escape my shitty life. I could shut myself in a room, a closet, a shed, and play.







I soaked up everything I could from the internet, music class at school, hundreds of albums I borrowed and stole. Later, I got a chance to play as a part of a community outreach program with Wicked. Real instruments, real musicians, real everything.







That changed my life. I realized music could be not only my escape but my salvation, my future...







And the pieces started clicking into place.







It's why I'm so hellbent on being a session musician after graduation. I want security, reliability, to know that I never have to depend on another person who'll let me down. Tonight, I've resigned myself to another hour of playing covers with Brandon's band for a numb crowd.







At least until a whisper drags down my spine and makes me look up, tossing my hair out of my face.







Emily Carlton is hovering by the window.







In a room full of drunks, those clear eyes are a beacon, a reminder of everything beyond these four walls.







A group of girls standing in front of her moves, and I fucking miss a chord.







She's wearing a black dress that should be illegal, but it's not only the clothes, but the fire in her eyes, the straightness in her spine, that makes her look like a college freshman, not a high school junior.







You came, I mouth, sure she won't be able to read my lips.







But she lifts a shoulder, her mouth curving, Don't get too excited, she mouths back.







Mistakes love company. They travel in packs, like the shallow girls that prowl the halls at Oakwood.







My first was inviting her here, so while I'm at it, I throw in a second for good measure.







I play for her, adding some extra flourishes, a solo that has Brandon's jaw on the floor.







Name one other place you can become a god by falling on your knees...







I'm not a god but a demon, my hands flying over the strings as I finish, holding the last note for extra reverb, a little vintage flair that would've made Hendrix grin.







But when I look up, I have to search for her.







I finally spot her in the corner, talking to a built, clean-cut guy.







My good mood dies.







Fuck no! I didn't bring her here to get hit on by some keg-standing bro.







Half my mind's on them through the rest of our songs, and at the end of our set, I shove my guitar into its case.







Before I can push through the crowd, Tricia's at my arm,. "Didn't realize you were babysitting tonight." she says, cutting a glance toward the corner.







"It's not like that." But I crane my neck, trying to keep my eyes on Emily.







Tricia slides a stack of bills into my pocket. "Maybe you should take some of that judgement you like to level at the world and turn it back on yourself."