Jesse's Girl
Page 10
“If that jerk does anything to hurt you, My,” Sam says, “I’m gonna rip his arms from his sockets, and then we’ll see how sexy he is all armless.”
Ignoring Sam’s loud speech, Jordan starts cooking again, cracking a new egg into a fresh bowl. “I remember my shadow day. I said that I wanted to be an NFL player, and the school arranged for me to shadow the manager of the Athletic Superstore at the mall.”
“And I said I wanted to become an exotic dancer,” Sam says, “but I got detention.”
My lips twitch.
Jordan points at me with a spatula. “I saw it! Maya smiled.”
“If telling you about my most embarrassing moments will make you feel better,” my brother starts, “I’ll tell you about the time I fell asleep at a party and woke up butt-naked in a cow pasture with—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I wave my hands. “No more, please.”
Anna is cackling hard, and my mom’s face is red with laughter. Dad pushes buttons on his phone, lifts it to his ear, and says, “Delivery, please.”
Being with my family makes me feel better, but I can’t stop thinking of what happened this afternoon. I put my all into building The Fringe for an entire year, and it was for nothing. I won’t fight to win my band back after they all made it perfectly clear what they thought of me and my musical tastes. I quit both the church and show choirs after I started my band, and since my voice cracks, it’s not like I can go solo. How am I going to find a new group in time to record an audition video for Wannabe Rocker? It’s due in less than three weeks! I already recruited the best musicians at my school for The Fringe. The only person left is Albert Cho and his upright bass, and he’s told me a hundred times he only plays classical.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not trying out for Wannabe Rocker, because that show is all about identity—about showing America why you are a talented, unique musician.
Without my band, I’ve got nothing.
Welcome to the Jungle
Showtime.
On Friday morning, Dr. Salter drives us up to a whale of a brick home surrounded by iron gates and lush green hedges in Brentwood, the Bel Air of Nashville. A sedan idles by the curb. I peer through my window at the unshaven man hunkered down in the front seat. Another guy leans against the passenger side door and snaps pictures of us.
“Paparazzi?”
“Always,” Dr. Salter says as he steers the car to a security booth.
A beefy guard—he must weigh three hundred pounds—pokes his head out and tips his hat. “Dr. Salter,” his deep voice rumbles. “He expecting you?”
“Yes.” Dr. Salter sighs, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I guess he didn’t tell you we were coming?”
The guard shrugs. “You know Jesse. Let me call and get clearance.” He shuts the sliding-glass window and picks up a phone.
“Clearance?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word used that way.
“Jesse’s not—” Dr. Salter starts. “He doesn’t have visitors often.”
“Oh.” I wipe sweaty palms on my dress. The corset top is black leather and red lace, the short skirt poufy black tulle. It looks awesome with my ankle booties. I wore my favorite outfit, because spending time with Jesse will probably be uncomfortable. Might as well feel good in my own skin.
Ten seconds later, the steel gates slide open. A paparazzi guy rushes to follow us in on foot, but the guard steps out to stop him from entering the property.
We park the car in the semicircular driveway, and I climb out, staring up at the ivy-laced brick façade. The brick is just like my house, but his is about ten times larger. We only moved out of a trailer two years ago, after my parents finally saved up for a down payment on a small house. By comparison, this place looks like Buckingham Palace.
I unfold today’s schedule—I’ve read it so many times the paper is soft as a piece of cloth—and scan it one last time:
9:30 a.m. Arrival
10:00 a.m. Tour of Grand Ole Opry
11:00 a.m. Tour of Studio B
12:00 p.m. Lunch with Jesse and Mark Logan
1:30 p.m. Tour of Ryman Auditorium
2:30 p.m. Tour of Country Music Hall of Fame
3:30 p.m. Depart
“Come on,” Dr. Salter says, clapping a hand on my shoulder and steering me toward the door. “Jesse won’t bite.” My principal pushes the doorbell.
Seconds later, Jesse Scott opens the door wearing nothing but a pair of sky blue boxers.
Holy mother!
“Jesse,” Dr. Salter scolds him. “Put some pants on for God’s sake.”
Ignoring Sam’s loud speech, Jordan starts cooking again, cracking a new egg into a fresh bowl. “I remember my shadow day. I said that I wanted to be an NFL player, and the school arranged for me to shadow the manager of the Athletic Superstore at the mall.”
“And I said I wanted to become an exotic dancer,” Sam says, “but I got detention.”
My lips twitch.
Jordan points at me with a spatula. “I saw it! Maya smiled.”
“If telling you about my most embarrassing moments will make you feel better,” my brother starts, “I’ll tell you about the time I fell asleep at a party and woke up butt-naked in a cow pasture with—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I wave my hands. “No more, please.”
Anna is cackling hard, and my mom’s face is red with laughter. Dad pushes buttons on his phone, lifts it to his ear, and says, “Delivery, please.”
Being with my family makes me feel better, but I can’t stop thinking of what happened this afternoon. I put my all into building The Fringe for an entire year, and it was for nothing. I won’t fight to win my band back after they all made it perfectly clear what they thought of me and my musical tastes. I quit both the church and show choirs after I started my band, and since my voice cracks, it’s not like I can go solo. How am I going to find a new group in time to record an audition video for Wannabe Rocker? It’s due in less than three weeks! I already recruited the best musicians at my school for The Fringe. The only person left is Albert Cho and his upright bass, and he’s told me a hundred times he only plays classical.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not trying out for Wannabe Rocker, because that show is all about identity—about showing America why you are a talented, unique musician.
Without my band, I’ve got nothing.
Welcome to the Jungle
Showtime.
On Friday morning, Dr. Salter drives us up to a whale of a brick home surrounded by iron gates and lush green hedges in Brentwood, the Bel Air of Nashville. A sedan idles by the curb. I peer through my window at the unshaven man hunkered down in the front seat. Another guy leans against the passenger side door and snaps pictures of us.
“Paparazzi?”
“Always,” Dr. Salter says as he steers the car to a security booth.
A beefy guard—he must weigh three hundred pounds—pokes his head out and tips his hat. “Dr. Salter,” his deep voice rumbles. “He expecting you?”
“Yes.” Dr. Salter sighs, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I guess he didn’t tell you we were coming?”
The guard shrugs. “You know Jesse. Let me call and get clearance.” He shuts the sliding-glass window and picks up a phone.
“Clearance?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word used that way.
“Jesse’s not—” Dr. Salter starts. “He doesn’t have visitors often.”
“Oh.” I wipe sweaty palms on my dress. The corset top is black leather and red lace, the short skirt poufy black tulle. It looks awesome with my ankle booties. I wore my favorite outfit, because spending time with Jesse will probably be uncomfortable. Might as well feel good in my own skin.
Ten seconds later, the steel gates slide open. A paparazzi guy rushes to follow us in on foot, but the guard steps out to stop him from entering the property.
We park the car in the semicircular driveway, and I climb out, staring up at the ivy-laced brick façade. The brick is just like my house, but his is about ten times larger. We only moved out of a trailer two years ago, after my parents finally saved up for a down payment on a small house. By comparison, this place looks like Buckingham Palace.
I unfold today’s schedule—I’ve read it so many times the paper is soft as a piece of cloth—and scan it one last time:
9:30 a.m. Arrival
10:00 a.m. Tour of Grand Ole Opry
11:00 a.m. Tour of Studio B
12:00 p.m. Lunch with Jesse and Mark Logan
1:30 p.m. Tour of Ryman Auditorium
2:30 p.m. Tour of Country Music Hall of Fame
3:30 p.m. Depart
“Come on,” Dr. Salter says, clapping a hand on my shoulder and steering me toward the door. “Jesse won’t bite.” My principal pushes the doorbell.
Seconds later, Jesse Scott opens the door wearing nothing but a pair of sky blue boxers.
Holy mother!
“Jesse,” Dr. Salter scolds him. “Put some pants on for God’s sake.”
