Jesse's Girl
Page 12
“A punk rocker chick was excited to spend the day with me? Yeah, I believe that.”
“First of all, buddy, I wouldn’t call myself a punk rocker. I’m into the eighties—I was going for Madonna. And second, I got my hopes up about meeting you. I thought it would be cool to watch you practice. Hell, I thought I might even get some pointers, learn something from you.”
That’s when I realize I’ve been shaking my finger at him.
After he looks into my eyes for several beats, he hands me my phone. “Last Friday, you said you play a Martin.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Let’s hear you play.” He sits down and rests his elbows on his thighs. My eyes have a mind of their own and glance at his boxers again. He totally catches me.
“I didn’t bring my guitar.”
He purses his lips. “Why would you show up unprepared?”
“Well, why didn’t you prepare by putting on pants?”
“You’re not wearing any either.” His eyes trail up and down my legs.
Some girls would’ve jumped him already, but not me. Even if he has a nice set of biceps and the cutest freckles I’ve ever seen, he doesn’t deserve me after acting like a man slut.
“Where are your parents, anyway?” I ask.
“I dunno. Work? They don’t live here.”
“This is your house?”
“Yup. I bought it with my allowance.”
That makes me laugh. But how is he ready to live on his own? I mean, Mom still has to remind me to set my alarm so I wake up in time for school.
He carefully lifts an acoustic guitar off the wall and hands it over. “Play a song for me.”
I sit down and get it situated in my lap, studying it. My fingers tremble and itch to strum the strings. It’s a Martin, just like mine, only a lot older and more valuable. “Is this from, like, the 1930s?”
“Yeah…it was Pa’s—my great-grandfather’s—before he died.”
“You had a cool Pa.”
His mouth twitches. “I know. Now play a song for me.”
I run my fingers over the wood and bite my lip. If my own band ditched me, do I have any business playing for a Grammy winner? Despite my different musical tastes, I thought my guitar skills were top notch and that I would be a huge asset to any band. But they wanted that guy Bryan instead of me. Maybe I’m not as good on guitar as I thought I was.
He must sense my hesitation. “I’m gonna give you a bad grade if you don’t play.”
“You’re not in charge of my grade.”
“My uncle is, and if I tell him you didn’t do what I asked, you’ll probably fail.”
I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’m not willing to risk it. If I don’t complete shadow day, I won’t be allowed to graduate in the spring.
I pull my lucky pick (it’s made of quartz and shaped like a teardrop) out of my purse. Taking a deep breath, I start plucking the first song that Jesse put out after he won Wannabe Rocker. He wrote “Mi Familia” when he was eleven. I played this song over and over in fifth grade.
After the first chord transition, I get nervous, my fingers tremble, and I accidentally mute the D string, then miss the next transition. Jesse and I cringe at the same time.
“Crap—I never screw up,” I say.
“Maybe you haven’t been practicing enough.”
That’s true. I haven’t played much this week. Without a band to jam with, my heart hasn’t been in it.
“Go on,” Jesse urges, settling back into his armchair.
I start playing “Mi Familia” again, but after a measure, he waves a hand at me to stop. “Play something else. Know any James Taylor?”
“Obviously.” I’m more of an eighties girl, but any serious guitarist should know the classics. I start strumming “Carolina in My Mind.”
After I play two verses, Jesse holds up a hand again. “Are you gonna sing or not?”
I drum my fingers on the Martin’s tuners. “I don’t do solos.”
He shakes his head at the ceiling. “I don’t have time for this.”
“I thought you have all the time in the world. You’re quitting, right?”
The expression on his face could kill. “If you won’t sing for me, you should leave right now.”
“Fine, I’ll sing,” I shoot back.
“I promise I won’t laugh at you,” he replies.
“I’m not that bad a singer.”
“First of all, buddy, I wouldn’t call myself a punk rocker. I’m into the eighties—I was going for Madonna. And second, I got my hopes up about meeting you. I thought it would be cool to watch you practice. Hell, I thought I might even get some pointers, learn something from you.”
That’s when I realize I’ve been shaking my finger at him.
After he looks into my eyes for several beats, he hands me my phone. “Last Friday, you said you play a Martin.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Let’s hear you play.” He sits down and rests his elbows on his thighs. My eyes have a mind of their own and glance at his boxers again. He totally catches me.
“I didn’t bring my guitar.”
He purses his lips. “Why would you show up unprepared?”
“Well, why didn’t you prepare by putting on pants?”
“You’re not wearing any either.” His eyes trail up and down my legs.
Some girls would’ve jumped him already, but not me. Even if he has a nice set of biceps and the cutest freckles I’ve ever seen, he doesn’t deserve me after acting like a man slut.
“Where are your parents, anyway?” I ask.
“I dunno. Work? They don’t live here.”
“This is your house?”
“Yup. I bought it with my allowance.”
That makes me laugh. But how is he ready to live on his own? I mean, Mom still has to remind me to set my alarm so I wake up in time for school.
He carefully lifts an acoustic guitar off the wall and hands it over. “Play a song for me.”
I sit down and get it situated in my lap, studying it. My fingers tremble and itch to strum the strings. It’s a Martin, just like mine, only a lot older and more valuable. “Is this from, like, the 1930s?”
“Yeah…it was Pa’s—my great-grandfather’s—before he died.”
“You had a cool Pa.”
His mouth twitches. “I know. Now play a song for me.”
I run my fingers over the wood and bite my lip. If my own band ditched me, do I have any business playing for a Grammy winner? Despite my different musical tastes, I thought my guitar skills were top notch and that I would be a huge asset to any band. But they wanted that guy Bryan instead of me. Maybe I’m not as good on guitar as I thought I was.
He must sense my hesitation. “I’m gonna give you a bad grade if you don’t play.”
“You’re not in charge of my grade.”
“My uncle is, and if I tell him you didn’t do what I asked, you’ll probably fail.”
I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’m not willing to risk it. If I don’t complete shadow day, I won’t be allowed to graduate in the spring.
I pull my lucky pick (it’s made of quartz and shaped like a teardrop) out of my purse. Taking a deep breath, I start plucking the first song that Jesse put out after he won Wannabe Rocker. He wrote “Mi Familia” when he was eleven. I played this song over and over in fifth grade.
After the first chord transition, I get nervous, my fingers tremble, and I accidentally mute the D string, then miss the next transition. Jesse and I cringe at the same time.
“Crap—I never screw up,” I say.
“Maybe you haven’t been practicing enough.”
That’s true. I haven’t played much this week. Without a band to jam with, my heart hasn’t been in it.
“Go on,” Jesse urges, settling back into his armchair.
I start playing “Mi Familia” again, but after a measure, he waves a hand at me to stop. “Play something else. Know any James Taylor?”
“Obviously.” I’m more of an eighties girl, but any serious guitarist should know the classics. I start strumming “Carolina in My Mind.”
After I play two verses, Jesse holds up a hand again. “Are you gonna sing or not?”
I drum my fingers on the Martin’s tuners. “I don’t do solos.”
He shakes his head at the ceiling. “I don’t have time for this.”
“I thought you have all the time in the world. You’re quitting, right?”
The expression on his face could kill. “If you won’t sing for me, you should leave right now.”
“Fine, I’ll sing,” I shoot back.
“I promise I won’t laugh at you,” he replies.
“I’m not that bad a singer.”
