Jesse's Girl
Page 45
That must be why Nate texted and why he tried to cut in when I was dancing with Jesse last night.
I can’t believe this. “So basically the band that I started said they’ll take me back because they don’t want to lose you?”
“That’s not how I meant it, My. I love performing with you—you are what makes our band special, not any of those guys.”
I sigh and sink deeper into the couch, sipping from my can. “Would the guys be willing to play other kinds of music besides metal?”
“We didn’t talk about that,” she says softly.
Yesterday on the playground, Jesse pulled my body to his and told me that if I keep letting other people decide what kind of music I play—if I let them tell me how to live my life—I will end up leading a life that’s not mine.
Yesterday changed me. Before Dr. Salter suggested I shadow Jesse, I thought I knew all there was to know about singing and playing guitar. I never considered I might learn something. And now I know several new techniques to sing from my diaphragm, to better play a B7.
Hell, what if there’s even more stuff I should learn?
Regardless of how the day ended with Jesse, he gave me the biggest gift ever. I’m motivated again. If I want to become something, I need to work a lot harder. Which makes me want to start practicing right away.
After my solo on the Belle Carol, I know that I can do things on my own. I don’t need a band to move forward. If you love something enough, want it bad enough, you should be willing to go after it on your own.
I stand up from the couch and stare down at Hannah. “Tell the guys I said thanks but no thanks. I’m going solo.”
After I let Hannah out, I go to my bedroom. I swipe on my cell, take a deep breath, tap Jesse’s name, then type: Thank you for the boots.
And leave it at that.
• • •
This afternoon, I napped for hours, and I feel a lot better after clearing my head. I glance over at the clock. It’s nearly eight.
I hear arguing, so I drag myself out of bed, quickly rinse my face in the bathroom sink, then head out to see what drama my family has cooked up for this evening.
Before I even make it to the kitchen, I smell it. Mom’s beef stew. I find my parents and Anna, Sam, and Jordan crowded around the breakfast table, spooning stew into their mouths, laughing at a story Anna is telling about how her friend named her new betta fish “Sam.”
My brother puffs out his chest. “I bet it’s a very good-looking fish.”
“I bet it looks just like you,” Jordan replies.
Dad makes a puckering fish face, and Mom and Anna laugh at Sam’s expense.
“You’re awake!” Anna squeals at me. “I want to hear about your day with Jesse!”
Like the ten-year-old she is, she bounces around the kitchen, waving the newspaper that features my picture.
“It was fun,” I say. “I learned a lot from him.”
“Is he cute in person? Did you get his autograph for me? Can I go with you to one of his concerts? Did you find out what his favorite color is?”
“Yes, yes, no, no,” I reply.
“Why can’t we go to a concert?” Anna asks as she pouts, clutching my arm. “He likes you! I can tell from the picture!”
“We just can’t,” I snap, and Jordan and Sam exchange a look. Thankfully, nobody presses me about what happened last night, even though I’m positive Mom told them I was upset earlier.
Gossipy. If I had to choose a second word to describe my family after sporty, it would be gossipy.
“Let your sister sit down, Anna,” Mom says. My sister collapses dramatically in her chair and shovels stew in her mouth, throwing me dirty looks.
Jordan stands up. “Want some stew, Maya?”
“Yes, please.”
I take a seat as Jordan spoons stew into a bowl for me and talks about the upcoming homecoming game. It’s her first year coaching at school, and she is very nervous and upset because her record is 4–1 so far. I don’t follow sports, but apparently the whole town is pissed we lost last night’s game, which hasn’t happened since the Stone Age or something.
“I haven’t lost a game at Hundred Oaks in…well, ever,” Jordan says quietly. “When I played here in high school, I mean.”
“Don’t let any of the nincompoops around here get you down,” Mom tells her. “Everybody knows you were the best person for the job. You just don’t have a strong quarterback and offensive line this season.”
“The team’s doing very well, considering,” Dad adds.
I can’t believe this. “So basically the band that I started said they’ll take me back because they don’t want to lose you?”
“That’s not how I meant it, My. I love performing with you—you are what makes our band special, not any of those guys.”
I sigh and sink deeper into the couch, sipping from my can. “Would the guys be willing to play other kinds of music besides metal?”
“We didn’t talk about that,” she says softly.
Yesterday on the playground, Jesse pulled my body to his and told me that if I keep letting other people decide what kind of music I play—if I let them tell me how to live my life—I will end up leading a life that’s not mine.
Yesterday changed me. Before Dr. Salter suggested I shadow Jesse, I thought I knew all there was to know about singing and playing guitar. I never considered I might learn something. And now I know several new techniques to sing from my diaphragm, to better play a B7.
Hell, what if there’s even more stuff I should learn?
Regardless of how the day ended with Jesse, he gave me the biggest gift ever. I’m motivated again. If I want to become something, I need to work a lot harder. Which makes me want to start practicing right away.
After my solo on the Belle Carol, I know that I can do things on my own. I don’t need a band to move forward. If you love something enough, want it bad enough, you should be willing to go after it on your own.
I stand up from the couch and stare down at Hannah. “Tell the guys I said thanks but no thanks. I’m going solo.”
After I let Hannah out, I go to my bedroom. I swipe on my cell, take a deep breath, tap Jesse’s name, then type: Thank you for the boots.
And leave it at that.
• • •
This afternoon, I napped for hours, and I feel a lot better after clearing my head. I glance over at the clock. It’s nearly eight.
I hear arguing, so I drag myself out of bed, quickly rinse my face in the bathroom sink, then head out to see what drama my family has cooked up for this evening.
Before I even make it to the kitchen, I smell it. Mom’s beef stew. I find my parents and Anna, Sam, and Jordan crowded around the breakfast table, spooning stew into their mouths, laughing at a story Anna is telling about how her friend named her new betta fish “Sam.”
My brother puffs out his chest. “I bet it’s a very good-looking fish.”
“I bet it looks just like you,” Jordan replies.
Dad makes a puckering fish face, and Mom and Anna laugh at Sam’s expense.
“You’re awake!” Anna squeals at me. “I want to hear about your day with Jesse!”
Like the ten-year-old she is, she bounces around the kitchen, waving the newspaper that features my picture.
“It was fun,” I say. “I learned a lot from him.”
“Is he cute in person? Did you get his autograph for me? Can I go with you to one of his concerts? Did you find out what his favorite color is?”
“Yes, yes, no, no,” I reply.
“Why can’t we go to a concert?” Anna asks as she pouts, clutching my arm. “He likes you! I can tell from the picture!”
“We just can’t,” I snap, and Jordan and Sam exchange a look. Thankfully, nobody presses me about what happened last night, even though I’m positive Mom told them I was upset earlier.
Gossipy. If I had to choose a second word to describe my family after sporty, it would be gossipy.
“Let your sister sit down, Anna,” Mom says. My sister collapses dramatically in her chair and shovels stew in her mouth, throwing me dirty looks.
Jordan stands up. “Want some stew, Maya?”
“Yes, please.”
I take a seat as Jordan spoons stew into a bowl for me and talks about the upcoming homecoming game. It’s her first year coaching at school, and she is very nervous and upset because her record is 4–1 so far. I don’t follow sports, but apparently the whole town is pissed we lost last night’s game, which hasn’t happened since the Stone Age or something.
“I haven’t lost a game at Hundred Oaks in…well, ever,” Jordan says quietly. “When I played here in high school, I mean.”
“Don’t let any of the nincompoops around here get you down,” Mom tells her. “Everybody knows you were the best person for the job. You just don’t have a strong quarterback and offensive line this season.”
“The team’s doing very well, considering,” Dad adds.
