Tone Deaf(15)

I roll my eyes. “Of course I know sound systems.”

“How?”

“I’ve performed before.”

Jace lets out another scoff. “What venue would allow you to perform?”

“Carnegie.”

His eyes grow wide. “Carnegie Hall?”

I nod. There’s no way I can form any words right now. I haven’t talked about my past for a long, long time, and there’s a familiar stabbing pain in my gut as I mention Carnegie. I remember that night so well—I’d been terrified but exhilarated as I performed with a group of highly advanced piano students. It felt like every single eye in the audience was glued to me as my little hands flew over the keys. Everyone was waiting for me to screw up and prove that kids don’t belong in the most prestigious music hall in NYC.

I performed perfectly. And that was the real start of my music career.

Jace’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Tell me where the ‘h’ note is on a keyboard.”

“There is no ‘h’ note.”

“Then tell me what an analog mixer does, as long as you’re so interested in mine.”

I rattle off an explanation that leaves him looking mildly impressed. “Great. So you’ve read a Wikipedia article about them.”

“I’m not making it up! I used to play.”

“Then prove it,” he demands.

I shake my head. “I’m deaf now. I don’t play anymore.” I don’t say what else I’m thinking: that I haven’t touched an instrument since the surgery permanently stole my hearing. That I don’t think I could if I tried. That the pain of it would kill me.

Jace smirks. “That’s what I thought. You can’t play now, and never have been able to.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s what I’ll believe until you prove me wrong.”

Jace and I glare at each other for a good five seconds, and then he abruptly turns toward the door. “I’ll show you the equipment trailer next,” he says and begins walking away, not waiting for me to respond.

Eight grand, I remind myself. This is worth it for eight grand.

No, it’s not, a small voice in my head whispers. Nothing is worth digging up those memories.

But I ignore the voice and follow him out the door.





8


JACE


I TEAR OFF my damp T-shirt and throw it in the corner of my room. The heat outside combined with my angry, anxious nerves have left me covered in sweat and feeling downright gross. I wish I could swap out the painful memories that have been crowding my mind for days, but for now, a fresh shirt is the best I can do.

I search through my closet for a T-shirt, knowing I need to hurry up. I’m procrastinating bringing Ali her check, but I really don’t want to go back out there and have to talk with her again. Twenty-seven minutes I spent with her on the tour. Twenty-seven minutes too long. She spent every moment scowling at me, and I spent every moment knowing I deserved her anger, and probably worse.

But apologizing for flipping her off would have inevitably led to her demanding an explanation. And I’m not even sure I have one of those to give, at least not after getting to know her a little on the tour. Yesterday, her deafness had seemed like a giant, painful reminder of the past I’ve worked so hard to escape. Today, her deafness had hardly even mattered. Her disgust for me was far more distracting. Guilt usually isn’t an emotion I let myself feel, but it kept clawing at my mind every time she’d shoot me one of those angry, frustrated glances.

I left her by the equipment trailer, promising I’d return in just a few minutes with her check. I’ve already written it out and have it waiting by the door, but I’m suddenly tempted to rewrite one for a higher amount. The money obviously means a lot to her. Every time I mentioned it, she got this desperate glint in her eye that made my guilt even stronger.

A knock comes at my door right as I shrug into a long-sleeved shirt. It’s way too hot to be wearing anything with sleeves—between the heat and the cramped, dusty landscape, Los Angeles has got to be one of the most miserable cities ever. But the long-sleeved shirt is a comforting reminder of one of the few good things from my past—growing up in Denver, with its thick snow and chilly air.

“Come in,” I call, and Jon pushes open the door to my room. He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms, his lips pursed in a tight scowl. After the lecture Tony gave us this morning, I don’t think Jon is going to forgive me anytime soon for giving a fan the finger.

“Did you get the pictures?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I take my phone out of my pocket and toss it to him. “I already forwarded them to Tony.”

Jon nods and starts flicking through the images on my screen. I wait for him to show approval, but his scowl just deepens. “What happened to her face?”

“Huh?”

“Her face. It’s all swollen on one side.” He walks over and tilts the phone so I can see the picture on the screen. It’d been taken right outside the sound room, and Ali and me are both wearing smiles that look painfully fake.

Surprise jolts through me as I realize Jon’s right. I haven’t looked closely at Ali all evening; her glares have kept me from meeting her eyes. But the swelling is obvious now that I examine the picture. I reach over and flick to the next image, and I wince as I see the swelling in that one, too.