Tone Deaf(20)

It’s not like I have any professional training, so my designs are far from top quality, but they’re good enough to help beginning artists get more exposure for their work. And, someday, I’ll learn how to make those sleek, gorgeous designs that professional bands use for their sites. Someday soon, hopefully. If I can just get into a good college, I might be able to learn enough to make coding into a career.

As soon as my desktop screen pops up, I click open Google Chrome and search Tone Deaf band criminal activity. It’s a bit on the nose, but I want proof that I was right to distrust Jace. He’s bound to have some sort of criminal record, right? It seems like all famous musicians do.

A bunch of search results pop up—everything from parents saying Jace should be sued for his provocative lyrics, to someone claiming Killer is an illegal immigrant. But there’s no reliable source that proves Jace—or anyone in the band—is actually a criminal.

One link reads “Criminal Lyrics,” and I recall Avery mentioning a debate in the Tone Deaf fandom about what the lyrics of this song mean. “Criminal” was one of Tone Deaf’s first hits, but even after the song topped charts for weeks on end, Jace never bothered to give his fans an explanation for it. I click on the link, cringing as it brings up a Tone Deaf fandom website that’s a mash of bright green graphics, blue fonts, and a misspelled header. The entire thing is an insult to web designers everywhere, but I ignore my urge to exit straight out of the site.

The blog post contains the lyrics for “Criminal,” but they’re written in neon-green font that’s nearly impossible to read. I squint and tilt my screen a little, and the lyrics become legible:

Am I better off living through death,

Or dying an invisible ghost?

Am I better off speaking in silence,

Or screaming so loud no one will hear?

I fake a smile,

But it’s killed by you,

I fake a soul,

But that dies, too.

So I fake my life,

What else can I do?

Take me in, spit me out,

And I scream and scream and scream and shout,

But you can’t hear my pain,

My blood’s nothing but a worthless stain.

I fake a smile,

But it’s killed by you,

I fake a soul,

But that dies, too.

So I fake my life,

What else can I do?

And if one day I wake up gone,

Maybe people will see through,

But until then the lies will rule.

And sometimes I think I’m better off dead,

But then I realize I already am.

I’m trembling again by the time I finish reading, my eyes lingering on the last lines. I swallow hard. This shouldn’t be getting to me, right? Lyricists are just fiction writers.

Or maybe they’re not. I think back to the pain in Jace’s expression as he frantically pleaded for me to come with him. He knows. He knows more than the facts, more than the situation. He knows me.

A vibration runs through the wood of my desk, making me jump. I glance down and find my cell phone sitting next to the keyboard. The cracked screen reads: 7 New Messages.

I groan, knowing they’re from Avery. I probably should have checked my messages sooner, but I was in such a daze when I left the stadium, I didn’t even notice my phone go off.

I take a steadying breath and scroll through her messages.

hey, you wanna see a movie 2nite?

???

don’t see ur light on. u home?

where r u?

ali???

r u ok???

I groan and hide my face in my hands. Why didn’t I tell her where I was going this evening? I never should have lied and made her worry. In the morning, I’ll apologize and tell her everything, and she can reassure me that I was right to reject Jace’s offer.

I realize there’s still one new message that’s unopened. I click back to my inbox, and my breath catches as I recognize Jace’s number.

Come with me. Please. You can still change your mind.

I feel the vibration of footsteps run through the floor, and I quickly shut down my phone. If my dad found out I’d been texting Jace, if he knew I’d even considered running away . . . that would be bad. Really, really freaking bad.

I want to hide the phone somewhere, but it would look too suspicious, so I calmly place it on my desk and turn toward my doorway. My dad stands there with his eyes narrowed and his lips lifted in a sneer. He takes one, two, three footsteps, and he’s right in front of me.

I swallow hard, watching his fists uncertainly. One is clenched, like he’s ready to hit me, and the other holds a thick white envelope. My dad slams the envelope down on my keyboard. I stay quiet, knowing better than to protest.

“What the hell is this?” He’s talking fast, his sneer making it hard to read his lips. But he’s using a type of universal sign language that makes him easy enough to understand: his gritted jaw says he’s pissed; his narrowed eyes scream his anger; and his clumsy stance tells me he’s far too drunk to rein in his emotions.

I hesitantly glance away from him and look to the envelope. My heart leaps into my throat as I recognize the emblem in the corner: the word “GALLAUDET” under a slim, double arch. I’ve stared at that emblem so many thousands of times as I surfed the Internet and daydreamed about college.

The letter is from Gallaudet University.