Tone Deaf(3)

Avery steps up to the counter, tugging me along. The worker gives a sharp flick of her manicured nails, gesturing for us to move to the back of the line. “Wait your turn,” she snaps.

Avery says something, but her back is to me, so I can’t see her words. The worker just scoffs and says, “Your friend’s the winner? Just like all the other girls behind you?”

Avery puffs up, straightening her shoulders and standing on her toes. For someone who’s only five foot four, she looks pretty intimidating. I shuffle my feet and try to disappear in her shadow. I don’t want to get into any argument, and even if I could puff up like that, I’d probably just look ridiculous.

No, I’d definitely look ridiculous. I’ve always been the “cute” one: I’m barely over five feet and have way too many freckles, and glow-in-the-dark pale skin. The fine art of makeup is one I learned early on, so at least I no longer have the issue of people mistaking me for being super young. But no matter how old I look, it’s kind of hard to come across as intimidating when I always need to look up to meet people’s eyes.

Avery, on the other hand, is quite adept at transforming into teenage-mutant-ninja-girl. She’s waving her arms around in what looks like kickass karate moves but is really just her version of exasperated flailing. The worker finally rolls her eyes and waves me forward, and I offer her an apologetic smile that she totally ignores.

Okay, time for tactic number two: I shove my wrist up on the counter, displaying the code on my band, and then lay out my ticket and ID next to it. The worker lets out a sigh—probably of relief—and waves her hand in a shooing motion at the girls behind me. “Okay, everyone, leave. Now. The winner is here, and she isn’t you.”

The girls waiting in line glare at me hard, but slowly disperse, hands on their hips. I’m sure Jace would much rather spend time with the tall blond who is shooting me daggers, or the redhead flipping me off. But, nope, I’m the winner. Little ol’ deaf me, who hasn’t ever heard a second of his music.

Whoop-dee-doo, hooray, and all that jazz.

The worker gives me a bored look and says, “Hang on. I’m going to phone backstage and get someone to pick you up for the tour.”

I glance back at the retreating girls and take in their expressions: anger, sadness, jealousy. Lots and lots of jealousy. For one impossible second, I actually smile. Someone in this world—more than one someone—is actually jealous of me.

Then Avery tackles me in a hug, and something crazy happens: I start laughing. It all hits me then; I got the winning code. I get to spend the rest of the night backstage on a tour. I get to meet a freakin’ celebrity.

Me. Not any of those other girls, but me.

I probably look like a maniac standing there in a near-abandoned area of the arena, laughing my head off. But then Avery also starts giggling, and I couldn’t rein in my happiness if I tried.

We only calm down when we see a middle-aged guy heading toward us, his mouth pursed in concentration as he attempts to type on his smartphone while he walks. The wire of a microphone earpiece is tangled on the frame of his glasses, and he’s wearing a polo shirt that states, in bold letters, MANAGER. He only tears his attention away from the phone when he reaches the ticket booth. The worker points to me and gives a thumbs up, and the guy shoves the phone back in his pocket as he reaches out his other hand for a shake.

“So you’re the lucky winner,” he says, offering me a smile that looks forced and haggard. He introduces himself with a name I don’t quite catch, but then I see the smaller, embroidered letters on his polo: TONY ACCARDO, LEAD ARTIST MANAGER.

I accept the handshake and try not to pull back too quickly. Being surrounded by a crowd all evening has left my nerves ground down and raw, and physical contact is the last thing I want right now.

“I’m Ali Collins,” I tell him, and then point to Avery. “This is my friend Avery Summers.”

“Nice to meet you, Ali,” Tony says. As if he’s reading my mind, he shoots Avery an apologetic smile and says, “Sorry, but we can only bring the one winner on the tour.”

“That’s fine,” Avery says, and she gives me a stern glance as she adds, “Isn’t it?”

“Totally fine,” I agree with a sigh, realizing she’s not going to give me a chance to back out of this.

Tony nods a couple times and says to me, “Are you one of Jace’s UK fans? You sound like it. We’ve been seeing more tourists come to his concerts since Tone Deaf hit the charts over there.”

“No, I’m American,” I say, and then my entire face flushes red. Really, really red. I know because Avery winces a little, and Tony has to hide an amused smirk. I quickly explain, “I don’t really have an accent, I just kind of talk strange.” Seven years of not being able to hear your own voice does funny things to it. But Tony just cocks his head, clearly not understanding, so I add, “I’m deaf.”

Tony’s expression falls for a moment, then he quickly plasters on a smile. But he’s not quick enough for me to miss his reaction. I bet he’s thinking the same thing I am: Why should a deaf girl be the one to meet a music idol?

Tony slowly inclines his head toward the stage. “Well, come on. I’ll show you to Jace. He’s waiting backstage.” He tries to smile again, like this is exciting, but the expression comes off as almost nervous.