Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(13)

Darlington Beach reminds me of the Colorado town where I went to high school. There were mountains there instead of the ocean. But the vibe is the same, as is the string of expensive shops.

There isn’t a single thing in these window displays that I could ever afford—then or now. I really don’t understand how they stay in business selling artisanal pottery. Only one of the pieces in the window has its price tag showing—probably in error. It’s a $160 bowl. And it’s not even large.

When I was sixteen, I was placed in my seventh foster home. The couple were both pastors at a pretty stone church. Taking in foster kids was part of their calling, they said.

They were okay. I have no horror stories about them, other than his laugh sounded like a drunk hyena’s. But the school was a disaster for me in my second-hand clothes and off-brand jacket. I didn’t wear North Face or play a sport or snowboard.

I spent a lot of time alone, scribbling poetry into notebooks and practicing the beat-up guitar that I’d literally found on a curb on trash day.

My foster parents tried to get me to play during their church service, but I wouldn’t do it. I didn’t need one more way to look weird in front of my peers.

The high school music teacher tried to help me, though. Mrs. Hernandez was a taskmaster, but she cared. She paid for new strings for my guitar out of her own pocket and had one of the tuning keys fixed.

“It sounds like a new instrument,” I’d said in a hushed voice when she handed it back to me.

“You keep practicing those arpeggios,” she’d said in her clipped voice. “Music builds character, and it’s good brain work.”

I just liked the way I felt when the chords hummed against my body. Calmer.

Then the high school held a fundraiser, and Mrs. Hernandez—whose practice rooms I’d been using after school—paired me up with Travis Baker. “Guitar and piano, guys. Pick a piece and perform it. I don’t care what you pick as long as its inoffensive and under eight minutes.”

Travis Baker. He had strong-looking arms and a slow smile that I’d been admiring from a distance ever since I landed at Cottonwood High. He was also wildly popular with the girls who ran the school. He had a shiny, black Jeep—a Wrangler—the cool kind made for adventure—and I never saw him in it alone. The glossy ponytails of various girls were always visible beside him.

“Heartbreaker,” was the word I’d most often heard in reference to him.

We’d never spoken before. But spending hours alone in a practice room has a way of bringing people together. Travis dropped his cool-guy facade pretty fast when it was just the two of us.

I couldn’t believe my own luck. Not only was it fun to have someone else to play with, he was good. I let him choose the music. He brought in sheet music for an Eagles medley.

Don Henley doesn’t really do it for me, but at least the hottie hadn’t chosen a bad piano arrangement of Metallica.

I still wouldn’t have argued, though. I was deep in lust before we ever sat down to play together. Rehearsals were heaven. I got to watch those muscular arms move up and down the keyboard.

And all musicians have a music face. It’s an expression that’s out of your control, because you’re concentrating on the sound and forgetting yourself. Everyone’s music face is different. Some people look dreamy. Some look constipated.

Travis looked…serene. Everything felt softer inside me while I watched him play. And whenever we finished a part, he’d look up at me and smile. “Not bad, right?”

I swear to God, it was the first time in my whole young life I’d ever felt seen.

So when he leaned over and kissed me one afternoon, I was less shocked than I should have been.

After that, our remaining rehearsals were half spent on music, and half on fooling around. One practice room had a lock on the door, since it was once a teacher’s office. Travis made sure to grab that one, I noticed. After a run-through of our material, he’d pull me into his lap and put his hands up my shirt. And my hand down his pants.

One inevitable afternoon he forgot to lock the door. I heard a click followed by a sharp intake of breath. Then the yelling started.

Even as Travis zipped up his pants, Mrs. Hernandez was shrieking, “Idiot! Are you crazy? Are you stupid? Do you not know how this works? You make good choices—you could go to college and be something. I tried to help you! And you do this? Stupid little slut.”

She yelled only at me. Travis snuck out of there unscathed. Six years later I still cringe when I remember all the awful things Mrs. Hernandez said. She also canceled our duet.

But that’s not what hurt the most. Travis never spoke to me again. Unfortunately, he spoke about me. There were whispers and pointed fingers the very next day.

Slut. Trailer trash. Those are just a few of the choice words I heard about myself. That’s my most indelible memory of high school. And I’ve been a mistrustful person pretty much ever since. People who appear to appreciate you can turn their backs in an instant.

That’s why I’ve kept my distance from Brett Ferris. He may well be the grown-up version of Travis. A rich guy with big plans and plenty of options.

I’m still the poor kid toiling in obscurity. But if I’m careful and patient, I can put my career first. And if Brett Ferris still wants me after I don’t really need him anymore, then maybe we are a good fit.