Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(62)

“Your posture’s pathetic,” he noted.

I sighed. “I know. I’m too tall. Can we focus on the song?”

“It’s a story,” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s a love story.”

“Yes,” I said and breathed a sigh of relief. He got it. Thank God.

“Well, I don’t know if I’d call it a love story, per say, more like the tumultuous terrain of a confusing relationship.” He stood up and started to pace as he thought. “It’s off kilter, but I like that. It’s unexpected. I mean, it goes all over the place. Your head is a complete mess right now.”

I nodded again.

“The juxtapositions in the melody are really interesting. Just when you think it reaches a crescendo, it sidetracks. I like that. You’re letting the audience in. But it needs more. It’s missing something.”

He tapped his chin and then his eyes widened with an idea.

“Another instrument,” he said.

“A duet?” I shook my head. “I don’t have time for that kind of rewrite.”

He shook his finger at me. “Not your typical duet. Just something that builds off of the beat. That takes it deeper. That brings out the conflict in the story.”

I thought about it. The recital was in two days. It was definitely cutting it close. He guessed my hesitation.

“I know a couple of guys who would perform with you,” he offered.

“Why two instruments?” I asked.

He opened his arms like it was obvious. “Because your song’s about two women.”

I stared at him.

“Right?” he asked. “That’s why it’s so messed up?”

I was surprised to feel angry by the accusation.

Frank started to laugh. “Oh my God. You didn’t even realize you were writing about two women?” His smile widened. He looked extremely proud of himself. “And the best part is, you’re falling for the wrong girl. Because she’s not turning out to be the person you wanted her to be. That’s why you’re so messed up. Or maybe she’s been playing you this whole time…”

Heat rushed to my chest. It coursed through my body, all the way to my fingertips. I pushed the piano bench back and stood up.

“For a guy who sits alone in a closet all day, you make some pretty bold assumptions about people,” I said.

He glared at me. “I listen to music all day. It speaks a hell of a lot stronger than words, Brady. If it’s any good.”

My heart was pounding in my chest. He waited for me to respond, but I just looked back at my music sheets. I wondered if he was right.





Chapter Twenty-Four


CeCe


I stared into my closet, looking for something cute to wear. Feminine. Non-athletic gear.

I had mixed feelings about the evening plans. Emmett invited me and Bryn to hear him play at the music department’s recital festival. He specifically messaged us, saying he wanted both of us to be there. The friend and the girlfriend. The brain and the beauty. The two sides to a dysfunctional fairytale.

The festival was a three-day event, and Emmett was performing on the last night. I knew he had been working for months on an original piece.

I showed up at the Edgelake Student Theater, an intimate auditorium with seating for three or four hundred. The overhead spotlights were cast low. Golden curtains were tied to the side, revealing a black stage with a lone piano, three microphones, and a podium. I looked around for a place to sit. The red velvet seats were quickly filling up. Even though people talked in hushed whispers, the acoustics were sharp enough to bounce the sound back in a wave of continuous chatter.

Bryn walked in, wearing a black tailored dress coat that nearly hung to her feet. A white knit scarf was tied around her neck and her hair was tucked into a white, slouchy knit hat. Caramel waves of hair cascaded out, giving her the messy yet perfect look of someone who was effortlessly beautiful. She looked up at the stage and the overhead lights showered her hair in a golden glow. She was the perfect artist’s muse.

We found seats toward the middle of the theater and sat down near the aisle. I scanned the program, printed on thick, cream-colored paper. There were nineteen performers listed tonight. Each player listed received a black and white photo and a short bio. I scanned the list until I saw Emmett. He was performing second to last. His photo looked dated, probably taken from his early high school days. His hair was longer and shaggier, growing over his ears. He looked happier, his mouth drawn up into a childish grin. I read the photo credit on the side: Samuel Brady. I wondered if that was his dad.

Bryn leaned over and studied the picture. “Ugh. He looks like a skateboarder in that picture. His hair is so much better now,” she said.

I set the pamphlet aside when the first piano piece began. The acoustics in the room made the music fall around us and on top of us, dressing us in its melody. We listened through all the pieces, some of them stretching ten minutes long. After nearly two hours into the recital, my entire body felt warm and relaxed like I had been soaking in a hot bath. But my mind felt alive and aware, completely in the moment. Volleyball didn’t matter, or school, or that fact that I could never compete with the beautiful girl sitting next to me. None of that mattered. Music always had that effect on me—it heightened my mind and my spirits. I could find my potential through a great song.