Grown(6)

I breathe in deep, my belly expanding as he caresses my back.

“Now release a note as you exhale.”

I do as he says, and the note comes out smooth and effortless.

“See? Better?”

“Yeah.” I giggle. “Better.”

I look up into his eyes and . . . I can’t look away . . . so I don’t because he doesn’t either. His lips, pressed into a hard line, part.

“Damn. You got some beautiful eyes.”

My heart beats hard against my ribs, hands rested on his like they’ve always belonged there, rubbing the rough patches on his knuckles. Then it hits me . . . I’m touching Korey Fields. THE Korey Fields . . . and Mom could come back here any moment. It’d be sixth grade all over again, when I got caught in the closet kissing Jose Torres.

Except Korey isn’t a regular boy like Jose. He’s . . . so much more.

“I, um, I gotta go. My . . . mom is probably wondering where I’m at.”

A flash of confusion sweeps across his face. He hesitates before unattaching himself.

“How old are you?”

I gulp. “Seventeen.”

For a long moment, his face is expressionless. Then he offers a smile.

“You’re gonna come to my show next Saturday,” he says. “I’ll hook you and your parents up with some VIP tickets.”

The last contestant jogs backstage with a face-splitting smile. She was picked. Of course.

“Um, OK,” I say.

“Your name will be at the box office,” he says whipping out his phone before winking at me. “See you later, Bright Eyes.”

He taps one of his bodyguards, who gives me a once-over before exiting.

Butterflies tickle the inside of my chest. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Because there’s absolutely no way Korey Fields would ever be into me.





Chapter 6


A Star is Born




According to Wikipedia, Korey Fields is twenty-eight years old.

Korey was a protégé. A child superstar at thirteen, he was discovered on YouTube, singing Stevie Wonder songs.

Raised by his grandmother, he could play several instruments, including drums, piano, guitar, and even trumpet. All self-taught while spending hours at his local Baptist church.

They called him the second coming of Michael Jackson, with such hit singles as “Invincible,” “I Remember You,” “Work It,” and “Love Is a Verb.”

My parents loved dancing to his song “A Lifetime of Love.”

Fifteen top Billboard hits. Triple-platinum albums. Back-to-back sold-out concerts and tours.

He won his first Grammy at age fifteen.

He’s an E shy of being an EGOT (Emmy Grammy Oscar Tony).

The shirtless photo on the cover of his latest album is like an oil painting of a Greek god. He’s the color of earth. Dark eyes, sharp chin, perfect nose, a chest chiseled out of amber stone, muscles forming a V right above his jeans waistband . . .

Korey Fields is twenty-eight years old.

He’s young. But not that young.





Chapter 7


Friends to the End




Gabriela dips her fish stick in a cup of ketchup that sits on top of her biology textbook.

“So, our evil plan worked,” she says with a grin.

“Yeah. Even though LaToya Jones almost killed me.”

Like most lunch periods, we find ourselves chilling in the dark gym alcove near the school’s trophy display, skin drenched in fluorescent lighting. I dip my fish sticks in tartar sauce, stealing some of her ketchup for my fries.

“And the lipstick? Earrings?”

“Perfect. But none of that matters . . . because I met Korey Fields.” I try to hold in my swoon. “He gave me a nickname. Did I mention that yet?”

“Yes.” She sighs, flipping open her notebook. “For the fourth time now.”

“Yeah, but it’s how he said it.”

Rolling her eyes, she chuckles. “I’m sure he was just being nice.”

“No way. It’s wasn’t like how Daddy’s friends call me sweetheart. No, this seemed . . . specific. Just for me.”

“Ew, girl, are you double dipping? Stop mixing your pickled mayo with my pureed tomatoes.”

“It tastes better this way! OK, listen to this. ‘Soul eyes, souls rise. Be it a day or a lifetime. When the beauty comes alive. Would you be mine?’ Then the hook would sort of be this hum melody.”

Gab’s smile stretches wide. “Whoa. That’s fire! You came up with that today? You’re such a beast!”

From the outside, our friendship seems understandable: same height, weight, and pedigree, except Gab is a year older, and instead of a baldy, she has a head of thick, straight, dark brown hair she keeps in a sloppy high bun. But any word you’d think to describe me, think of her as the antonym. Where I’m clumsy and awkward, Gab is modelesque and confident. Where I’m anxious and frantic, Gab is calm, wise beyond her years. Nothing tips her scale.

Yet we’re two of the few girls of color in a field of lilies. She’s the only girl in the entire school I can talk to without overexplaining my existence. That brings a level of sisterly comfort. For both of us.

Comfort enough to admit my deepest emotion. “He said he liked my singing.”