Open Road Summer(39)

After a while, I wander to a nearby café for a coffee and some sort of health-nut bran muffin. I pace the length of the pier before finding a spot on an empty bench. Soon, the promenade begins to fill with joggers in nylon shorts and older men in straw hats. I savor my solo California morning the way I’m savoring my coffee: slowly, taking in each moment. When I’m done, I take my time going up the streets back to the high school.

I’m not ready to face reality yet—the reality of at least half the summer left, trying to keep myself from Matt. Thinking about him is an unnecessary complication and the last thing I need.

At the set, production is in full force. A tall security guy in a black T-shirt decides that my tour VIP pass suffices as proof that I belong here, and I roam the halls looking for Dee. Even in a school as beautiful as this one, the smell of K-12 education curls under my nose—the stale scent of lockers and tile cleaner and years of desk drool from back-row naps. I hear Peach’s voice, and I follow the sound.

She’s in a large classroom, with all the desks pushed to the back to make room for lighting and assistants. They have Dee in an argyle sweater and pleated skirt, posing in front of a blackboard. Rows of white chalk read: I will not write songs during class. I will not write songs during class. The photo shoot is for the September back-to-school issue, and Dee will, of course, be on the cover—probably next to an all-caps title: QUEEN OF THE SCHOOL SCENE.

“I’m not sure about this,” she tells me as the on-site beauty team sweeps in to reapply her makeup. “It seems snotty, posing like high school royalty.”

“I mean, it’s cutesy,” I admit. It’s worse than cutesy; in fact, it’s trite and cheesy. And so not who she was in school. But everything has been set up already—no use in stressing her out now. “It’s not that bad.”

“I guess.” She rolls her eyes, her false lashes nearly reaching her eyebrows. This display of attitude makes it even clearer: she needs some sleep. “Did you have a good time at the beach?”

“Yeah, I went to—” I begin, but she cuts me off with a sigh.

“Never mind. Don’t tell me,” she says, her eyes pleading. “I’m so jealous and tired that I could cry off all my makeup.”

I give her a pitying smile, and she sighs again. “Will you go check on Matt? I haven’t seen him all morning.”

As she says this, I watch the makeup artist’s eyes flicker with interest. Even the people closest to celebrities seem desperate to know the juicy details. I nod, taking off for the other side of the school. The empty hallways are dim, echoing only the soft padding of my ballet flats.

The magazine is shooting Matt for their “Hottie of the Month” column. He mimed barfing when he told me, claiming that the record label’s publicity department insisted. Having Dee and Matt in the same magazine will do wonders for magazine sales and for the rumor mill. That’s what Lissa would call “win-win” and what I would call “whoring out my friends.” Still, I’m curious to see Matt being photographed like the celebrity he is. It’s easy to forget, day to day, that he’s well-known enough to be in a column called “Hottie of the Month.”

Stomach fluttering, I press open the door to the boys’ locker room, entering as quietly as I can. A team of people are manning the lighting equipment—stretched black umbrellas on metal rods and a few freestanding spotlights—and it all points toward Matt. He looks almost unrecognizable, wearing a football jersey and posing with one leg up on a weight-lifting bench. I bite down on my lip, trying not to laugh. It’s so un-Matt-like, the whole jock-guy stereotype.

Moving closer, I have to admire the scene, despite its discord with Matt’s actual personality and interests. His hair has been styled with a significant amount of hair product, making him look tougher than his usual “sweet-hearted musician who’s skipped a few haircuts” vibe. I like it.

“A few more and then we go outside,” says the photographer, who is gauntly thin with a mass of wiry curls. She holds the huge-lensed camera with a slack wrist, like she’s so used to it being a part of her hand that she forgets it’s there. My hands would shake if I held a camera that powerful and expensive. I wonder what other publications she works for, which countries she’s traveled to. She must have a hell of a career, to be that relaxed with a five-thousand-dollar camera.

Matt nods complacently at her and then catches my eye. I waggle my fingers, teasing him even with my wave. In return, he rolls his eyes at me, which only makes him hotter. What can I say? My favorite indulgences these days are boys with bad attitudes and shoe sales.

“Can we lose the shirt, love?” the photographer asks.

Matt’s face falls, and all semblance of confidence with it. This strikes me as odd. I’ve seen Matt shirtless, and there’s certainly nothing to hide.

“I, uh—” he stammers. “I don’t think so.”

“Let’s not be prudish,” she quips hurriedly, fiddling with her beautiful camera. Matt lifts his hand as if to place it on his hip, but instead he rests it against his side. Then it hits me—his tattoo, the lines of black script on his left side. He’d have to expose the inked memorial, which would beg questions about the loss of his mom. Matt can take care of himself, but protectiveness surges inside me all the same. Lissa’s not in the room, so I take matters into my own hands.