Open Road Summer(44)

“That’s a good one,” he notes, eyes flicking over the title.

Tilting my head, I study him with a new curiosity. “Are you thinking about college?”

“Um,” he says, glancing away. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

I blink. “That was an informative answer.”

He sighs, as if I’ve caught him in some sort of compromising position. “Yes, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Is that surprising?”

“Kind of. I mean, most people have to go to college before pursuing a career. You have a career, so . . .”

“I know.” He runs his hand along the edge of the sofa. I close the book, now invested in our conversation. “But if I don’t do it now, I don’t think I ever will. I’m already a year behind people my age.”

“I think you’re a decade beyond people your age.”

“But I’m not sure I want to do this forever.”

Matt Finch curveball. He throws ’em low and outside. “Really? It seems like you love it.”

“I do,” he says. “But I want a family someday. Being a musician means touring, erratic schedules . . .”

“You can do that with a family. Lots of musicians do.”

“Maybe I will. I just . . .” he trails off, looking out the window behind me. “I want options, you know? All my buddies from high school seem like they’re having so much fun at college, and I guess I don’t want to miss out.”

“I think you should do it. At least talk to the label. Maybe you could go to school and keep working on stuff. Keep recording and touring over the summer.”

His mouth pulls into a smile. “I didn’t have you pegged as such a higher-education enthusiast.”

Dee, emerging from our bathroom, chimes in, “Oh, she is. Reagan’s grades are, like, amazing. Minus the disciplinary record.”


She sounds much less congested, but I wish she would shut up.

“Dee,” I say, giving her a warning look. Dee always talks about my grades like they’re some big accomplishment. Schoolwork never came easily to Dee, but she always put the work in. To me, high school is like anything else: simple once you learn to play the game. Early on, I figured out how to study to the test. I get most of my homework done in study hall since I have nothing better to do, and I never take honors classes, even though I test into them. Yes, I skip class sometimes, but only classes that I know I can pass easily. And yeah, I go out on the weekends, but I save Sundays for sleeping off my hangover and doing homework.

“Really.” Matt’s looking at me like I’m a creature on Animal Planet, newly discovered and exotic. “Academic achievement?”

“I have to pay for college, and I’m not exactly athletic, am I?”

Dee shakes her head, settling back onto the couch. “She’s being modest.”

I shrug. “Better grades, better options.”

“So what’s your number one?” Matt’s still watching my face closely, as if nerdy glasses are going to manifest on my face.

“Number-one what?”

“Option. School choice.”

“Oh.” I wrap my arms around my legs. “Probably NYU.”

“New York University?” His disbelief almost offends me. “Do you have backups?”

“Well, depending on whether I major in photography or photojournalism, maybe Boston University or Purdue. I’m also considering Vanderbilt and maybe Belmont.”

“Wow,” he says. “Those must be some really good grades.”

I prefer to keep my academic record to myself, as to not tarnish my hard-earned image. The truth is that I have my sights on finishing in the top ten of my class. Now that I’ve quit drinking and Blake, I should have plenty of time to take down at least Daniel Estrada and Molly-Anne Mitchell. Those nerds are both so wrapped up in cocurriculars that they won’t even see me coming. Reagan O’Neill, the girl featured in so many bathroom stall scribblings: in the top ten of her class. It’ll be the ultimate “screw you” to the teachers who doubted me. It’ll show my runaway mother that I made something of myself, if she ever decides to come looking for me. It’s also my way of shoving it in Brenda’s face that I don’t need strict rules to succeed.

“So, what is there to do in this town?” Matt asks, bouncing his knees like a hyperactive child. “It’s the Fourth of July; something good has to be going on.”

“Let’s see.” Dee types something on her keyboard. “Hm. In the next town over, there’s some sort of festival. Sounds like Founder’s Fest. . . .”

“Oh, yes!” I say, sitting up excitedly. I love Founder’s Fest in our hometown, with its cheap carnival food and sketchy rides. “We have to go.”

Matt nods. “Um, hell yeah.”

“Oh, yay, that’ll be so fun for you guys!” Dee says happily, but the rasp in her voice is persistent. I got so excited that I forgot—of course she can’t go.

“Maybe some sunshine would be good for you . . . ,” I venture.

She shakes her head. “Even if I felt better, I don’t feel like putting on some sort of disguise. If I don’t wear one, we’ll spend the whole day signing autographs. And if I go, we’ll have to bring security, and Mack’s off for the day. . . .”