Open Road Summer(8)

I sighed, shaking my head at the counselor. “Look, Mia Graziani started that rumor to deflect attention from her own problems. I don’t want to gossip, but . . . frankly, I’ve seen her throwing up in the bathroom twice this past month, so . . . either pregnancy or bulimia. Poor girl.”

It was a total lie, and I almost felt bad about it. But I hated Mia. I hated her for choosing me as the subject of her cruelty. I hated her more for bringing out the viciousness in me. This wasn’t who I wanted to be, but how many times can a dog get kicked before she bares her teeth in return?

I retreated to the girl’s bathroom as the bell rang. I went into the stall where “Reagan O’Neill is a whore” was written on the back of the door. In black Sharpie, I spelled out exactly where Mia Graziani could shove it. It wasn’t long before I heard the creak of the door and soft footsteps.

“Reagan . . .” Dee always sounds like her mom when she uses her calm voice. “C’mon. Come out.”

I complied by kicking the stall door with all my might. Dee winced at the sound of the metal door slamming against the wall and then surveyed my vandalism. She was holding the bathroom pass from the class we were both supposed to be in.

“They’re just jealous.”

“Why would they be jealous?”

“Because you’re beautiful and smart. They know it. You make them insecure.”

“Yeah, right.” I scowled, kicking the door again, though with less force this time.

Dee caught the door with one hand before it could hit the wall.

“They’re mean to you, too, you know,” I said. They called Dee “Frizz” behind her back and talked about her songwriting contract with air quotes, like they didn’t believe it was real. But it was still unkind of me—attempting to drag Dee along the low road with me. Her cheeks flinched, trying to frown, but she wouldn’t let them. Even then, Dee was strong. Not in the loud, brassy, I-am-woman way that some girls are. She was strong then the way she’s strong now, in a quiet but irrepressible way.

“Yeah, I know,” she said finally. “But my mom says the best revenge is living well, and I believe her.”

And now—arms high and pyrotechnic sparks showering the stage beside her—she’s proving her point. I believe her, too.





Chapter Three

Charlotte


It’s after 2:00 a.m. by the time we return to the hotel. I didn’t drink any champagne at the show’s after-party, since I’m still on the sober wagon. And now I know the reason why they call it “the wagon”—because not drinking at an after-party is about as fun as bumping along in a wagon on the Oregon Trail. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not an alcoholic or anything. I’m just an all-or-nothing kind of girl, and I’ve done “all,” so now I’m trying “nothing.” Dee didn’t drink, either, of course, because Dee doesn’t drink and never has.

The show was an undeniable hit. Now Dee’s family is on a red-eye flight back to Nashville, and I’m here with Dee on her own personal cloud nine.

Once inside our hotel room, Peach moves straight to her bedroom. Dee is a hurricane of adrenaline and triumph, twirling around the lobby of our room. I drop my purse on the floor and plop down on the couch next to my laptop. I want to upload my pictures from tonight before I go to bed so I can clear them off my camera for tomorrow. I type in my password and, before I can even hit Enter, something in the room changes. Dee’s excitement was pulsing like a current through the air, but now the energy in the room has flatlined.

Sure enough, her face is pale, frozen as if she’s been slapped. Hard. She’s staring down at her work phone.

“Reagan.” Her voice sounds choked. “Search my name.”

My fingertips clack against the keyboard, and for once I hardly feel the cast on my left hand restraining me. The search returns for “Lilah Montgomery” appear, and my throat sinks into my stomach. Dee sits down—or her knees buckle—so that she’s next to me on the couch.

From the last half hour alone, there are twelve news stories linked to her name, each with equally horrifying titles: LILAH MONTGOMERY: NUDE PIC SCANDAL, COUNTRY PRINCESS DETHRONED?, THE BOY SHE LEFT HEARTBROKEN.

“What the—?” I gasp, my eyes speeding over the screen.

Of course there are no nude pictures of Dee floating around. It’s the last article that scares me, the one that hints that they found out about Jimmy. This is the nightmare, the worst-case scenario, and I can’t believe it could be a reality. Dee and Jimmy were such homebodies, even before Dee’s first record. They were always so careful to not be photographed together.

Dee keeps her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as she breathes, “Click one.”

I open the first link, bracing for the worst. With the story, a picture pops up—one that I recognize.

They cropped it. They cropped out the pool in the background and the few people who are standing around Dee and Jimmy. The magazine also edited the picture so it’s only their upper bodies, embracing in a lip-lock. His swim trunks aren’t visible, nor are her bikini bottoms. To make matters worse, Dee’s then-long hair covers her bathing-suit straps. From the angle it was taken, with Jimmy’s arms around her, the bathing-suit top is totally hidden.

“No,” Dee whispers. “No.”