CHAPTER 2

"Sorry I'm late. Car trouble."

I trip into the cafe, and Avery looks up from her table.

"I did bring you presents, through. Check your e-reader." \

My friend grabs her tablet from her bag.

"Oooh! How many books did you get me?"

"Ten? Twelve?"

I laugh.

"You're going away. You'll need some new material."

"You're the best!"

She informs me when I finish telling her about the mix of fiction and non fiction I picked out. We go to the counter, and I order a peppermint tea.

"How was rehearsal?"

Avery asks while we wait. I fill my friend in on what happened with Carla, and her eyes widen.

"The bitches tried to stop me driving away from the crime scene."

I finish.

"Sabotaging your ride is a new low. She's escalating."

I roll my eyes.

"Carla can't stand people taking things she wants."

"It's more than that. You're a traitor to an income bracket."

Avery says, mock chastising.

"Writing essays about how her dad and a bunch of others are destroying the middle class through their greedy empires and campaigning with the administration to spend our community involvement hours with actual disadvantage people instead of working with fancy ad agencies on shiny posters for environmental groups."

Her smile fades.

"For real, through. Why is this High School Musical fantasy is so important to you? In a year, we'll both be at Columbia, and this will all be behind us."

My tea is set in front of me, and I reach for it.

"She doesn't get to decide who has a voice, on stage or anywhere else."

Avery follows me back to our table.

"So, how'd you get here if they fucked up your ride?"

"Timothy fixed it."

I glance at her empty mug.

"Do you want another Americano to get through calculus?"

Hands grip my arms, and in a second, I'm looking straight into my friend's dark, dancing eyes.

"No, I do not want another Americano. I want to know in what world Timothy Adams was elbow deep in your business?!"

Avery's smart. Like, next level. She's the head of debate team and the newspaper, she's taking all AP courses, and she doesn't miss a beat. Her dad moved here from Nevada and met her mom at Spain before they came to Texas. Mr. Spade knows my stepmom because Haley's in software too.

"When was the last time you and Mr. Pool House (Timothy Adams) talked about something other than who ate the last Cheerios?"

She presses.

"Four months?"

"Which is weird given you've been living together for the better part of a semester and you were friends before that."

Yes, we were friends. Or whatever you call it when you hang with someone incessantly, argue over bands until three in the morning, and take over diner booths across an entire city on an epic quest to find the best cheese fries. When I met Timothy, he was part of a community outreach program at my dad's label in Philly for kids from troubled backgrounds. He was talented and gorgeous, but none of that was what attracted me to him. There was a deeper pull. I knew Timothy had seen some shit the way you can tell when another person's been through it. Still, anytime I asked about his family, he shut me down. When my dad finished the album, we moved back to Dallas, but Timothy and I stayed friends.

"Remember when he moved here from Philly to work with your dad and everyone at school lost their designer shit over him?"

Avery muses.

"Oakwood should've eaten him alive, but they didn't."

And that's what I hate the most. The boy I trusted, my partner in crime during one of the most tumultuous periods of my life, traded my friendship for theirs.

"The whole thing was messed up from the start."

I admit.

"Timothy showed up at our house. My dad said they'd be working together on music with Timothy living in our pool house and finishing senior year at Oakwood. Zero additional explanation."

I go on at her raised brows.

"I was so thrilled he was here that I let the weirdness slide. That was my first mistake. Do not, I repeat, do not let the weirdness slide."

I take a sip of my tea, and Avery scrunches up her face.

"But he's not an asshole to you like the others are. So, why did you stop talking to him?"

Her dark brows pull together. The night at Carla's birthday party comes back to me in a rush. I remember the way he'd looked at me when we were alone, as if I was the only person who mattered right before he humiliated me.

"She's nothing. Nobody."

"It doesn't matter, Avery. I'm over it."

I reach into my black leather bag for my schoolbooks. We have a history test on Friday, calculus is a never-ending nightmare, and there's a poetry assignment breathing down on my neck. I love writing, but I wish didn't have to do all the other crap too.

"But you liked him before he was cool."

She insist.

"He looks like Adam Levine fucked Paul Rudd and, through some of miracle modern science, they reproduced."

I shift in my seat.

"Accurate."

My friend grins.

"You should write him a limerick."

"There once was a prince of a clique. His guitar was pretty slick."

"If this ends with a punchline about his dick, I'm going to die."

I pick up my tea, eyeing her over the rim.

"I've never seen his dick, but I call it Ode the pretty assholes."

This time neither of us can stop the laughter. "

You need to get laid."

She says once were both breathing again.

"If only so Carla stops calling you that stupid nickname. There are a lot of guys who'd love to help you out."

"I'm not having sex to spite her."

I narrow my gaze.

"Besides, you don't give a shit about my sex life. You're going to Italy for a week."

Her smiles melt away, and I cock my head.

"Wait, why do you look as if that Americano is your last meal?"

"It's the last third of the semester. Exams are coming up. Debate team needs to be preparing for state. I need to hand in this essay."

"And you're going to be in Tuscany, drinking Chianti and flipping us off while your dad works."

Avery sighs.

"Promise you'll keep me up to date. The most exciting things always happen when I'm gone."

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"This is fucking impossible."

A low voice grumbles as I make my way through the back hallway of our house after parking in the six car garage. The sight greeting me in the cavernous kitchen is the biggest rock star in the last two generations bent over a high chair, feeding my almost seven month old half sister. Judging from the amount of baby food on the tray and Sofia's face, my dad's losing.

"Shouldn't she be sleeping by now?"

I drop my bag on the Island big enough to host a dinner party.

"If I could've gotten some damned food into the kid, she would be."

Eddie Carlton can rock stadiums, produce multi platinum albums, charm new stagehands, and cut down aggressive reporters with a stare. Apparently, he's met his match in Sophia. With her chocolate eyes, and full head of dark hair, she can barely sit up but is capable of yanking Dad around as if he's dangling on a cord like one of her zoo-animal-shaped soothers.

"Think that I was this tough to feed as a baby?"

I come up next to the high chair, folding my arms. My dad pinches my side.

"Seems like you ate enough."

"Oh my God! You can't say that to teenage girls. Every pamphlet says so."

"I gave those to the band to read."

We joke about it, but the truth is he wasn't there when I was a baby. He didn't even know I existed when I was Sophia's age. My birth mom was someone he met during his early days touring when he was swept up by the lifestyle. He was still a teenager. He says she wasn't a hook up but refuses to talk about how it all went down. Once he found out, he decided I should live with my Aunt Gwen and her husband Uncle Jorge until I was older. You might expect learning your insanely successful rock star uncle is actually your father would be a gift. It wasn't. I'm beyond fortunate. I'm reminded every time I volunteer at one of the shelters in Dallas or pore over research for a civic policy paper. Still, it can't erase the feeling I'm missing something inside. A necessary component that's irreplaceable, that no amount of money can fix.

"Come on, little Helion."

Dad murmurs. Sophia lets out a wail and slaps at his hand hard enough to send prunes flying onto his face.

"You look like a crime scene victim."

I take the spoon from him and ply Sophia with little coos. The kid is cute when she's not wailing.

"Dad, do you want to watch a movie tonight? You're way behind on your Marvel."

He grunts.

"They make one every damned month. But tonight, I need to get a couple guitar tracks worked out for a project. You seen Timothy?"

Disappointment courses through me.

"Not since school. I had rehearsal, then studied with Avery."

"Glad to hear it. The studying, not the rehearsal."

"Because in your world, the men play the guitar and women do the math."

I deadpan.

"There is one world, and in it, my daughter is going to college."

When your dad happens to have been the biggest rock star on the planet before he semi-retired, things like graduations and diplomas and college admissions don't seem nearly as impressive as millions of album sales, screaming fans, and seven-figure endorsement deals. I would give anything for his musicality, his confidence. The way he commands a room, the God given spark that makes it so you can't look away. Instead, I have his eyes and his flair for the dramatic. Hardly a fair trade.

"Do me a favor and watch Sophia while I go down to the studio with Timothy."

My dad says on his way to the sink.

"Haley's at a meeting but should be back soon, and there's lasagna on the stove."

If only my dad would see me the way he sees Timothy. They spend hours together discussing guitar, sound and vocals. Working on new tracks for other artists and causes. In less than a month, I'll be the one on stage, and they won't be able to ignore me. Then he'll see me like he sees Timothy. Then I'll matter like they do. My phone vibrates, and I glance at it.

CHRIS: Think about my idea?

A temporary truce with Carla and the others would mean I wouldn't have to constantly worry about getting a knife between the shoulders between now and opening night.

"I want to have a few people over this weekend."

I decide. Dad turns off the faucet, his shirt clean but soaking wet.

"Haley and Sophia and I are in Los Angeles."

"Even better. You hate parties."

"And teenagers at my house leave behind messes that will linger until I'm back."

He frowns down at his shirt as if realizing teenagers aren't the messiest part of this household. I play my trump card, my dad's longest friend and guitarist, better known to the world as Mace.

"Not if Uncle Rudy's supervising."

Dad yanks the shirt over his head, apparently giving up on trying to get it clean, and heads for the hallway leading to the stairs.

"If Mace is free, you can have friends over."

He calls over a shoulder.

"But if they break anything, I'll break you and them."

Yes. It's the closest thing to a resounding affirmative I could hope for. I'll host an epic cast party for the rich assholes, prove to Timothy Adams he's wrong about me tempting Carla and her minions, and the entire musical standoff will be resolved by Monday. Easy. Peasy.