Jesse's Girl

  “Did you fool around with him?” Zachary Painter asks, getting lots of laughs from other kids.

  Dr. Salter’s face goes redder than his bow tie, and I wonder if it’s that obvious that I made out with Jesse Scott.

  “Zack,” Coach Lynn reprimands. “Not in my classroom.” She focuses on me again. “What’s the most important thing you learned from Jesse, Maya?”

  I think back to what he said when we goofed around on that playground. “I learned that I have to take chances if I want a chance at my dreams.”

  That shuts the class up. Everybody, including Dr. Salter and Coach Lynn, seems to be thinking about my words. Jesse’s words.

  Back at my desk, I pull my phone out of my pocket and search Jesse’s name. I stare at the cover of his greatest hits album. It’s him leaning against a blue pickup truck, staring at a field of sunflowers. If I had an album, what would be on the cover? How many tracks would it have? Would it be a mix of rock and pop?

  That’s when I decide.

  I’m going to take a chance. A big one.

  Don’t Dream It’s Over

  “My name is Maya Henry, and I’m the next Wannabe Rocker…I mean, winner of Wannabe Rocker!”

  I cringe and hit the stop button on my phone. Wannabe Rocker audition videos are due in less than a week, and this is take #147. I am not exaggerating. I really have messed up that many times. Even with the singing tips Jesse and Holly gave me, my voice still cracks from time to time.

  Anna pounds on the bathroom door. “I need to go bad, Maya! Let me in!”

  “God, just use Mom’s bathroom!” I yell. Can’t she understand that the acoustics in this bathroom are necessary to my future success?

  I adjust my guitar strap and get situated for take #148. I’m doing this, I tell myself. I’m going solo. I can do it.

  That’s when my phone buzzes. I read: Hi.

  Holy crap. It’s Jesse.

  When I first thanked him for the boots, he wrote back: NP. No problem. I figured it was his parting gift for being an ass, and that would be it between us. I mean, besides our ongoing YouTube relationship where the number of views continues to rocket.

  One day during lunch, Dave broke out the People magazine blurb about Jesse and me performing on the Belle Carol. Together we pored over the article, which talks about how Jesse made a young fan’s dream come true when he crashed her party. It also has a picture of us and notes that more than five million people have watched the video online so far.

  But it’s been nearly two weeks since shadow day. Two weeks since I’ve heard from Jesse. And now he texts me?

  Whatever. I don’t have time for this.

  I fluff my hair, adjust my guitar, then reach over and press record on my phone. “My name is Maya Henry, and I’m the next winner of Wannabe Rocker!”

  I launch into “Somebody to Love,” and I make it through the song with no issues, but it still doesn’t feel special enough. Should I go for a more soulful performance, or should I rock it out? I slip in my earbuds and listen to the original Queen version, wondering if I should switch the melody up to make my performance more interesting. Maybe I should choose another song. I’m no Freddie Mercury.

  Another message from Jesse pops on the screen. It’s a link to a YouTube video, along with a text:

  been thinking of you

  I take a deep breath and push play. It’s a video of him at one of his concerts. The stage lights dim, and he begins plucking an acoustic guitar. He stares at his fingers as he plays each note, and he licks his lower lip, concentrating.

  Then he starts singing my favorite song.

  Suddenly, my knees go wobbly. I grip the edge of the bathtub and sit as his rendition of “Killing Me Softly” plays. God, it’s beautiful, the way his tone crests and falls, making me teary-eyed one second and smiley the next.

  He performed it just for me.

  Do I respond? What do I say? I’m still pissed at him and embarrassed, but I can’t ignore how good the excitement feels, my heart hammering, my hands clutching my guitar for dear life.

  The entire song goes by before I make a decision. Hi.

  Seconds later, he texts, How are you?

  Fine.

  What are you doing?

  Listening to music. You?

  Just got home from Seventeen mag photo shoot

  Exciting

  They made me pose shirtless by my Harley. I felt like a piece of meat.

  poor baby

  And then I found Casper had unrolled a whole roll of toilet paper.

  lol. good job, Casper.

  Can we talk?

  I stare at the blinking cursor on my phone.

  Then I stand and go back to rehearsing in front of the mirror.

  • • •

  Jesse keeps sending texts over the next couple of days. I haven’t responded, because I didn’t know if I want to talk. I still don’t know.

  Besides, I have a bigger problem I need to deal with: my audition video sucks ass! I haven’t been able to figure out which song I should sing, nor have I recorded a clip that I can stand behind. And it’s due by October 5. By midnight tonight.

  In total crisis mode, I drive my bike a mile to Dave’s house, and when I get there, his mother lets me into the foyer.

  “He’s upstairs with Xander, dear.” She must be the most trusting mom in the world, or she hasn’t figured out that Dave is seeing Xander, which makes no sense, because everybody knows Dave is gay.

  I hustle up the stairs to his room, moving faster than I ever have in gym class, knock once on Dave’s door, and hurl myself in. Xander and Dave startle apart from kissing on the bed and scramble to sit up.

  “Maya, what the hell?” Dave asks, flattening his mussed hair.

  “Emergency! I need your opinion. And your MacBook.” I sit down at his desk, open his computer, and plug in my phone. The boys untangle themselves and come lean over my shoulders.

  “What’s going on?” Dave asks.

  “Tell me which of these videos you like.” We run through the best of the clips I recorded in my bathroom. There’s lots of shrugging and “hmmm-ing,” which does nothing for my self-esteem. I try to keep in my mind that I interrupted their hookup and they’d like to get back to it, but this is my life we’re talking about!

  After watching my sixth video, Dave drums his fingers on his desk. “Can’t you use a real live performance? A video of you in the bathroom is just so…”

  “Unhygienic?” Xander offers.

  “Amateur,” Dave says.

  “And unhygienic.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Why don’t you send in your talent show video from last year?” Dave asks.

  “Because my voice cracked!”

  “But before it cracked, your guitar playing was so badass. People at school were talking about it for weeks.”

  “What? All I heard was them calling me ‘the Siren.’”

  “Only because they were jealous. Seriously, everyone was way impressed with your guitar playing. That’s the video you gotta send in. We’ll cut it before you start singing.”

  “But I have to send in a singing sample too,” I whine.

  “Can you send in two videos?” Xander asks.

  “No,” Dave and I say at the same time.

  “I mean, can you splice together sections of your different performances?” Xander asks. “Like, one where you sound good singing?”

  I shrug. “It’s not a bad idea. But my audition video can’t be longer than three minutes…and I don’t really have any recorded live performances that are good.”

  “You do with The Fringe,” Dave says, leaning over Xander’s shoulder to pull up my former band’s YouTube channel. “We can show you singing backup, and if we have to, we can use one of the unhygienic bathroom clips.”

&
nbsp; “But I’m singing metal in our Fringe videos.”

  “It’s what we have to work with,” Dave says.

  “Here, scooch over,” Xander says, squishing into the desk chair with me. Over the next hour, the boys help me splice together my video. And by the end, I’m pretty happy with the result. With my talent show “Bohemian Rhapsody” performance making up most of the video, it screams eighties…with a small amount of metal. But it’s not terrible.

  “I still think you should send the video of you on the riverboat,” Dave says. “Your voice was amazing.”

  “Seriously,” Xander says, nodding.

  I shake my head. “This audition is about me and me only. I don’t want any special favors because I sang once with Jesse Scott.”

  I’m doing this on my own.

  • • •

  A few days later, a weird sound wakes me up. Th-dump.

  I sit up straight and look around my room. Shimmering moonlight flows through the window and bathes the room in a soft white glow. Th-dump. Th-dump. That noise again.

  Something’s in the yard. Maybe I should get Dad? I push my covers away and pad toward the window, then pause when a rock hits it. I look out into the yard and place a hand to my chest.

  “Jesse,” I whisper.

  When he sees my face, his hand falls to his side, and a few rocks tumble from his fingers. I stare into the caramel eyes I never thought I’d see again in real life. Not breaking eye contact, he walks closer. I struggle with the latch, then yank up the window up and lean out toward him.

  “Hi,” I say breathily.

  “Hi.” He smiles that wicked smile, and then he does the worst possible thing. He sings, “I’m a tiny swatch of quilllllllllt, and I want to be sewn into your hearrrrrrrrt.”

  I cover my face and start laughing my ass off.

  That’s when my bedroom door slams open. “Who are you talking to?” my dad demands.

  “Nobody.”

  He stalks over and looks out into the night. As my heart gallops away from me, I gaze into the yard. I see nothing but trees and grass. Where did Jesse go?

  “I was looking at the stars,” I lie.

  “Riiiight,” Dad says with a yawn. “Go to bed, My, and tell whoever’s outside to beat it. Now.”

  He shuts the door behind him.

  I whisper-yell, “Jesse!”

  He pops straight up. I yelp and stumble back.

  “Can you come out?” he asks quietly.

  I shake my head. “I can’t walk through the house—Dad’ll hear me.”

  He holds his arms out. “C’mere, then.”

  For the first time in my life, I’m happy with my super-short, nonathletic body. Jesse lifts me out the window and drops me to the ground in front of him. He smoothes my bleached hair behind my ears and gazes down at me. I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t want to give him a show: I’m not wearing a bra. My tank top is thin, and it’s a chilly night.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “You weren’t answering my texts, so I came to serenade you.”

  “With the worst song I ever wrote.”

  “I got stage fright. I sang the first thing that came to mind.”

  “Jesse Scott got stage fright,” I say in a monotone voice.

  “That’s right.” His eyes twinkle at me.

  “For real though,” I whisper. “Why are you here?”

  A cricket chirps a few times, filling the silence. Then he replies, “I missed you.”

  I have no response to that. I missed him too, but he’ll never hear that from my mouth. I hug myself harder, to protect my heart.

  “I’m sorry about the way I acted that night.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I say snarkily.

  He takes a deep breath. “The way I was feeling…about you…it was all new to me, and I didn’t know what to do.”

  I just stand here, because I have nothing to apologize for and too many things I want to say but shouldn’t.

  “I was thinking,” he says quietly. “I don’t have a show on Friday. Do you want to hang out?”

  I glance up. “What?”

  “Friday night?”

  I thought he said things couldn’t work out between us, and now he shows up at my bedroom window after midnight to serenade me with terrible lyrics and ask me to hang out? I swear.

  “Like as a date?” I ask.

  “I was thinking as friends… I’m not sure I’m ready for something more yet, but let’s see where this goes.”

  It’s like with Nate all over again. He said we couldn’t officially be together because of the band, but he had no problem with hooking up on the side. And now Jesse Scott is saying we can hang out and “see where this goes,” but he isn’t offering any assurances beyond that. I don’t want to place my trust in a guy who doesn’t know what he wants.

  “Jess, this is a bad idea. You freaked out because you thought I’d treat you like your ex-girlfriend did.”

  He lowers his eyes. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  I worry my lip. Fold my arms more tightly around my body.

  “We can do whatever you want,” he says. “I only want to spend time with you.”

  The moon disappears behind a cloud, leaving his face in shadow. He’s scared I’ll say no. I should say no. I should use my Friday night to practice, just like I’ve been doing every other night. But I’m interested to know how far Jesse will go to spend time with me.

  “I want to see a movie,” I announce.

  “You probably want to see Hot Wired, right? The car chases look awes—”

  “I want to see The Commander in Chief Who Loved Me.”

  His nose crinkles. I don’t blame him. I don’t have any interest in seeing it either—it’s a romantic comedy about political rivals who fall for each other on the presidential campaign trail. I just want to know if he will see it. Of course I would rather see Hot Wired, which is about stealing fancy cars, explosions, sex, and stealing even fancier cars.

  “I can probably get it,” he says.

  “What do you mean you can get it? You mean tickets?”

  “No, I mean I’ll have Gina or Tracy get a copy of the movie, and we can watch it in my home theater.”

  Of course he’d be able to get a copy of a movie that hasn’t come out yet, and he doesn’t even have to download it illegally.

  I appreciate that he drove to Franklin because he missed me. But if we’re going to see a movie, we’re gonna do it on my terms. If he wants a real life, I’ll give him one.

  “I want to see it in an actual theater. And I want to invite Dave and Xander. We’ll double.”

  Jesse swallows hard. “We can do that.”

  “Text me with the details.” I turn on my heels and march toward the front door. My dad’s gonna kill me, but I won’t give Jesse the satisfaction of helping me get back in the window.

  Love Is a Battlefield

  “Just act normal.”

  “You’re asking me to do the impossible,” Dave complains. “I don’t see how you can act normal around him.”

  That’s a fair statement. Jesse and I have been texting on and off for the past couple of days, but I haven’t caught my breath since he showed up at my window.

  Tonight, I may get so nervous that I spill my Coke or drop popcorn down inside my top. Oh God, is my red leather halter cut too low? I look down to make sure I’m not wardrobe-malfunctioning.

  Xander opens the door for Dave and me, and we walk inside the theater, which smells of popcorn and nachos. Gazing around, I anxiously adjust my bracelets. There he is.

  Jesse is holding court by a cardboard display for an animated movie about a bicycle that wishes it were a car. If Jesse were any other guy, he’d be standing alone, probably checking his cell or deciding which candy to buy at the co
ncession stand. But no. He’s surrounded by girls and signing shirts and napkins with a Sharpie. Some girl yanks the collar of her shirt down and motions for Jesse to sign her chest. With barely a glance, he turns away to sign a little girl’s popcorn bag.

  One point for Jesse.

  The hulking security guard from the booth outside Jesse’s house stands sentry over the group of girls. I never imagined I’d go to a movie with a guy and his security detail. How romantic.

  Xander grabs my elbow. “Are we sure Jesse isn’t bi?”

  “I told you, I’m much more his type than you are,” Dave tells him.

  “Keep it in your pants, boys,” I say, pulling down on my white skirt that won’t stop riding up.

  When Jesse looks up and sees me, a true smile breaks across his freckled face. The crowd around him parts like the Red Sea as he makes his way over and hugs me.

  “Awww!” The younger girls gossip about how romantic we are.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Jesse whispers in my ear, making me shiver.

  “You too.” I gently pull away from him and turn to face my friends as Jesse places a warm hand on my lower back. “You remember Dave and Xander?”

  “I do.” He reaches out to shake their hands.

  Dave squeaks out a “Hi!”

  “It’s nice seeing you again,” Jesse says, sounding as awkward as my preacher when he greets me after services. (My nose ring mixed with poor church attendance make for a sin cocktail.) At least I know Jesse doesn’t care that we’re doubling with two gay guys; he’s nervous because he doesn’t hang out with people his own age that often.

  “You brought your security guard?” I whisper.

  “I want you to have a good time and not worry about people bothering you.” With his hand still locked in place on my back, Jesse steers me to the concession stand. “Want something to eat?”

  “I dunno. This all seems pretty unhealthy. Am I allowed?” I joke.

  He grins. “You’re allowed.”

  He buys me some Twizzlers and a cherry ICEE for himself, and we choose seats in the last row. Jesse’s security guard sits next to me, and Xander and Dave scramble to get the seat next to Jesse.