Moment(s)

  My lips twitch as I fight a smile. “Aye, the first and only song I’ve ever written that management thought worth a fash. My other songs are basically rewritten so much that I don’t recognize them anymore.”

  “Especially when they add ‘baby’ all through the lyrics,” she whispers, staring at me.

  I nod. What will I do if she kicks me out of this car? Cry. “I think there might be a quota.”

  “No way that song is about me.” Emilie grabs her forehead and drops it to the steering wheel. “No. Way.”

  “What were you wishing for?”

  She takes a few deep breaths. “That song…that’s big. No, it’s amazing. Why would you write a song about me?”

  Ever since I became recognizable to the majority of the progressive world, I never get to look at anyone other than the bandmates without them knowing. Everyone has a façade when they know I’m looking. Nobody totally lets anyone in, but peering at someone unnoticed gives you a gist of that real person. And that night one year ago, I really saw her. She went to the fountain alone, with the purpose of making a wish. Alone. She represented everything I felt then. And I was able to witness it. I saw it and I’ve never stopped seeing it for a whole year. “I just—I asked you first. What were you wishing?”

  Emilie stares at the steering wheel. “Oh God. Julian, you wrote a song.” Looking back up at me, she shakes her head. “Don’t be mad. It’s kinda stupid, but I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.”

  I jerk my gaze to the windscreen in front of me, which is quickly fogging up. No, it doesn’t knock me off at all. My jaw clenches…my stomach too. “Fine.”

  “It was really important,” she says and looks down. “I can’t tell—”

  “I got it.”

  Her breath comes out in a huff, and she jerks her head up. “You’re mad.”

  “No, I’m not.” Yes, I am.

  “Julian?” She sounds amused now. “You so are.” She pokes me in the ribs, emphasizing each word. “I guess nobody…tells…you…no.”

  “All right, all right.” I grab her hand and try to shake off the pouting. “I won’t be mad. Are we going to your house or what?”

  “Sure.” Emilie pulls off again.

  I spot her mouthing the rest of the words to my song and then shaking her head. She thinks you’re an idiot. Way to go, Jules. My face heats up all over again. All this blushing stuff can’t be good for my skin. Tomorrow I’ll be all spotted.

  The drive is quiet and in less than ten minutes we’re pulling onto a narrow, cement driveway. The headlights flash upon a small white cottage with black shutters before she quickly shuts the beams off.

  I turn to her. “Have you given us away?”

  “What? Oh, no. Their bedroom is in the back.” She turns to me, jiggles the keys in her hands and bites her lip (aye, my stomach does more gymnastics). “You need to wait out here in case Daddy is waiting up. When all’s clear, I’ll sneak you in my window.”

  “Daddy. That’s cute.”

  “Welcome to the American South.”

  When I fully process her plan I can’t help but chuckle. “Hold on. I’m going to sneak in your window?” That sets me off. I throw my head back in a fit of laughs. “This is great. The lads will absolutely love this story. But I don’t want you in trouble.”

  “No trouble. My parents completely trust my judgment.” She climbs out but turns back, pulling a massive smile. “There’s just plenty of other things I’d rather do than explain you.”

  And she’s gone, heading toward the small stoop off to the side of the little house. It’s cute—and quite small. A couple of minutes later I clock her waving out of a window on the side opposite from the stoop. I pop out and head toward her. The closer I get, the prettier Emilie looks, the light behind her outlining wavy brown hair that’s past her shoulders.

  I’m too concentrated on her to realize the window is higher than it looked from the car. The bottom is even with my chest and I’m tall.

  “Hmm, this might be a problem,” she says.

  “Nah, gymnastics,” I say with a grin. This will be just like a pommel horse. “Is there anything on the floor around the window?”

  “It’s clear,” she whispers after looking around. She moves over to the side of the window and leans down. “Yeah, I heard about all that at your concert. Isn’t having lights in your clothes dangerous?”

  “Nope. A special kind.” I raise myself up on the windowsill and lock my elbows. After getting my hands just right, I propel myself through the window. Her carpeted floor is nice cushioning for my tuck and roll. My neck and shoulders don’t bump even a little bit.

  Feeling quite chuffed, I hop up and pull a massive smile.

  She grins. “Awesome.”

  My heart does a sort of crazy dance, and I clutch at my chest. My God, her eyes. No, they haven’t changed colors—dark blue still— but in this light they’re somehow soft and sweet. Not like Luke and Parker’s blue starbursts that you can spot across a crowded room. But her eyes hold so much feeling—to break contact would be to disappoint. Once you’re locked on, a crowd going mad behind her couldn’t make you look away. I don’t think I can drag my gaze away now.

  I have to draw this face—but no. I won’t get it just right, and it’ll only put me in a mood.

  She crosses her arms over her chest and eyes the door. Her jacket is off now, and I’m getting the full look at her outfit: a long, blue top pulled tight to her little waist with a narrow belt. Over those tight jeans, the look is really…Yeah, I definitely like it.

  “What are you staring at?” She reaches for the laces on her boots.

  Truly, her earrings… In one ear is a red bug with black dots and in the other is a safety pin with the same dotted bug dangling from it.

  “Is that a Junebug?” I ask and point. “The pin hurt your ear, did it?”

  “It’s a ladybug, and I filed the point down.” She goes to a cupboard tucked between two book shelves, tosses her boots in, and shuts the door. “Ladybugs are good luck. Go ahead and say it—I’m weird.”

  By the look on her face, I don’t think she’d be too insulted if I agreed.

  “No, not weird. Beautiful.”

  “Nice line.” She wrinkles her nose. “You could have gotten away with pretty, but beautiful….”

  That’s frustrating.

  With a shrug I finally look around her room—a colorful room. A little bed is to one side with rumpled, yellow covers. A night stand is beside it, and a massive wooden rocking chair at the end. Everything is blue or yellow; the nightstand is blue and yellow. One of the book shelves (yellow) is full of books and the other (blue) is stuffed to the max with books and spiral notebooks.

  Emilie goes to the notebook bookcase and pulls one from the bottom shelf. She flips through a few pages then hands it to me.

  “Here.” Her bottom lip disappearing in her mouth, she digs her hands in her trouser pockets and backs away. “That should be safe enough.”

  Another smile fights its way onto my lips when I look down at her poetry. I’m prepared to pretend that I am keen on it even if I’m not. But as I read a few lines I’m sucked in. Light through trees, a crumpled butterfly wing, tear-dampened sleeves. “Emilie, I’m seriously impressed.”

  “Sure.” She snatches the book away, and I grab it back.

  “You really have a problem with praise,” I mutter as I read a few more lines. Her strange comparisons and rhyming. It’s the perfectly placed repetition. Ah, the repetition. “Emilie, this isn’t poetry. These are lyrics. There’s the verse, chorus. And that could be a bridge if you put it there, you know? Ha, the rhyming is lovely.”

  I glance up to see if Emilie’s actually believing me now. She’s smiling.

  “It’s called iambic pentameter.” She shrugs. “I’ve written a novel in verse too.”

  “Yeah?” My mobile vibrates against my bum. I pull it out. A text from Kasen.

  Kase: Dude where are you

  Jules: Wish girl! I
s Dougie flipping out?

  Kase: Amazing! Dougie is MIA, I told the other guards you went with him. You okay?

  Jules: I’m great.

  Emilie’s eyes lock on my face when I slide my mobile back in my pocket. Again, I can’t look away.

  “So…you have to go back now.” She breaks eye contact.

  My bum vibrates again, but I don’t have to look at it to know it’s Kasen telling me to be careful.

  “No.” What if we—maybe she wants to chill a bit. Of course it’s late but so what. I’ve waited too long to meet this girl. “Have you seen that film American Bash?”

  A smile slowly curves her lips. “Sure, but you realize that’s a highly exaggerated America, right?”

  “Maybe not one thing. Remember the ginger kid stayed up all night with that girl? Nothing happened apart from just getting on really well. Do you think that’s exaggerated?”

  “You want to hang out all night?” she asks, then gasps. “Bonk the ginger. Damn, I’m slow. Everyone thinks you’re gonna get lucky?” She fingers her hair. “I’ve got news for you. I have brown hair and a boyfriend. And I hate people who are stuck on themselves.”

  Och! For a second I’m gutted. In all of my imaginings this past year I never conjured up a boyfriend. But….

  I fight back an evil grin as I realize something else: she doesn’t act like she has a boyfriend. She hasn’t mentioned him once before now, and there’ve been no calls or texts. Aye, I can get rid of the boy easily enough. Nothing doing.

  Still fighting a smug smile, I say, “The lads were just being rude about the contest winner, not you. All right? Just friends. Promise.”

  She plops onto her small bed and points to the rocking chair at the end. “Pull up a seat.”

  I “pull up the seat” and rest my feet on the metal bedrail.

  Much later, we’re in the middle of a story about her pet gerbil when my backside starts getting numb. I’m about to stand and stretch when I catch sight of headlights reflected in the mirror to the side of her bed.

  “And who is that?” I twist around in time to clock the headlights moving back out of the driveway as if someone pulled in, only to turn around.

  Emilie’s eyes widen and she hops out of bed. Her hair is like a shimmering brown cape when she darts across the room. She flips the light switch off. “Did I mention we have a serial killer on the loose in Alexandria?”

  A little laugh rumbles in my chest. Is this where we swap ghost stories? Urban legends? “I know this one. He’s just after boys, yeah?”

  “Julian, it’s not a joke,” she whispers. “They didn’t tell you?”

  Chapter 4

  “It’s gone.” I turn from the window and run smack into her. “All right there?” I ask and grip what I believe is her arm. Maybe we should have the light back on.

  Or maybe not.

  She giggles and pulls her arm away. “Let’s lock your window back just in case the psycho is on the prowl again.”

  A second later I hear the click of the window’s lock.

  “It’s okay,” she says, her voice tinged with amusement. The bed springs squeak, signaling she’s back on. “I’ll protect you.”

  I laugh then cover my mouth. Shut your gob, Jules. “That’s great since I’ll likely be too stiff to run from this guy.” So he’s after teenage boys, is he? Strange.

  “Huh?”

  A groan eases from my lips when I stretch my stiff muscles. I reach up and my fingers graze the ceiling.

  “Oh. Here,” she says and something soft hits my stomach. I catch it just before it drops. A pillow. “Just stay at the bottom of the bed and keep your rock-star hands to yourself.”

  Once again, I can hear the smile in her voice. It’s magic to already read that much into how she sounds.

  The bed is quite narrow but I use the rocking chair to rest my feet in. I’m just getting comfortable, propping my head on my bent arm, when something cold slides under my chest. “Holy fash.”

  She giggles. “I like your made-up cussword. If it were me, I’d still forget it during interviews, though.”

  It’s her feet! Leaning back, I get them from under me and press them to my chest. “Why are they so cold? It’s cozy in here.”

  “It takes a while for me to warm up,” she says. “Mmm, that feels good.”

  They truly are freezing.

  “Our swearwords are better than the real ones. We get in less trouble, anyway.” But I refuse to talk about myself tonight. “Now, Emilie, before the interruption you were trying to avoid telling me about your gerbil whose death was not-so-natural?”

  “Fine, but don’t laugh.” She continues on with her story about accidentally drowning her pet gerbil when she was nine years old…which is how we have the same favorite animated animal superhero: Gijutis the gerbil. (Favorite cartoons…nothing can stop us now, yeah?) And this launches us into comparing childhood mishaps, to worst injuries and scars, and then poking fun at first crushes.

  “At least mine had the longest braids in school. Can’t believe you liked him because he had a butt chin?” I dodge her elbow and shift the pillow behind me to keep from knocking my head against the wall again. Emilie’s feet, long since warm, are now alongside mine in the rocking chair, both of us propped up against the wall on the other side of the bed.

  “It’s a dimpled chin, and they’re cute,” she says and laughs quietly. That’s a relief since I have a slight one. “Some call it a chin well. You know, like an in-the-ground water well? Supposedly, lovers fall into it and are lost in love forever.” She finishes the last with a dramatic flourish.

  “How old are you?” I can’t believe I haven’t asked before, but somehow I already know she’s not of age. And she confirms it: seventeen. The producers would absolutely kill me if they knew where I was right now. And Dougie too. It’s a curious thing. I’m sure he knows who this murderer is targeting, so how come he isn’t going mad protecting us lads? Doug is who I was expecting when I came off stage earlier, but—ah, I remember now. I think someone said something about him being sick. I hope the poor bloke is feeling well soon; I can’t get by without my favorite minder.

  The good news is she hasn’t mentioned the boyfriend again. For the first time tonight, I’m mulling all this over instead of listening, which is the reason I give in to my drooping eyelids.

  Much, much later, I’m jerking my eyes back open at the sound of her panicked gasp. My bleary eyes take in her dropped chin, her mouth hanging open. I can’t make sense of the fact that I’m able to see these things. It’s either lightly now, or she’s flipped the light back on.

  And I was asleep. With no pills to help me.

  “What’s happened?” I ask in a bleary voice just as there’s a knock on the door.

  And that’s when I hear a deep, angry voice on the other side of the door: “Who’s in there? Who was that just talking?”

  Oh, my God. The killer of teenage boys, and now he knows there’s a boy in here. I jerk to my feet and mentally go over the self-defense moves Dougie has taught me.

  “Sit.” Emilie points to the chair and climbs out of bed. “Daddy, he’s just a friend. Do. Not. Freak out.”

  Oh…her dad. Not the killer of teenage boys. I almost laugh at my sleepy confusion, but keep my mouth shut instead. I have a presentiment that hearing me laughing would only anger him further. I’ll just do as she told me and sit in the chair.

  “Unlock the door, Emilie,” he says in a milder tone.

  “Only after you acknowledge that I’m a strong, independent woman who is too smart to have sex with a boy just because I get alone time with him.”

  There’s a sigh. “Fine. You are a strong, smart girl.”

  She opens the door, walking backward while he moves inside the room. I see the back of his sandy-blond head first while he checks out the bed. When he turns to me, his eyes widen much like Emilie’s did less than a minute before. “You? You’re in that weird gymnastical band.”

  I use my typical comebac
k when someone scathingly calls us something curious. “There’s nothing wrong with being athletic and musical.” Except he wasn’t trying to be insulting now, was he?

  Wait, how does this fifty-something man know my face? I feel a thousand lines break out on my forehead when I turn to Emilie.

  She lifts one side of her mouth. “Daddy’s the janitor at the arena. Your posters are all over it.”

  “Supervisor of the janitors,” he says and scratches his head. His hair hikes up in the back. “What the hell are you doing here? And at seven o’clock in the morning.”

  “Oh, freak.” Emilie flies across the room to her cupboard, coming out with a white satchel. And even with her father in the room, I have a hard time keeping my eyes off her perfectly curved backside. She is fit. End of.

  “You might make it to school on time,” he says to her back then turns and eyes me. He pulls a tentative smile and raises his eyebrows.

  Emilie picks up something from her dresser and shoves it into her school bag; she starts digging under her bed. “Julian, you have about five seconds to do whatever you need to do before we leave.”

  She finds whatever she’s looking for under her bed then pops out of the room. The sound of her cleaning her teeth makes me wish I at least had a piece of gum. My mouth’s like a rat’s arse. I shove my hands in my pockets and look at her dad. He seems like the jolly sort, even after finding a boy in his daughter’s room.

  The man lifts his rounded chin at me. “She’s right about how strong she is. Got a good head on her shoulders,” he says and winks at me. “Don’t think you’re gonna pull a fast one on her.”

  A fast one…I can’t remember what that means. It’s bad, it’s bad. “Sir, I don’t think that.”

  “She don’t give two toots about your fame.”

  Two toots? I don’t think I’ve ever met an American who used so many expressions. What does that even mean? I’m wracking my brain for an appropriate response when he ambles out and Emilie breezes in. She tosses me a toothbrush still in the package.