Blue Notes (3 page)

But I behave. I’m a living, breathing example of what amazing foster parents can do for a kid. Catfights are for girls on recess yards. I owe Clair and John better than that. They taught me that I owe
myself
better than that.

“Fine, be a jerk.” I lift my chin and tug the strap of my bag. “Yeah, I’m loud and I’m a mess, but I’m damn good at what I do. You, however . . . You can get out of my way.”

He steps dramatically back, even offering a condescending bow. “Like this,
sugar
?”

“Dick
.
”

I turn away before I make a bigger scene. The impulse to run is
really
strong, but I’m okay. Right? Sure. No biggie. Just walk away as if I know where the hell I’m going. Which I don’t. I’m blinking past a wash of red.

“Dead end that way,” the stranger calls.

I come to an emergency door.

Screw it.

I slam the door’s horizontal exit bar. It gives way. I let that
get out
impulse take over. I’m so wound up. I can’t think of anything else.
Just get down the stairs and escape.

As alarms ricochet through Dixon Hall, I really don’t care.

 Two 

“D
id you hear something about the emergency alarm at the music building? Probably not the best for practicing!”

Great.

That’s my roommate, Janissa Simons’s, first question when I open our dorm door. She looks up from her vanity/desk combo. My side of the cramped room mirrors hers. I flop my bag on the floor and sprawl on my single bed. The western sun streams through the room’s single wide window. It’s bordered with thick, plain brown curtains that match the low, low carpeting. Instead of
Better Homes & Gardens
, we get the answer to that eternal admin question:
How many years can we accommodate sloppy coeds before we need to renovate?

“Yeah, I heard it,” I say, noting the cringe in my voice.

“I thought you’d be over there.” Janissa smiles. “You look like it, anyway.”

Great
flicks through my brain again. I knew it. Apparently I don’t just
play
like a hurricane. I wind up looking like I was caught in one, especially after running half blind past the great oaks of Newcomb Quad.

Funny, I didn’t get lost. Propelled by instinct, I guess.

I wonder if our having known each other two weeks is enough for Janissa to pick up on my funky mood. “Gee, thanks. I didn’t have time to stop by the salon on the way home.”

She waves a hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I wish I could get so worked up about anything.”

Janissa’s a chemistry major.
We speak a variant of math
, she’d said during our first day moving in. Technically that’s true. Music theory involves a lot of math. So does chem.

It was enough for us to start up a quick, very necessary friendship. Geek Number One, meet Geek Number Two. She has the sleek hair of a starlet from the ’40s, all auburn perfect. But she never styles it. Just lets it flop down her back. I suspect it’s so long because she never makes time to get it cut. Doesn’t matter. It’s beautiful and so is she.

“Don’t give me that,” I say, grinning. “When you really get going, you wear pajama bottoms all weekend.”

She grins in return. “Too true. Clean undies is about the best I can manage.”

“My obsession is the piano. Yours is in your brain.”

“Nah. You should’ve seen the time I lit an entire magnesium strip in my AP class.”

“You’re gonna have to explain that one.”

She turns in her chair with a bright, animated gleam in her green eyes. “See, magnesium is a quick flash–burning metal. It’s thin and can be cut in these long strips that get rolled up. So many uses.”

I let that one slide, because as much as I like Janissa, I don’t need to follow every detail to get a kick out of her stories. She’s sweet, a year younger than me, short, with a ton of grace and a great figure. Like, D-cup hourglass great. Maybe guys don’t swarm her because, pajama pants aside, she usually wears sweats and old T-shirts from when she played water polo in high school. She still swims every day, so she has great muscle tone too.

Not me. I have long fingers—the better to play piano with, said the big bad wolf. Everything about me is long and thin. Unless I’m sitting at a piano bench, I’m as graceful as a giraffe bending down in an attempt to drink.

That didn’t stop my dad. It wasn’t long after I hit puberty that he started talking about me “earning my keep.” Circumstance meant I never got around to learning firsthand what he meant by that, but the words had been enough to turn my stomach to rancid meat.

“So,” Janissa continues, “I needed an inch or so for a hypothesis about—” With another grin, she catches herself. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I wondered what would happen if, well . . . if the whole roll caught fire.”

“You daredevil,” I tease.

“In this case, yeah. Magnesium burns
so
bright, you wouldn’t believe it. I dropped it quick into a petri dish, which melted. I was at the back of the class and it just
glowed
. I couldn’t look away. Just stared at how bright and big it was. My lab partner had been at the teacher’s desk. She told me later that it’d looked like a flaming sunrise.”

“And the teacher?”

Janissa laughs and tugs her hair back from her oval face. “Not amused. I got suspended for two days.”

“You? A whole two days? No way.”

She nods. “My parents sure as hell cared, but I didn’t. One of the coolest things I’ve ever done, which, now that I think of it, is pretty sad.”

“Not sad,” I say. “Just proof of what I told you. You get worked up about your favorite things too.”

“Whatever. I bet you’ve never done anything that stupid. And except for really needing a shower right now, you’re always so put together.”

So wrong on so many levels, I don’t know where to start. So I don’t.

But she’s sweet to say I’m put together. That much is deeply ingrained.
Always look pretty
, Mom used to say. Not because she wanted a beauty queen for a daughter or anything, but because a tidy girl fits in at new schools. No threat that social services will come calling.

I wish I’d looked good for
him
.

Dammit. A dumb, stray thought about what I should’ve done or said when confronted by that arrogant bastard. Apparently I need to keep torturing myself over someone I’ll never meet again.

I appreciate the laugh, though. . . .

Sugar.

Still on the bed, I exhale quietly. My tension doesn’t leave. Neither do the memories. Goose bumps cover my skin. “Sugar” could be such a cool endearment. He’d made it into a slur.

I prop myself on my elbows. “You wanna get dinner? I’ll keel over if I don’t eat soon.”

“Can’t.” She glances at the digital clock on our minifridge/microwave combo. “I have thermodynamics in twenty.”

Sure enough, a vibrating buzz shakes her phone on her desk. She has alarms for everything—as bad with time as I am with maps.

Janissa packs up and leaves with a wave and a smile. I’m left alone with my thoughts. Even my longed-for shower doesn’t wash away the afternoon.

I can’t get him off my mind.

My classes are over for the day. I call Clair, but I only get her voice mail. I try to keep my voice steady as I say a casual “Hi, I just miss you both.” She’ll probably hear through it. She always does.

So I need something else to do, like write down what I’d composed that afternoon—the hurricane session, apparently—and maybe watch
Say Yes to the Dress
while nursing a pint of Cherry Garcia.

Instead, I rummage through my desk to find the letter I’ve been ignoring all week. It bears the Tulane seal. I wear a ring with the same seal. It’s given to juniors to wear upside down until graduation. I’m still getting used to wearing it.

The letter lists the name of my freshman mentee. Is that the right word? I’m her mentor. She must be my mentee. Too bad this girl, Adelaide Deschamps, will be at a complete loss with me as her guide. I wear a hefty, important ring, and
mentor
sounds so impressive, but I’m living in a dorm for the first time. Considering my ineptitude with maps, I can’t even give directions for a damn. Two weeks on campus. Three weeks in town. No experience with guys or stability or telling the whole truth. My only friend so far is nearly as socially withdrawn as me.

What do I have to offer this poor girl?

At least Adelaide is a music major too—though musical theater, not composition like me.

I dial the number on the letter.

I’m not prepared for the blaring Dixieland that vomits out of my iPhone. I glare at it as if Steve Jobs himself were to blame for blowing up my eardrums.

“Hello?” The word is shouted. Of course it is.

“Adelaide?” I’m glad our room is empty because I need to shout in return. “I’m Keeley Chambers, your music department mentor.”

“Yeah, I’m Adelaide.”

That’s it. No,
Glad to hear from you
. Or maybe,
I was hoping you’d call first because I was nervous too!
Just blaring Dixieland.

I want to hang up. This has already taken a lot more guts than I usually manage.
Stick with it
, my foster dad would say. Then again, my real dad used to say the same thing. But such a huge difference in meaning.

“I called to see when you can meet up,” I say. “Get to know each other.”

“Right, yeah. That’s fine.”

She sounds really young. A freshman, probably.

“This’ll be good for both of us.” I feel like I’m reading a script.

“Now’s good,” the girl shouts. “You know Yamatam’s off South Carrollton?”

“Sure,” I lie.

“Head on down. It’ll be more fun here than at Dixon.”

“What do you look like?”

“Doesn’t really matter.”

Now that I’ve adjusted to her blaring words, I can hear that she’s a native of New Orleans, or at least Louisiana.

She might actually help
me
adjust to this place. I still feel disoriented here, a feeling that reminds me of the years I spent on the road with my folks. Dad would always make some joke about it—just another family adventure.
On the road again!
he’d sing, like Willie Nelson.

I caught on to that bullshit real early.

“Why wouldn’t it matter?” I ask. “Appearance is kind of a big deal when meeting a stranger.”

“If you can be here in an hour, I’ll be the dynamic blonde onstage!”

Click.

The music is gone and so is the shouting girl. I’m still in my bathrobe, but she’ll be onstage soon. I’m so curious.

I flip through my closet for something that’s tidy and almost, nearly, could be if you squinted cool. I settle on a baby blue shelf bra tank top under a lightweight midnight blue linen blouse. Gold accented flip-flops and gold hoop earrings. Vintage looking jeans, a remnant from my freshman year, when Clair bought me a whole new wardrobe.

The bigger challenge still lies ahead: getting there. I really don’t want to miss whatever performance Adelaide was talking about. That means getting there in—I check the clock on my desk—a half hour.

I Google Yamatam’s, but it doesn’t have a website. That means I have no way to check it out in advance—or to make sure my outfit won’t be out of place. All I find is an address on Carrollton. Less than a mile away. Cool. I plug it into my iPhone and duplicate the directions on a Post-it.

We’re talking
detailed
directions. No chancing this.

I take a deep breath.

Here goes.

 Three 

T
he oppressive heat of Louisiana in September never fails to surprise me each time I step outside. I’ve been everywhere, but seriously, it’s like walking into a wet nuclear blast that sits on my chest. I remember it being different in Chicago, when I was little. I don’t know why, but I still miss winter, even the blizzards and the changing seasons, so hard. Southerners don’t get it. I’ve given up trying to explain it to Clair and John.

Thankfully I find Yamatam’s after backtracking only twice. It’s an unmissable glowing inferno of people and music. I get in the
long
line like everyone else, glad to feel anonymous.

A guy is standing next to me. I get a whiff of cologne when the breeze shifts and wipes away the heavy humidity and the beer from inside the club. He smells amazing. I sneak a glance at his profile, trying to keep calm. Because he’s hot. Incredible. Like,
please don’t dribble on my shirt
perfect.

Wait. Hold up.

He’s the guy.

The
guy
.

The one who ignited so many insane fireworks in my mind that I fled like a rabbit—a rabbit who can set off emergency exit alarms.

I pray. I usually don’t. I gave up on that a long time ago, when the police never came any faster one way or the other. But I pray this guy doesn’t recognize me. I battle a newly resurfaced faint or flight impulse so hard that my knees shake. At least the club’s rhythmic thrumming gives me something to focus on. My knees can shake in time with Dixieland jazz.

Luckily he never looks my way. We reach the front of the line and he’s ushered right in. My ID is scrutinized more closely. No surprise. I’m obviously a co-ed, while he exudes authority.

The big uniformed bouncer eyes me some more, then hands back my license. “Whatever,” he mutters, and stamps the back of my hand. Ultraviolet ink equals legal permission to get hammered. Not that it matters to me. I haven’t had a drink since I was a tween—sloe gin is a nasty bitch—and I never will again.

I follow gorgeous Mr. Arrogant up the steps to the club, which is above a resale instrument shop. The railing is sticky and rusted. I’m one step below him, slogging through the backlog that jams the stairwell. I wish a few people separated us. When did I become such a coward? You’d think staring my dad in the face and sending him to prison would’ve made me immune to fear.

Or maybe I’m going to be afraid forever.

I slide down the stairs and quietly slip behind a pair of very, very glitzy girls. I doubt I could ever pull off false eyelashes, midriff tops, and wedge sandals, but they wear the hell out of all three.

They only get cursory notice because the bulk of my attention is still on the stranger. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his charcoal gray slacks. The fabric is pulled taut across his ass. I catch myself staring. Ugh, I’m hopeless. His back isn’t much easier to ignore. He’s seriously toned. A white button-down shows off the width and strength of his upper back, and rolled-up sleeves reveal toned forearms.

He’s just so . . .
different
. Suave. Self-assured. He’s fresh and actually handsome
.
Not just cute or hot.
Handsome
. I can’t help but flash another glance up to where he still waits in line . . .

Right when he glances down at me.

Our eyes lock. That deep flame heart blue makes me shiver. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. His expressive brows narrow, and his lips flatten. I decide to call that his stern face, since I recognize it now. I shouldn’t be making mental notes on anything about him, but I can’t help it. I’m terrified and excited at the same time. I want him to see me.
See
me, not examine me like some specimen in a jar. Maybe then I won’t be so intimidated?

Then comes his smile. He clearly recognizes me too
.
Oh my God, the smile is
so much worse.
Or better? Mostly just devastating. It’s slight, teasing, knowing. The surprise of it melts the remaining strength in my knees until I can’t help imagining an impossible evening: I’d smile back, totally assured. I’d say something witty. He’d buy me a Diet Coke. He’d walk me back to my dorm. I’d be a wreck the whole time, wondering if he might kiss me at the door.

But after the kiss . . . I wouldn’t have a clue about what to do.

That’d be up to him. All him.

I grip the railing while my mind spins this useless, graceless waltz.

“Following me?”

His words are like a brick through a window. My stupid fantasy shatters. Yup, he still has the upper hand.

I shouldn’t have been able to hear him over the music and the pair of girls that separate us. But I heard him perfectly. I can feel the words inside my skin. His tone, something between condescension and teasing, soaks into my bones, while he continues to assess me like I’m recovering from head trauma.

“A little obvious,” I say, shouting more forcefully than the suave cool he’d used. “Yes, I’m following you. I’m totally a stalker.”

If he keeps smiling at me like that, I can wait forever for his reply.

“You clench your teeth when you get angry,” he adds casually. “It ruins the line of your lips.”

Does he unnerve everyone like this? My face flares hot, and I’ve gone from skittish to angry in about five sentences.

“So when you said I wasn’t much to look at—”

“I meant you gave me a lot to work with. Your lips being the best of it.”

He says it so slyly that I find myself doubting what had passed between us. He couldn’t have meant it in a positive way. I’d looked like hell, and he was doing some sneering, judgmental thing with his expression. He’s smiling now, but nothing he’s said feels like a true compliment.

If I were as talented with people as I am with the piano, I’d have come up with the perfect comeback, hitting that sweet spot between flirty and biting.

Instead I keep it simple.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Keep your opinion,” he says. “A word of advice? Next time, turn left out of the rehearsal rooms. Setting off emergency alarms can get a little girl in trouble, especially if someone tattles. We wouldn’t want that.”

Oh, shit. Shit.

“
Little
girl? I’m twenty-one.”

He looks me up and down again with an expression akin to pain or longing, as if he’s lost huge chunks of his childhood too. But the shift is brief. He clamps it down. His smug,
don’t give a damn
expression takes over. “Time doesn’t make a person. Experience does.”

“Then consider me about eighty years old, and don’t ever call me ‘little’
again.”

“How about ‘sugar’? You’ve had a few hours to let that one sink in. Have you decided if it’s off limits?” He hesitates with a new, unnerving curiosity in his gaze. Then he shrugs, back to acting as if I’m the least important creature on the planet. “Forget it.”

He turns his back to me.

Just like that, he yanks his attention away—the attention I’d found so unnerving but now find myself craving.

That’s when Mr. Stranger reaches back and takes my hand. In my fantasy, that would’ve been what I spent the whole evening working up to. Just touching him. Instead he makes the moves and I’m running to keep up. I can only hope my stamina holds out.

His hand is cool and smooth and makes the disorientation totally worthwhile. His fingers are even longer than mine. My hand in his makes me feel feminine and small, as if my troubles aren’t all mine anymore. How can anyone do that?

The unbelievably hot, chocolate haired god of a man pulls me through the throngs and into the club . . . then lets go. He casually returns his hands to his pockets. “All right, I got you in. Now stop following me. If I want you, sugar, I’ll come find you.”

“You’re an
arrogant
asshole.”

“Yeah.” His eyes are so very blue. They reflect the club’s disorienting flash and dance of lights, gleaming, like I’m watching a kaleidoscope. “As for me coming to find you . . . you can’t wait to see if I do.”

“You think so?”

“Because now I’ve put the idea out there. You’ll be looking for me all night.”

I swallow. He could have any girl in this club, but he’s zeroing in on me. “Why me?”

Did I say that out loud?

“You’re dressed to blend in, not stand out. But at a nightclub, natural stands out. Does that make you plain or . . . intriguing? I’m hoping for mystery, Miss Fire Drill.” He grins, and I want to claw his beautiful eyes out. “Or maybe to see how your lips look when you’re not pissed off.”

“Then don’t piss me off.”

His grin widens, revealing perfect teeth. A lot about him warrants the word “perfect,” including a perfect movie star exit. He slides into a crowd large enough to field two opposing football teams
and
a marching band. I’m speechless. No one could expect otherwise. I become a tree or a part of the wall or a complete idiot, because I can’t move. I watch his bright white shirt until I can’t see him anymore.

His words are still ringing in my head.

You’ll be looking for me all night.

My pulse is through the roof. My stomach is fluttery and won’t settle. I’m curious, angry, and mortified . . . because I know he’s right.