The Secret Life of a Dream Girl (Creative HeArts) (9 page)

“Cool.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from clapping them together like a child. Also to keep from grabbing her in a very non-childlike manner. “So text me your address and I’ll pick you up between six forty-five and seven. That should give us time to find parking and buy tickets before it starts.”

For the first time, she looked a little uneasy. “You don’t have to pick me up. I can just meet you there at like, seven fifteen or something. I don’t want to make you go out of your way.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s no problem.” He started to back away before she could contradict him. “Besides, parking gets kind of tricky down there. One car is better than two. So text me your address and I’ll swing by and get you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

She still looked uncertain, but in the end she finally nodded. As he watched her drive away a couple minutes later, it was all he could do not to throw his arms in the air and do a victory dance right in the middle of the parking lot.

Chapter Eleven

Two hours later and I’m frantically searching through my closet trying to figure out what to wear to a poetry slam. And not just any poetry slam. A poetry slam with Keegan. Which I’m pretty sure is just a platonic date because he felt bad for me—or because he’s worried about getting a bad grade on our senior project if I don’t pull through with the songs. Either way, it’s still an almost-date with a cute guy. And it’s been a long, long time since I’ve been on anything even close to that.

Sure, we’ll probably spend the whole night talking about ways he can win Dream Girl’s heart, but it’s not like beggars can be choosers. This is my first real invite to do anything with someone since I moved to Austin, and I’m not going to screw it up by wearing the wrong outfit.

I spend a couple of minutes Googling images of Austin poetry slams, but all it does is prove to me that pretty much anything goes. The women who attend—and who slam—wear everything from jeans to skirts to suits to costumes. And since I’m very definitely not planning on going as Wonder Woman, I guess I’m pretty much on my own to decide what to wear. For a girl who’s had a stylist for every important occasion since she was thirteen, it’s actually a lot harder than it sounds.

I pull out about fifty different shirts before I finally decide on a cropped white off-the-shoulder shirt with long, blousy sleeves that has a little bit of a peasant look to it. I pair it with these wild black-and-white-printed pants that make my butt look good and finish with black wedges and a bunch of necklaces of varying length. I spend a few minutes playing with my short, asymmetrical hair and then add just a little bit of makeup—a shimmery peach shadow, a little eyeliner, and a bold red lip, because sometimes a girl has to make a statement.

I’m ready early, so I crash on the living room couch and try to finish up the rest of my homework. But it totally sucks and it’s the last thing I want to be doing right now. Especially since it’s so freaking easy. I’ve had tutors since I was nine, and unlike a lot of child stars, my tutors were actually serious about my coursework. I did pretty much everything in the senior level curriculum two years ago—I’ve read the books, done the math through precalc, learned the biology, and mastered both French and Spanish. The only thing I haven’t done is the singer/songwriter curriculum, but I’ve collaborated with some of the best musicians in the business and learned a ton from them through the years.

All of which means it’s really hard to motivate myself to do any of my homework when it’s all junk I’ve already learned. And when the whole year is pretty much a waste of my time. Except…experience. It’s the word the judge used when she enrolled me in high school as a condition of my emancipation, and it’s the same word Finn used when he was telling me why I needed to try to connect with the people at NextGen. Because the life of an average American high school student is definitely not something I’ve ever experienced, but a lot of people seem to think it should be.

Not my manager. Or my record label. Or my father. But then, they were all totally against me filing for emancipation. Or taking a yearlong break. Then again, that’s why I had to do it. Because they were all screwing me over, running me ragged, overscheduling me, making me sign contracts that benefited all three of them far more than they ever benefited me. And when I complained, they told me not to worry my pretty little head about it. When I complained more, they told me to keep my mouth shut and my skirts short, and to let them do the thinking.

That’s when I got a lawyer of my own, one my dad had no influence over. And that’s when I found out that my own father had been screwing me over for years. That’s not even counting the hypersexuality he forced on me from way too early an age. Or the flirting he made sure I did so that I could get more airtime, more interviews, more exposure.

More, more, always more. Until I didn’t know which way was up—or out. Until I didn’t know who I was or who I wanted to be.

It’s why I’m here, really. Trying to figure out who I am. More, who I want to be. I don’t hate Cherry, don’t regret the time I’ve spent being her. There’s nothing like the rush of performing, of standing up on the stage and singing to a crowd of fifty thousand people. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to give that up, that’s afraid if I continue down the path I’m going then I’ll be ruining everything.

But at the same time, I have to grow. I can only be Cherry for so long before the public is no longer interested—and, more importantly, before I lose what I want and who I want to be. I need to find my voice this year, need to figure out the person I want my fans to meet after this hiatus. I’ve only got one shot at reinvention and I’m determined to do it right. Determined that the next time I get up on stage to perform for my fans, they’re going to see the real me. The me I’m comfortable being for a long time to come.

The thought jogs something loose inside of me and I reach for the guitar I’ve got leaning against the arm of the couch. I strum a few chords of the melody I wrote yesterday, then switch my phone to record as I sing.

“Don’t know who I am,

don’t know what I want,

don’t know where I’m going

but I’m not going back.

No I’m not going back,

not going back to where it started,

not going back to where I started,

not going back,

not going back to where—”

A knock on my front door interrupts my writing. I drop my guitar on the couch and then run to the bedroom to take one final look in the mirror—and to give myself a second after my less-than-happy trip down memory lane. A quick adjustment of my blouse, an even quicker slick of lip gloss across my mouth, and I’m as ready as I’m going to get.

The knock comes again—a little more lightly this time around—and I hurry to the front door before Keegan thinks he’s been stood up.

“Hi, sorry it took me so long,” I say as I swing it open. “I was just…” I stop, just stop, because the boy looks fiiiiiiiine. He’s in a white henley with the sole button undone so the collar forms a little V. He’s wearing a black-and-white plaid shirt over it, with the sleeves rolled up and one button fastened right at waist level. He’s in black jeans—the first I’ve seen that don’t have holes in them—and a pair of maroon Chucks that kind of make the whole outfit.

“You okay?” he asked, brows raised. And that’s when I realize that I’ve been standing there staring at him with my mouth open for God only knows how long. Jeez. Awkward much?

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I was doing homework—guess my brain was still grappling with my econ assignment.”

“Oh, right.” He grins a little. “Do you need a few minutes to finish it? I can wait if you want to get it over with.”

“No, I’m just about done. Besides, hanging out with you is way more fun than economics homework.”

“I’m not sure that’s much of a compliment, since I’m pretty sure a trip to the dentist is more fun than tonight’s econ homework.”

“Only if you don’t get a root canal.”

He narrows his eyes, pretends to think about it. “I’m not so sure.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had a root canal.”

“And you have?”

“One.” I grab my purse and my keys from the entryway table and then usher him out the door. “I tripped and fell a couple of years ago and did some serious damage to two of my teeth. They managed to save them, but one needed a full root canal before they could even cap it.” I don’t mention that I did the damage falling off a stage.

His eyes widen. “That sounds awful.”

“Worse than econ homework, anyway.”

“I can only imagine.” He stops me as I start to pull the front door of my town house closed. “Does your dad want to meet me? Just to make sure his baby is in good hands?”

I nearly laugh. My dad’s never cared if I was in good hands—just rich, powerful ones. “Yeah, that’s not going to be a problem.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

There’s no graceful way to get out of this without telling him the truth, so I do. “I’m legally emancipated, Keegan. My dad’s a jerk, so I live on my own.”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish’s for a few seconds and then he says, “Oh.” Just that. No questions. No comments. No concerns. Just that one simple oh. Too bad one syllable doesn’t give me much to go on as far as how he’s taking the news…

He waits quietly as I lock my front door, then escorts me down the brick path to the street. It’s hard not to notice that his usual hand on my lower back is missing. Even harder not to attribute it to the fact that he’s just figured out that I’m not a normal high school student. If the emancipation thing is throwing him this much, I can only imagine what he’d do if he found out that I’m Cherry in another life.

“You can ask about it,” I tell him as we wait to cross the street to where he’s parked. “It doesn’t bother me to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t need to talk about it.” He pauses, yanking on his collar a little like it’s suddenly started to suffocate him. “Unless you want to talk about it. Then that’s cool. I’m happy to listen. Or not. It’s your life. I mean, it’s up to you. I mean—”

“Sssh.” I stop him by pressing two fingers to his lips. “I get it. It’s weird, which is why I don’t go around advertising it. And no, I don’t need to talk about it. It is what it is, and I’m at peace with it. But if you think of any questions you want me to answer, feel free to lay them on me. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” He gives a deep sigh. “That was pretty much the opposite of smooth, huh?”

“Yeah. Pretty much. But that’s okay. Smooth is highly overrated.”

“You really believe that?” He looks down at me, brows raised, as we make our way across the street.

I think about all the smooth guys I’ve met through the years, guys who said all the right things and had all the right moves…except the ones that counted. “Oh, yeah. I absolutely believe that.”

He loosens up a little more as we walk the half a block to where he parked his car. “Spider House is only about fifteen minutes away from here, even with traffic, so we should make it in plenty of time to get good seats.”

“Awesome. I’m really excited about going tonight. I Googled it and it looks amazing. Did you know that some of the Austin poets won the national championships last year?”

“Actually, I did know that. It’s pretty cool, right?”

“So cool.”

We stop at a red light and Keegan glances over at me. I can see the question all but trembling on his lips so I say, “Go ahead. Whatever it is, I swear it’s okay to ask.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I’d rather he focus on the emancipation than start wondering if there’s more to me than he thinks. The last thing I want to do is lie to him any more than I already have. Right now it’s by omission only, but if he starts asking questions…it’s just not a very friend-like thing to do.

“How long have you been emancipated?”

“A little over two months.”

“That’s about as long as you’ve been at NextGen.”

Yeah. The boy is too smart for his own good sometimes. Or mine. “Part of the judge’s condition was that I finish high school, not get a GED. So here I am.”

“Here you are.” He pauses like he’s assimilating all the information he’s gotten in the last few minutes. Then he reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, where it rests on my knee. “I’m sorry about your dad being such a jerk. That must be awful.”

My heart flutters at the contact—and at the sincerity in his words.

I try to shut it down quickly—Dream Girl, Dream Girl,
Dream Girl
, I remind myself—but it’s getting harder and harder to do that. Especially when he’s always so kind. So caring. So perfect.

“It’s not great, but dealing with him isn’t as hard as losing my mom was, so…”

He nods, but I can see he’s biting his lip. Can see that there’s more he wants to say. I start to push him—better to get it all out now so that he’s not stewing about this and coming up with more questions during the slam.

Before I can, though, he asks, “What’s it like?”

“Being emancipated?”

“Losing a parent. My dad has…my dad has lung cancer and it doesn’t look all that good, so…”

“Oh God.” It’s my turn to grab his hand with both of mine. My turn to hold on tight. “I’m so sorry, Keegan. I’m so sorry.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything else. And neither do I. I’ve spent the last few days trying to think of something to say to him about this, but there’s nothing to say, really, and I feel just awful. It’s obvious from the way Keegan talks about his family that they’re close, and it sucks that he has to go through this. Just absolutely sucks.

My home life has been screwed up for as long as I can remember. I’m not saying I’m wishing cancer on my dad, because I’d never, ever wish it on anyone, but sometimes I can’t help wondering why the universe has to spread the shitshow around so much. I mean, if one person is already having a miserable time, why don’t they get the extra-bad shit, too? Why make sure that the happy people, the really good, kind people, have to suffer, too? If anyone deserves to just have a nice, normal life, it’s Keegan. And yet here he is, dealing with what might very well be his father’s imminent death.

It just sucks.

I hold his hand more tightly, then bring it up to my mouth and kiss the back of it before I even know I’m going to do it. I’m not sorry, though, not when I see the way Keegan’s jaw is working. And not when he flashes me a grateful look just before pulling into a parking spot across the street from a funky-looking building that I can only assume is the Spider House Ballroom.

It’s light green and kitschy-looking, with Japanese lanterns, neon lights, and a short little picket fence that’s obviously more for ambiance than it is to keep anyone out. I love it on sight.

Keegan turns off the car, but instead of climbing out, he just sits there for a minute, head down, shoulders bowed. He’s biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, and he looks miserable. Absolutely miserable.

As I watch him fight the demons inside him, my heart doesn’t ache for him. Instead, it feels like it just might explode, and I can’t sit here, can’t just watch him and do nothing.