“Oh. Really?”
“Of course. Who else would I ask?”
“Are your parents going?”
She frowns and looks down.
“Charlie—”
“I’m not ready for that, Mara. You know I’m not.”
“But your songs are you. They’d love to hear them—?I know they would.”
“Yeah. They’re me. Too much me.”
I sit back, rubbing at my eyes. I wish I had the right words to say to her, words that calm all of these fears about her songwriting, but I don’t. I can sing and I can sing well. It’s why I’m at Pebblebrook, though I’m a pair of clanging cymbals next to Charlie, so I get being nervous about performing. But I can’t write songs. I can’t manipulate guitar strings so they seem like an extension of my voice. Then again, maybe I’ve never really tried. All that . . . me, just falling into people’s ears. I shiver thinking about it. Still, my issues about putting myself out there are completely different from Charlie’s. I have no idea what she’s really going through.
“Please, Mara,” she says. “I need you with me. We’re best friends, right? Isn’t that what all of this is about?”
I’m not exactly sure what all of this means, but I can take a wild guess. “Yeah, of course.”
“Then, please. Come with me.”
I watch her, desperation spilling into her eyes as she watches me back.
“You know I wouldn’t miss seeing you on that stage,” I say.
Her shoulders visibly descend. “Thank you.”
After that, we maneuver around each other—?Charlie pulls choir chairs into a circle, I turn on the floor lamp near the piano and flick off the fluorescents so the light is softer—?everything we’re not saying like a friends forever necklace around our throats.
Naturally, Greta’s the first person to arrive at the meeting. Her fountain of blond hair is twisted into a side fishtail braid and she takes a seat next to me, a navy notebook in her lap and a closed-mouth smile her only greeting.
Empower is a small group. Our numbers vary every week, but our committed regulars are Hannah, Charlie, Greta, Jasmine Fuentes (Greta’s best friend), a willowy ballet dancer named Ellie Branson, and Hudson Slavovsky, Empower’s only dude, who I’m pretty sure comes only because he’s dating Jasmine. Still, he’s a good guy and he contributes a hilarious comic for our monthly issues called Well, Actually.
My stomach flutters as I take in Hannah’s absence. Everyone else is here, including a drama major, Leah Lawrence. Or maybe it’s Landon. She comes so rarely, I forget her last name half the time. I’m pretty sure she wanders in only once every few months to meet some sort of quota for extracurriculars on her college applications.
Everyone gets settled, pulling out water bottles and granola bars, and I use the time to stall, half hoping and half dreading that Hannah will walk through the door.
“She’s not back at school yet,” Charlie whispers, squeezing my arm.
“I know.” And I know why Hannah’s not here. But part of me still hopes this whole situation is some elaborate dream that we’ll all wake up from any minute. I open my laptop, pretending to scan my notes for the hundredth time while I get my breath under control.
“Okay. Welcome, everyone.” I blink at the group, trying to force some life into my voice. This is usually a pretty casual meeting, everyone laughing and talking about their week so far, happy just to be together in a safe space. But right now everyone is silent and fidgeting. On edge. “So, um, this week, our first item on the agenda is to make some decisions about the Dress Code Take—”
“I have an urgent matter that carries precedence over our skirts and tank tops, Mara,” Greta says, her posture snapping straight. “May I?”
“Sure, Greta, go right ahead,” I say saccharinely.
She doesn’t even half-ass a fake smile. She’s gone totally stoic, all business and determination. “I know we’ve all heard about what happened to Hannah and I know we all feel horrible. A few of you have asked me what we can do to help.”
My stomach lurches. I can’t even process what she’s saying before she barrels onward.
“And I don’t want this group to fall apart because of this,” she says. “You’re all really important to me. When my parents were getting a divorce last year, our meetings were the only time during the week that I didn’t feel like pulling out my hair. But I . . .” She sucks in a shaky breath. Is she . . . nervous? “I don’t think Mara is able to effectively lead us during this time.”
I feel all the color bleed from my face. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
“Come on, Mara,” she says. “Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
