“It’smybedroom. Mine. Not yours. Besides, I like my mess.” I hook my finger into the switch to power up my window. I tug so hard I half expect it to pop right off. “And it’s notthatmessy.”
It sort of is. I call it organized chaos.
“I didn’t mean to look at the list. It fell out when I was evening out the stack of LPs you use as your nightstand.”
I glance at her, still irritated. “And you justhadto read it?”
“I like to know what’s going on in my little girl’s life. Would you rather us be Snapchat friends?”
My eyes go vinyl-wide. “No way.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything, Angie, but don’t shut me out either, okay?”
I relax in my seat. “I wrote that list when I was a freshman. Jasper’s more in love with his biceps than he is with any girlfriend. Plus, he’s dated nearly every girl in our grade.”
“Glad to know my daughter doesn’t date players.”
Amusement trumps irritation. “According to Rae, my standards are too high.”
“That, you got from me.”
“So Aidan was exceptional?”
I don’t bring up my father every day, but whenever I get an opening, I’ll throw in a question—or three—and hope she says something sweet about him. He couldn’t have been all bad.
She grips the steering wheel tighter.
Could he?
2
The Boy with the Princess Band-Aids
After I pull on a pair of cutoffs and a white tank top, I holler to Mom, who’s vacuuming every surface of our two-story house, that I’m off. I power the garage door up and hop onto my electric bicycle. All my friends applied for driver’s licenses the second they turned sixteen; not me. Dad passed away in a head-on collision, which has made me petrified of operating large vehicles.
I turn the motor on medium so I don’t arrive panting and sweating, and pedal to Rae’s with my earbuds blasting Mona Stone’s first album. Even though she’s released eight more, her first record remains my favorite.
At a traffic light, I tap my fingers against the handlebar to the beat of the percussions and drums. When the light turns green, I swing onto Rae’s street. Adrenaline spikes through me when I come wheel to bumper with an enormous black SUV. The vehicle screeches to a halt, but still nicks my bike and sends me flying off the saddle. I yelp as my palms and knees connect with the asphalt. Thankfully the impact isn’t too violent, so my helmeted head is spared.
Hazard lights flash, and then neon-blue sneakers race toward me. I press myself into a sitting position. Both of my knees are bleeding, and bits of gravel cling to my scraped palms.
With trembling fingers, I unlatch my helmet and dust off the grit.
“Shit.” The backlit driver squats down next to me.
“I’m okay,” I say, even though I’m wobbling all over as though I were made of Jell-O.
“Did your head—”
“My head’s fine.” I blink, then squint to try and make out the still-crouched person.
Although the stranger’s voice is deep and his jaw is coated in stubble, his face still has a boyish roundness. College-aged, I suspect.
“I have water and Band-Aids in the car.” He walks back to his SUV and grabs a Walmart bag from the backseat, then crouches in front of me and squirts water over my knees. With a handful of tissues, he blots the watery blood.
I notice his hands—I always notice people’s hands. His are large with long, elegant fingers—pianist hands.
Pianist hands that are still all over my knees.
