I wipe my eyes and sniff, then push myself off Mom. “Like what?”
Mom presses her lips together so snugly they vanish. “I don’t want totalk about him right now. Not when I’m feeling so emotional. I’m afraid I might say something I’ll regret.”
It takes everything in me not to beg her to toss me one more scrap about the man I don’t remember.
“About that contest… I understand you’ve got your sights set on it, but I don’t want you entering it.”
My lips start to wobble anew. “Why not?”
“Because, baby, I don’t like that woman.”
I untangle myself from her hug. “You don’t even know her!”
“But you do?”
“No.” I pause. “It’s so unfair.”
“Life’s not always fair. Something else you gotta learn.”
I mutter something about needing to get ready for the dance.
“Don’t be mad at me, baby.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
I’m going to have to do it behind her back.
If I don’t win, she’ll never find out. If I do win, she’ll have to live with it.
20
Crash Into Me, Why Don’t You?
The gym sparkles with gold streamers, green balloons, and dangling cutouts of our school’s football players—to which Rae and her decorating crew added comical facial hair, painted-on crowns, and superhero capes. A giant green tablecloth covers a long row of desks topped with drinks, bowls of allergen-free snacks, and clear vases filled with green apples.
The second we enter the gym, Rae, Laney, and Mel are reeled into the beefy arms of their respective boyfriends. I toy with the hot-pink glass necklace girdling my neck, jealousy niggling at me. But then I think of Mona Stone. Superstars don’t need anyone to hold them up.
Alone, I move closer to the stage, where a hired band is playing a medley of the latest hits. Careful not to put too much weight on my sore knee, I sway to the beat. I feared I would have to wear flats, but in the end, I managed to walk just fine in the black heels I borrowed from Mom.
I lift my arms and let the music travel through me. The singer, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, paces the stage, mic in hand. The only hints of color are his piercing blue eyes, enhanced by black eyeliner, and his horseshoe belt buckle inlaid with turquoise. Even his hair is black and falls in waves across his forehead. He winks at me.
Or at least I think he does. He probably can’t even see me what withthe stage lights. I bob my head to the twang of the guitar, musing about what it would feel like to be up on that stage, to play in front of people, to have my voice carry over a crowd. Just imagining it makes my palms clammy. I rub them on my leopard-print dress.
The song ends. I clap along with everyone else. The singer strides across the makeshift stage in my direction and lifts his mic to his mouth. Right before launching into a new number, he winks at me. This time, I’m sure I’m not imagining it.
Maybe the wink was meant for someone else, though. I check over my shoulder. People have stopped clapping and have started bobbing their heads and hands to the new song. It’s unfamiliar, probably an original. It’s not bad. The pitch could use some tweaking and some high notes would work better as low notes, but the rhythm is catchy. As I sway to it, locks of hair escape my waterfall braid and fall in tendrils around my face.
At some point, I close my eyes and let the music guide my motions. It’s not like I can step on anyone’s toes. I’m not even lifting my feet. Besides, I love to feel music, and when you suspend one sense, the others heighten.
But I feel much more than music.
I feel a hand on my waist.
My lids snap up.
My gaze lands on a set of hooded eyes.
Tennessee leans over until his mouth is level with my ear. The pounding of blood inside my veins increases so suddenly that if he moves any closer, my pulse will nip his mouth.
