Bounce (2 page)

Welkin's a hundred times better with me. And they've become my saviors. I was drifting before they came around. I mean, I always knew I could sing. I've always loved it. I just never knew I'd love to sing
with a band
. Because of them, I've discovered that I love performing. They've given me direction, a dream: land a contract with a record label. And after last night's practice, I felt
unbelievably
inspired and positive we'd make it happen. So when Titus, my lead guitarist and best friend, asked if he could invite a few people over for some beers, I said sure. When Shane, our drummer, asked the same thing, I said definitely. How could I say no to Emilio and Reznick?

An hour later, a hundred people, almost all strangers, filled the house. And this morning-after disaster is the result.

Adam shifts his weight. “I don't care what it was
supposed
to be, Grey. I don't give a shit.”

“Adam,” Ali says, her eyes pleading with him to calm down.

He sighs and gives her a small nod back, like,
Okay, I hear you
.

That actually worries me, the effect she has on him. Ali is the sweetest girl I know. She's great for my brother. The first girl he's been serious with in years. But I wonder if she's moving
in
, which'll probably happen soon, if it means I'll have to move
out
. I don't want to move out. He was my brother before he became her boyfriend. I need him more than she does.

Adam slips out of his sport coat and looks for a clean place to set it down. There isn't one, so he slings it over his shoulder. “You're paying for all this.”

I knew that was coming. “Okay. I have a gig in about a week—”

“No. You work for me now.”

“What, like, a real job?”

“Yeah, Grey,” he says, sharply. “Like a real job.”

A wave of dizziness rolls through me. What are my options? He lets me live here. He's always been there for me. Always. And I trashed his place. Completely. I can't say no.

I adjust my grip on the trash bag in my hands. “Okay. I'll work for you. But only until this is paid off.”

He rolls his eyes, which I don't understand. I just told him what he wanted to hear, didn't I? “Ali, do you mind calling a cleaning service?” he says.

“No problem. I'm on it.”

“I've got it, Adam,” I say. “I'll clean all of this up.”

“No, you won't. You'll pay for the cleaning service, because your new boss wants you at work on time. Get your ass in the shower. We leave here in ten minutes.”

I head for my bathroom, sure of one thing. This arrangement? Me working for him? Not a good idea.

  
Chapter 2
  

Skyler

J
ust call me the yes girl, the go-along girl, the one who can be counted on to dive in first, ask questions later.

Tattoo my high school boyfriend's name on my ankle? Of course. What could go wrong?

Six days at Burning Man with a dude I just met? Sure. It's an adventure.

But this, I think, as I look in the bathroom mirror, might be my last impulsive hurrah.

Because this morning, I have pink hair.

At first, it scares the pee out of me—like one of those horror movie moments where a girl looks in a mirror, and a completely different person looks back. Luckily, my brain fills in the missing pieces as I lean in and examine my new look, a gift from my best friends Beth and Mia, who talked me into it last night after my million-and-tenth complaint about needing a change.

It's a change, all right. One in a series initiated over the last six months.

Step one, completed last week: break up with my semi-boyfriend-person Brian, who is absolutely sweet as vanilla but just doesn't make my strings quiver, if you know what I mean.

Step two, planned for today: take the six months of acting lessons Beth talked me into for a trial run with a real-life audition.

Step three (apparently): pink hair.

I have to admit, the color is somewhere between adorable and alarming, which suits me. Not quite cotton candy, not quite flamingo. It punks up my bob and gives my usual pale skin a rosy glow.

I brush the pink strands back from my face and decide I can live with it—at least for the few weeks it will take to grow out. Unless I get a part in the movie that's going to make Beth a star. I don't care what it is; I'll take “third cocktail server from the left” as long as it pays a few bucks. Anything to keep the lights on and help me get my second cello out of hock.

Beth comes into the bathroom and stands behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder. “What do you think?”

“I'm not sure,” I tell her, mostly to bust her chops. In reality, I'm starting to love it.

“You wanted to do something different,” Beth reminds me. “And you have to stand out from all the other BLTs who'll show up today.”

“BLTs?”

“Blond, leggy, tan,” she says with a cheesy smile. “You'll see.”

“Well, I'll definitely stand out,” I say. “Assuming my acting's on par with my hair.”

“I've seen you,” Beth says. “You'll get something. They won't be able to resist your look.”

“Here's hoping,” I say. “I've got until the end of the month before they put Christina up for sale.”

“I told you I'd get her out of hock for you,” Mia says from the next room. The walls are thin as tissue around here, so we don't even pretend our conversations are private. “Beyonce's lonely.”

True. My poor acoustic cello's just standing in a corner of my bedroom, missing its electric buddy. Turns out that a couple of club gigs a week and busking on the streets of LA—a city where no one
walks
—does not a rich girl make. Christina is the only thing I own that's worth more than a few bucks, but it slays me to think of her gathering dust in some pawnshop.

On the other hand, there's no way I'm borrowing more money from Mia or anyone else.

Beth wraps a pink strand around her finger and holds it up to the dark skin of her cheek. “What do you think? Should I go for it too?”

“I think you're perfect the way you are,” I tell her. And she is. Gorgeous high cheekbones, wide-set brown eyes, perfect glossy black hair—chemically straightened into submission for this role. “You ready for your big day?”

She pushes back the shower curtain and turns on the water. It takes about ten minutes to warm up from tepid to less tepid, but we're in a drought in California and can't waste a drop, which means a
lot
of cold showers. Then she strips out of her t-shirt and underwear and puts on a plastic shower cap.

Usually, I'd tease her about how ridiculous she looks, but something in her expression stops me. Something I rarely see there: doubt.

“What's that look?” I ask.

“What look?”

I wave my hand in front of her face. “That one.”

She climbs into the shower, so her voice comes back to me muffled by two layers of vinyl, which are probably leaching fumes into the tiny bathroom and curdling our brains.

“I'm worried they're not going to cast me now,” she says. “Lead's white.”

“Are you kidding me? They're in love with you! That Brooks can't stop salivating.”

“Oh, I know. Directors always love me. Everyone does.”

“So, what's the matter? You're in, and you know it.”

“I thought so until they cast the guy.”

“Who's the guy?”

“Garrett Allen.”

“Don't know him.”

“He did that thing with the magical library, remember?”

I think I do—vaguely. Mia and Beth can deconstruct a film to shrapnel, but usually it's the soundtrack, more than anything, that stays with me.

“Looks like the guy's a shoe-in for a Spirit Award this year,” says Beth. “And he's, like, twenty-four.”

“Well, that's great,” I say. “It helps the movie, right?”

“Right.”

“And when you get the lead part, that'll mean even more attention for you too, right?”

No answer.

I poke at the shower curtain, and she yelps. “Right?”

“I really don't know,” she tells me. “They cast these roles on type. Like who looks good with who. When Jon Ayers was in the lead, I had it nailed. He's a big guy. Part Hispanic. We had mad chemistry.”

“Well, just go and have mad chemistry with Garrett.”

She snorts.

“What?”

“Nothing. Let's just say I'm not his type.”

“Well,
be
his type,” I tell her. “You're an actor. Anyone who can't see how beautiful and talented you are is a dumbass, and these guys are
not
dumbasses.”

“That's true,” she says, and cuts off the water.

“Who's not a dumbass?” Mia asks, peeking around the doorway. Her dark curls fill the narrow space like her own personal storm cloud.

“Beth's worried she won't get the part now that they cast someone else as the male lead,” I explain.

“You'll get the part,” Mia says.

Beth rolls her eyes and wraps up in a towel.

“Seriously,” Mia insists. “They used you for the teaser. They already
see
you in the part. And your acting kicks ridiculous amounts of ass. You light it up in there, Bets. I promise.”

“
And
your best friend is Assistant Director.”

“Well,
Second
Assistant Director,” Mia says. “Which I think was really just Adam throwing me a bone so I wouldn't follow him around, keening.”

“That Adam Blackwood could throw
me
a bone anytime,” Beth mutters.

“We're getting off-topic,” I tell them. “Come on! I need this. I'm seriously down to seventeen dollars and a couple of drink tickets. I don't want to have to go home to Lexington and teach music lessons. Please don't make me.”

Mia squeezes my shoulder. “Chin up, Sky. Beth's going to kill it. You're going to score at least a speaking part. I'm going to AD my ass off, and it's going to be magic and sparkly unicorns for all.”

She leaves.

“See?” I say, grinning. “Magic and sparkly unicorns for all. It's been decreed.”

“Well, as long as it's been decreed.”

“I think you're just nervous,” I tell her. “Like your dream is so close to coming true you don't want to jinx it. But you'll see. It'll be just like Mia says. You'll rock the lead. I'll rock whatever job I can get. You'll become a great big star. And I'll get my cello back and serenade you on your worldwide press tour.”

Beth laughs. “Way to dream big, Pinkie.”

“Always.”

  
Chapter 3