Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) (13 page)

I collapse to the floor with a thud to go over the letter in more detail. That’s when I read the fine print: the top five hundred singers are invited to New York City in December to perform in person. From there, the show will whittle the number of contestants down to thirty. But the show won’t pay for the top five hundred to come to New York for the weeklong auditions, and since I’m not eighteen yet, I have to bring a parent or guardian.

“What a cheap show!” I complain. A cheap show I desperately want to be on. Several of the artists who’ve won and even those who only made it to the top ten have gone on to get huge record deals. Jesse has his three Grammys, Tammy Goldstein is on Broadway, and Minka Carlton even won an Oscar!

Dave pulls out his phone and swipes it on. “Let’s see how much flights and a hotel would cost.” A minute later, a shadow crosses his face. “Flights are pretty expensive…probably because it’s between Thanksgiving and Christmas…hotels are steep too. Looks like it’ll cost you between $1,500 and $2,000.”

“I have about $150 in my bank account,” I murmur.

“What about driving?” Dave asks.

“I don’t think my car will make it,” Mom says. “It needs a new carburetor.” She looks at me. “And don’t even think about it. We’re not riding your motorcycle to New York.”

“Damn.”

At the beginning of each season of
Wannabe
Rocker
, they show snippets of audition week in New York. Normally they only show the horrible people and the best people—the contestants they want to win. There’s a chance I may not even be featured. Unless I’m one of the horrible people…

“We’ll figure it out,” Mom says and hugs me again.

After Dave leaves to put on his costume for tonight’s Halloween field party at Morton’s (he and Xander are going as Mario and Luigi, and I’m going as Princess Peach), I wait anxiously for Dad to get home from the shop. When he pushes open the screen door, wearing coveralls covered in black grease, I pounce on him with the news.

“Congratulations, baby girl,” he says, wrapping me in a huge hug. “I’m so proud of you for going solo.” Dad yawns and goes to start a pot of coffee.

“There’s a catch,” I say. “We have to pay for travel. It’s expensive to get to New York. I’ve got $150, and I bet I can save up another hundred or two in the next month, but I’ll need a lot more for two plane tickets and a hotel…maybe a thousand.”

He stops scooping grounds into the coffeemaker and turns to look at me. “Baby girl, you know that I used every spare cent we had toward the down payment on this house…and I can’t miss a mortgage payment. I might be able to spare a couple hundred, but not a thousand.”

“But, Dan,” Mom interrupts, placing a hand on his chest.

“I’m sorry, love. I don’t think we can save up enough in a month. Maybe if I’d had a bit more warning, I could’ve put some aside, but I just don’t have it right now.”

I hurry out of the kitchen to my bedroom, blinking back tears. Sometimes it really sucks that my family doesn’t have money. My brother played football for Michigan for four years, but we only made it to two games because we couldn’t afford to travel. Dave’s dad works out at the Air Force base and his mom is a teacher, and while they aren’t rich or anything, they could afford a trip to New York. And don’t even get me started on Jesse Scott. I’m not jealous of being rich, but I wish I had the chance to have options. Even if I pick up a ton of hours down at Caldwell’s, I could never save up this kind of money in a month. I lie down on my bed and clutch my pillow. What other options do I have?

My brother only recently started making money, and while Jordan’s family is wealthy, I’d never ask her for help. If she or her family found out about it, I know they’d butt in and pay to send me to New York, but that would embarrass my father and brother. They are both very proud men.

Do I have anything I could sell? The only things I own of worth are my two guitars, the boots Jesse gave me, my Suzuki I fixed up, and the Bose iPod dock I saved and saved for.

Mom knocks and comes in my room to join me on the bed. We sit in silence together for a while, her holding my hand.

“Are you gonna call Jesse and tell him the news?”

I shake my head. “I can’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

We’re not in a relationship. I don’t have any idea what we are, we haven’t talked in several days, and I don’t want him thinking I’m asking for favors. He hates when people do that.

“I have to do this on my own.”

Mom smiles and squeezes my hand. “That’s my girl.”

Dave comes with me.

We meet the guy in the Walmart parking lot—a safe place with lots of lights.

“I’ll give you $300 for it,” the man says, eyeing the Suzuki I slaved over for six months, the motorcycle I ride every day. I spent hours working on the fuel line; it took three months to find the right parts to upgrade the transmission. I put my heart into this bike.

“How about $350?” I say in a strong voice, not letting my voice waver, not letting a tear fall down my face.

“$310?”

Dave just looks at me. He doesn’t know what it’s worth. I swallow hard and run my hand across the seat, feeling the care I poured into it.

I guess, in a way, the bike is getting me to New York for the auditions—even if I’m not riding it there. I can only pray that the time and money I’m dedicating to this trip will amount to something as cool as this Suzuki.

“$330?” I ask.

“$325.”

“Sold.”

• • •

With three weeks until the semifinals in New York, I’m working my fifth shift of the week at Caldwell’s. I’ve clocked nearly twenty hours, and boy, am I exhausted. It’s a good exhausted though. With the money I got for the Suzuki and my Bose iPod dock, plus the cash I have saved, I’m up to $750. Even though they are so not me, I would never consider selling the boots Jesse gave me.

After taxes, this week’s paycheck will probably be about $125. I’m getting closer, but I still can’t afford five nights staying in a $200 per night hotel, and every time I check online, the cost of plane tickets goes up, up, up. It must be so expensive because everyone’s heading to New York to see the decorations after Thanksgiving.

My phone rings right as I’m finishing ringing up a customer. I glance around to make sure Mr. Caldwell and Dad aren’t in the lobby and answer my cell.

“Jesse!”

“Hey, My.”

We’ve barely spoken since that night we went to the movies, and it’s good to hear his voice. I jog in place and grin. “How are you?”

“Good. I get home tomorrow. This was a hell of a trip.”

“You did great on
SNL
.”

“I’m never doing that again. It was way past my bedtime,” he jokes, and I smile into the phone. “I’ve missed you,” he says.

“I miss you too.”

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”

“Definitely,” I say, trying not to sound overeager, but it’s impossible. I’m anxious to see him.

“I’ll pick you up at seven. And I’m deciding what we’re doing this time. No more sappy movies.”

“You loved it!” I tease, and I stay on the phone with him until another customer comes in.

At lunch the next day, I can’t stop dancing in my chair and smiling to myself, but Dave isn’t talking. He’s poking at his pizza with a fork.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is everything okay with Xander?”

“Everything’s good—we went back to his dorm after homecoming! I ended up sleeping over.”

I throw a french fry at him. “Get out!”

Dave dishes up all the details, and while I’m happy for him, I’m also jealous. Jesse was still out of town on Saturday night, and I had no date to the dance, so after cheering for Jordan at the football game and watching them win, I went home and practiced guitar.

“If everything’s so great with Xander, what’s wrong?”

“I have something to show you.” Dave reaches into his backpack and removes a magazine: a shiny issue of
Us
Weekly
. He flicks through a few pages and passes it to me. A picture of Jesse and Natalia Naylor—a famous model—stares back at me. Natalia is clutching his elbow and smiling at something he’s saying as they walk down the street. Or should I say stumbling? How can she walk in those four-inch stilettos? The caption says they’re in Santa Monica. I flip to the cover and check the date. It’s this week’s issue.

“He didn’t mention anything about her,” I say quietly, rolling the magazine into a tight coil.

“Didn’t you say he was in California?” Dave asks.

I nod. “He was in LA for a few days at the American Music Awards and shooting a music video.”

It’s not like we’re official, but it hurts seeing him with another girl. While he wasn’t ready to dive right in, he wants to see where this goes, and to me, that means we are starting to explore a relationship.

“What should I do?” I ask with a sigh.

“Just ask him about it,” Dave says. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“But what if the explanation is that he’s dating somebody else?”

“My, I saw the two of you dancing at the fair and at my house that night. I doubt Jesse looks at any other girl the way he looks at you. Are we sure he’s not bi? I want him to look at me that way!”

I throw a baby carrot at Dave’s face.

My cell beeps. Jesse sent a text:
Can’t wait to see you tonite. I’m dying here.

Part of me wants to play it cool. Play it hard to get. But I decide to be honest. I text back:
can’t wait to see you too.

• • •

Jesse picks me up on his motorcycle and somehow survives meeting Mom, Dad, and Anna. My mom and sister are all over him like white on rice, and Dad is channeling Sam, looking like he wants to kill Jesse or at least put him in a headlock. Men.

We climb on Jesse’s bike, I wrap my arms around his waist, and we zoom to Nashville. The whole way there, I think about how I’ll raise the subject of the picture of him with Natalia Naylor. Do I even have a right to ask?

He parks in front of a restaurant called the Spaghetti Factory, and we head inside.

“I’m gonna wash my hands,” I tell him, and he agrees to get the table.

In the bathroom, I examine my outfit to make sure nothing is out of place following our ride. It’s totally me, this sleeveless, purple tartan minidress covered with leather accents and silver zippers. I’m wearing a cropped leather jacket over it. I look good.
Take
that, Natalia Naylor, you silly supermodel, you.
I inhale deeply. Who am I kidding? She’s a supermodel! How can I compete with her?

After I’m done using the bathroom, the hostess leads me to the back of the dark restaurant, past a classical pianist, to a cushy, circular red booth. Jesse is signing autographs for a bunch of younger girls. He scribbles his name on a white cloth napkin with his black Sharpie and hands the napkin to a little girl.

“Thank you,” she squeals.

I slide into the booth next to Jesse. The girls recognize me from the YouTube video and beg for my autograph. Ever since Jesse started following me on Twitter, lots of random people have been talking to me online, but this is a whole new level.

“Can I use your marker?” I ask Jesse.

“Get your own Sharpie.” He passes it to me with a smile. Taking a deep breath, I sign my name on two cloth napkins and hand them back to the girls. A photographer snaps pictures of us before the restaurant manager chases him out.

Will I ever get used to being out with Jesse? I’m not jealous of the attention he gives other people or that it takes away from our time together, but I want to help him lead the normal life he wants so bad. How will that ever happen if we can’t go to dinner without being disturbed? Before I can feel too down about the situation, a waiter pulls a thick velvet curtain around our booth, leaving us in candlelit privacy.

The second we’re alone, I can’t help it—I have to be near him. I scoot over and burrow against his side, expecting him to pull away like he did at Dave’s house that night. Instead, he gently traces my jaw and kisses my cheek.

“How are you?” he asks, searching my eyes.

Much
better
now, after that kiss.
“Things are okay,” I say slowly.

“Hungry?”

“Starved.”

He doesn’t even look at the menu. “We’re splitting the Spaghetti Vesuvius. I’m addicted to it.”

I clutch his hand. “You seem happy.”

“I am happy.” He drags a fingertip from my wrist to my elbow, making me shiver. “It’s really good to see you, My. Uncle Bob and Mark took me out for lunch today. The concert in Memphis last night went well. Just finished writing a new song. I’m working on a secret project too.”

“Oooh, what is it?”

“I can’t tell you until Mark gives me the go-ahead,” he says, shooting me his famous half-cocked smile. “Besides, why should I tell you my secret if you won’t share yours?”

When Jesse asked why I’ve been working so many hours, I told him I’m saving money for something, but it’s a secret. I will not put him in the position of feeling like he has to offer me money. Also, since he won the show as a kid, I don’t want him to feel obligated to help me in any way. I am doing this on my own. Plus, what if he thinks I’m asking for favors? I don’t want to be somebody who takes, takes, takes.

“I’m not sure if it’s gonna work out after all,” I say slowly. I leave his arms and choose a piece of bread from the basket.

“Why not?”

“My plans have a lot of moving parts.” Specifically, I haven’t made enough money to buy plane tickets. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it happen…at least not without help.”
And
my
family
can’t afford to help me.

“So you’ve got a decision to make then.”

“What’s that?”

“Decide if you wanna give up and move on to something else, or if you wanna make it work.” He picks up a straw, rips the paper off the end, and blows the straw paper at me. I catch it. “If I want something, I tell people. Even if I don’t end up getting what I want in the end, at least I’ve put myself out there.”

“But you’re Jesse Scott.”

“And you’re Maya Henry.”

I tap the table with my fork. I already asked my mom and dad for help, and that didn’t work out. But I do have other people in my family. My older brother, who I love so much, even if he is an overprotective ass. He doesn’t have money either though.

Mom always complains about Sam living in sin and wishes he’d propose to Jordan already, but I know the real reason he hasn’t. It’s pride. I find it hilarious that Jordan has asked him to marry her several times, but he always says no. He wants to buy Jordan an engagement ring she’ll love first, but he’s still working to save up for one. He’s nearly there.

To ask him for help would just set his plans back even further. I can’t do that, certainly not for something so selfish, something that’s all about me. I guess Jesse is right in a way though—I could at least tell Sam what’s going on.

Our food arrives, and we dig into our spaghetti. Jesse even tries the
Lady
and
the
Tramp
move, you know, where we’re both eating the same strand of spaghetti and kiss? It doesn’t work out so well—we end up with spaghetti sauce all over our faces.

Jesse nudges my nose with his. “I missed you so much. It seemed like everywhere I went, I heard a Queen song that made me think of you.”

“I thought about you too,” I say. “My sister will not stop playing ‘Ain’t No City Boy’ on repeat. I can’t stand that song.”

He laughs, and my body aches for him to take me in his arms, but I can’t get the
Us
Weekly
photo out of my head. Every time I think about it, I wince.

“You okay, My?”

“I’m all right,” I reply. “You?”

“I’d feel better if you’d kiss me already.”

He edges closer and rubs my cheek with a thumb. Then we’re kissing like crazy. His lips become my lips. They’re warm and soft—slow, but hungry. And his hands—rough and calloused from playing guitar all the time—feel nice against my neck.

“You’ve got spaghetti breath,” I tell him, burying my fingers in his wavy brown hair.

“You too.”

One hand drifts downward as he rubs my stomach through my dress. The piano music crescendos. I keep kissing him, but his hand is making me tremble all over. I don’t want to mess this up, but I don’t want to go any further, at least not without knowing what we are to each other. Last time we were together, he didn’t want anything physical, and now he’s all over me. And that’s confusing. I suck in a deep breath, my body tensing all over.

“It’s okay,” Jesse mutters, biting my earlobe. “Relax.”

“I saw the magazine,” I blurt. “
Us
Weekly
. There’s a picture of you with Natalia Naylor.”

“Who?” he mouths, scrunching his eyebrows together.

Great.
He can’t even remember his conquests. What am I even doing here?

“The model? You were walking down the street with her. She was holding your arm. Wearing a tight jean skirt and white halter top…”

Suddenly his eyes light up. “Oh! Nat. I haven’t seen her since we worked together on a Levi’s campaign last year.
Us
Weekly
printed a picture of us together?”

I nod.

He goes on, “They’re probably just trying to get some gossip going. They know I’m interested in you, and since neither of us is talking to the press about it, they’re trying to bait us.”

“Oh. So you’re not seeing Natalia?”

“No. I’m sure my publicists would love that, but I’ve never been into her. I’m glad you asked me about the picture.”

“I’m glad you’re not dating a supermodel.”

“Me too. Because then how could I go on dates with a mean, sexy punk girl?”

We kiss, and he clutches my dress with both fists as the pianist begins playing a new song.

“I love kissing you.” He leans into me as he peppers me with kisses that make my whole, and I mean whole, body buzz. But the guy’s about to go on a six-week tour. That’s a long time, and we haven’t even talked about what’s happening here.

I gently push a hand to his chest to stop him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Can we get dessert?” He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

I leave his arms and open the dessert menu, pretending to read it.

After dinner, Jesse insists on paying the bill, and even though it wasn’t expensive, he leaves a fifty-dollar tip. A few photographers take pictures of us as we walk over to Gibson. Turns out Jesse actually had the store shut down this time, because he wants to play his new song, “Waiting for Christmas,” for me, and he’s been thinking about buying that archtop Citation, the one that’s worth more than my house. A guitar of the gods.