The Secrets of Attraction (19 page)

“Not obvious at all,” I said. Wren laughed.

We started jogging according to plan. Thankfully the bleachers were less than a quarter mile away; anything more than that and my face might have exploded. As it was, Wren and I were panting.

“Is it just me, or does this feel really scripted?” I asked, reaching my arm up over my head and doing a side-bend. “Kind of like a soft-core porn film about sweaty lax boys.”

“Mads, please,” Jazz said.

Wren switched legs. “Oh, sweaty lax boy, can you help me? I just need a little assist from behind.”

“I'll hold your stick for you.” I stretched my quad.

“What the hell? Would you two stop?”

“All the oxygen we're huffing must be getting to us.”

“Heads up!” someone yelled from the field. Jazz ducked as something whizzed by her head and ricocheted off the top step of the bleachers. The ball fell to the ground below.

“And this is how it starts. Cue the sexy music.”

“Bow-chicka-wow-wow,” Wren sang as she put one leg up on the bleachers and grabbed hold of the tip of her sneaker.

I deepened my voice, giving it a southern lilt. “Would you be so kind as to pick up my ball, Jazzabelle?”

“Oh my god, just grow up,” Jazz said, but there was laughter in her voice.

One of the players walked over, lifted his helmet, and smiled.

“Thought that was you,” he said. Logan. “Did you see where the ball went?”

Wren and I burst in a fit of giggles. Logan looked at us, confused.

“Yeah, I'll get it,” Jazz said, crouching to get under the bleachers. She was trying to keep a straight face and wouldn't look at either of us. Wren's face was purple from silent laughter. Jazz walked to Logan and tossed the ball over the fence to him.

“Feel like going for a run after this?” he asked her.

“Looks like you're getting a workout now.”

“Yep, but I could use a run to unwind after this,” he said.

“Yes, please, these two can't keep up with me.”

“Cool,” Logan said, backing away from the fence and then turning to trot out to the rest of the boys who were still playing. Jazz could have heated up a whole galaxy with the smile on her face.

“A guy who takes a run to relax? Guess you've met your Prince Charming, Jazzy.”

“So can we stop pretending to stretch?”

“Ooh, but you're quite flexible, Wren,” I said.

“Thanks to Leif and his assists,” she said.

“Hey, so I was thinking—you know how Gray's band is going to play out at that place in Hoboken?” Jazz asked.

“I'd hardly call it
Gray's
band—I mean, he is the newest member. It's really Jesse's band,” I said. Both Wren and Jazz puzzled at my quick defense. “What? It's the truth.”

“Anyhow,” Jazz continued, “I was thinking of asking Logan to go. That's a good idea, right? And this way if he says no, it's not like I'll be that crushed because I'll still go with you guys, but if he says yes, then it can be our first official sort-of date.”

“That sounds perfect. Is Zach coming, Mads?”

I hadn't told them about the
L
word yet, mostly because I was trying to forget about it myself. Avoidance had become my new pastime.

“Maybe. Live music isn't really his thing. Hey, but how are we going to get in, anyway? Are you forgetting the whole we're-not-eighteen issue?” I asked.

Wren smiled. “No worries. Grayson's got that covered. He knows a guy.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“JESSE
'
S NOT EVEN A GIRL, AND HE GETS TO DYE
his hair, not fair.”

The debate had been going on since I came home on Wednesday night from Madison's. Daisy pouted, looking from my mother to me. Tax season was never a time to negotiate with my mother, her last nerve always on the verge of being fried. I tried to communicate this with narrowed
Cut the crap
eyes to Daisy, but she ignored me. Ty had finally gotten used to my new look, but still eyed me while nibbling on his pancake, as if he were waiting for something else to change. “Both boys and girls can dye their hair. If you want a streak, that's fine, but I'm done with this argument. You can't dye your hair purple like the girl on YouTube.”

TKO, Mom.

Daisy grumbled. My dad changed the subject.

“You guys sounded pretty tight the other day. Are you ready for next week?”

Were we ready? We'd been practicing together six times a week, dividing our time between Lot 23 and the garage. We were sore, fingers bleeding, throats raspy, but the fifteen songs we had sounded good, all except the original—we were still fumbling through the sound, and the guys wanted to cut it. I swallowed a mouthful of maple-syrup-soaked pancake before answering.

“I think so, but you know, if you're gonna blow it, blow it big.”

Dad laughed and looked at Mom. “I have not heard that saying in years.”

“You know it?” I asked.

“Declan's motto? Yes,” my mother said, cutting up another piece of pancake for Tyler. “He justified more than playing music with that saying.”

“What does it mean?”

“He had this voice instructor, real dramatic, old-school guy, and he used to say that. Cracked us up. We started using it for everything. But you know, he had a point. If you crash, own it. People will respect you more,” my father said.

“I don't plan on crashing. We're cool.” At least I sounded confident.

“Remind me to call the sitter, Sam.”

The pancake hung from my fork as I stopped mid-bite, staring at my mother.

“You guys are coming to see us?”

“Of course, why?”

“I'm not a baby, I don't need a sitter,” Daisy said. “Why can't I go?”

“Hell no,” I said.

My mother frowned. “What did I tell you about that word at my table?”

“Jess, we'll leave the foam fingers and pop-poms at home, but as chief financiers of Yellow Number Five, of course we're coming. We want to support you. So we can say we knew you when,” Dad said.

I had certain expectations of Whiskey Business and what the crowd would be like, and it didn't include my parents. But what if they were the only people there?

“Sorry, I'm just nervous. What if no one shows up?”

“What if a ton of people show up and hate you?” Daisy said, sticking her tongue out so quick that my mother didn't notice. I hadn't thought of
that.

“Jitters are part of it. If you weren't nervous, you wouldn't be normal. And that stuff you're talking about? It'll all happen if you're in a band long enough. Those'll be your road stories. See this?” My dad pointed to a scar that cut through his right eyebrow. “That's from a beer cap flung at me when we played this dump in Manville.”

“That awful place with the sawdust on the floor?” my mother said.

“Yeah, the regulars were not into the Sex Pistols.”

“Pissstul,” Ty repeated.

“What a lovely word for him to learn.”

The doorbell sounded.

“OPEN!” Ty yelled.

Daisy popped up.

“Sit,” my mother said as she got up. All of our attention followed her as we waited to see who it was. She pushed away the curtains and peered through the side window.

“It's Duncan,” she said, reaching for the doorknob. My dad and I shared a puzzled look. My family knew my version of what had happened, that Hannah and Duncan were together, and they had lived through my phase as the soulless hermit from hell, but as far as I knew they'd never come face-to-face with Duncan since then. I wondered what my mother would say to him, and braced myself.

“Duncan, hey, come in out of the cold,” my mother said, opening the door wide.

So much for solidarity.

He stepped into the doorway, running his boots across the doormat and pulling his hat off his head. He saw us at the table and hesitated a moment before moving toward us.

“Hey, Mr. McMann,” he said, holding out his hand.

My father stood up and shook his hand. “Duncan, long time, no see—how's the new band?”

Thunk.
My father always knew how to throw the awkward right into the conversation. He sat down, smiling up at Duncan, appearing to be truly interested to hear what he had to say.

“Can-can,” Ty said, slapping the little tray on his high chair. Duncan laughed at Ty. He and Duncan had had this drumming thing when he'd stay after rehearsal sometimes. I hadn't realized it made an impression on Ty. Only Daisy ignored Duncan. She gave me a quick look and rolled her eyes. At least one of my family members saw him as a jerk.

“New band's a'right,” Duncan said, twisting his hat in his hand.

“Do you want something hot to drink, cocoa or something?” my mother asked, poised to sit down.

“No, no thank you, just stopped by to see Jess.”

“We can talk in the garage,” I said, pushing away from the table. Duncan followed as I walked into the kitchen and put my plate in the sink. He had to be here for the song. Again. He said nothing as we walked through the laundry room into the garage.

I flipped the switch on, rubbed my hands together. Our equipment was set up for rehearsal later that afternoon. I crossed my arms and looked at Duncan. He walked over to Grayson's drum set, ran his finger across the cymbal.

“How's he working out?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Good.”

“Better than me?”

“Different.”

He nodded, sniffled. “Kenny's such an asshat. He lost his nut when he found out you guys were doing the battle.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Good. What about you? Lose a nut?”

“Nah. Bring it,” he said.

“But you want the song.”

“Did you finish it?”

I nodded. He didn't need to know it sucked at the moment.

“I was thinking, maybe we could both do it.”

“At the battle?”

“No. Like, split it.”

I wondered if I was in Duncan's shoes if I'd be so eager to grovel at my feet. The truth was it could have easily been the other way around. I just happened to have the notebook we used to write it down. The song was just okay. Nothing great. I knew I could easily write a better one, but not in a week. Not before the Whiskey. But I wasn't about to make it easy for him.

“What, like, in half?” I asked, smirking.

“I think you know what I mean.”

“Why would I agree to that?”

“Because you're a decent person, Jess. And you're gonna blow us away anyway.”

“Unless Kenny has a neighbor on the panel again.”

He laughed. “That's the only way. Come on.”

“So you're asking me to give you an advantage?”

“No. I'm asking you to give us a friggin' fighting chance. We started writing it with the Whiskey in mind, remember? Just, you know, you guys can use it there and we'll play it for the battle. Seems fair, don't you think, since we cowrote it?”

Since it was more like a 60/40 partnership in my favor, I didn't think it was fair but I was sick of going on about it. And I when I looked it over the last time, I realized something. We both were probably thinking about Hannah when we wrote it. That song had a ton of baggage with it. If I thought I could come up with something new before next weekend, something we could practice that would sound as good as the rest of our songs, I'd attempt it. But between work and school and life, it wasn't going to happen.

“Fine. Sounds good.”

He startled. “Really?”

“Yeah, why not? Are you coming to the Whiskey?”

“Oh, um, hadn't thought about it.”

“Bullshit.”

“All right, I don't know. Kenny said something about going but . . . it would be hard, Jess. For me. You know?”

I hadn't thought about what it would mean for Duncan. He'd wanted to play out as much as I had. I should have felt bad for him, but I didn't. Too much had happened, but maybe we could be friends again. Maybe.

“It would be good to see you there, Duncan.”

“Maybe.”

“Cool.”

“You might want to rethink the hair.”

“Dude, I think we need to drop the pipe dream of the original for now,” Tanner said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. We'd been practicing for two hours and still couldn't get it right. I looked at Grayson, who in the past week had become so lightning-fast and tight on the drums, he'd far surpassed Duncan. We'd found our groove. Except for the original.

“Tanner's right, Jess. Definite weak spot in the set.”

Tanner stood up a little straighter with Grayson's agreement.

I knew they were right, the song wasn't coming together, but I wanted to
kill it
at Whiskey Business. And playing an original would definitely kill it. I didn't want to let Declan down, either. Not on our first time out. We still had a week before the show. Plenty of time to make it happen.