Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) (17 page)

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” She struggles not to laugh. What is going on? “C’mon, we’ve gotta get you up on the stage.”

Only seven singers stand between me and the biggest moment of my life. I wipe my upper lip with the back of my shaking hand as we line up backstage. Of the seven singers, six are immediately bathed in darkness, and only one girl moves on to the next round.

Leaving the stage, she breezes past me and says, “Good luck!”

I breathe in and out, closing my eyes as the stagehand calls my number.

I crack my knuckles and walk onstage with my guitar around my neck. The lights are so bright, I can barely see beyond the stage. Cameras are everywhere. I plug my cord into the amp and check the settings on the distortion.
All
set.

I smile down at the judges, and Jesse grins back at me. I grab the mike with one hand and shout, “One, two, one, two, three, four,” and dive into the opening riff of “Another One Bites the Dust.”

Instead of using my lucky pick, I take my cue from Queen’s guitarist Brian May and use an old penny to strum the strings. Under the bright lights, it feels like the heat from a million tiny suns. I remember to sing from my stomach, recalling everything Jesse and Holly taught me. What’s crazy? Contestants in the audience clap and dance. I thought they hated me.

About ten seconds in, part of the stage goes dark, but I keep jamming like I normally would. Another set of lights goes out. My heart chugs along—it might stop.

Please
don’t let the middle lights go out. Please. I love performing on this stage. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

When the stagehand in the wings gestures that my time is up, my knees nearly buckle. The other contestants clap and scream. I take a bow. I’m going to the next round!

That is, if the producers let me.

Adrenaline pulses through me as I take off my guitar and wait to see if the judges will make any comments.

“Your performance was fun,” Annie Lennox announces. “Great outfit.”

I blow a kiss at her because I just can’t help myself.

“I think you need more experience,” Dave Matthews says. “Your voice isn’t there yet, and I don’t know if it’ll ever be good enough to make it in the business.”

Ouch.
I nod at him and say thank you anyway.

Joel Madden says, “I agree with Dave, but I did enjoy your tone. And I love the purple boots.”

Jesse leans into the mike. “Thanks. Don’t I have great taste?” The other contestants groan and murmur. Him being a judge and me being a contestant really isn’t fair, is it?

Jesse then turns serious. “Your performance wasn’t bad, Maya, but you need to open your mouth more so the sound will be fuller. You also got way into the moment, sped up, and missed some beats.”

I thank Jesse and smile at him, even though he basically clobbered me over the head with a Fender. I unplug my guitar and exit the stage. The judges’ critiques are whirling around in my mind like a tornado.

“They didn’t turn all the lights off! I sorta sucked, but that was awesome!” I exclaim to anybody who’ll listen. “I just played in Radio City! Woooo!”

Mom and Sam come rushing up to congratulate me, and Mom kisses my cheek. Smiling, I pull away to find Mr. Logan standing there with an older man dressed in khakis and a polo, as if he just left the green.

“Good job, Maya,” Mr. Logan says, patting my back.

“That was so fun,” I reply. “Even if it was my only chance to compete, right? I won’t let Jesse get into any sort of trouble ’cause of me.”

The smile disappears from Mr. Logan’s face. “I’m hoping Charles here will be able to work something out.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe that. It’s either me or Jesse.

And Jesse has a lot to lose. Potential lawsuits, money, his retirement, the “real” life he wants so badly.

Me?

I worked so hard to get here. I worked so hard to get past my fears.

Will I lose who I’ve become?

Am I about to lose my dreams?

My high suddenly starts to bleed away.

My adrenaline disappears.

I say, “Excuse me” to Mr. Logan and the lawyers and hightail it to the nearest bathroom. It has a fancy waiting room, so I sit on a sofa and cry and cry and cry until my entire body feels like a wrung-out sponge. I practiced for hours every night, I’ve killed myself working to make enough money to come here, and it’s all over. The producers are sure to disqualify me. And even if they don’t disqualify me, there’s no way I’ll make it through the next round. The judges were harsh.

I
need
more
practice. I need more training. My voice isn’t there yet.

But I’m up for that. Regardless of what happens here, I’m gonna work hard on my music until I croak. Performing on that stage proved that music is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Mom comes in the bathroom and curls up with me.

“Where’s Sam?” I ask, blowing my nose.

“Watching the other singers perform and trying not to cry.”

“Sam doesn’t cry.”

“He does when his baby sister’s heart is broken.” She smiles slightly, her face covered in blotchy red spots. She’s been crying too.

Now all there’s left to do is wait to hear what the lawyers say.
Please
let
me
stay. Please let me stay
, I chant in my head. Hours later, I hear a loud knock on the sitting room door. “Is Maya in there?” Jesse’s sweet voice rings out.

“Yeah,” I call. “Come in.”

Mom gives me a hug, then stands up as Jesse walks into the women’s bathroom. She pats his back as she files past him.

Jesse sits next to me on the couch. “We finished the rest of the auditions. A hundred and fifteen singers are moving on to tomorrow.”

“Cool,” I say quietly, dabbing my face with Kleenex. “I’m glad you decided to do this. You’re helping lots of people.”

He adjusts his cowboy hat. “I’m not being that nice to the contestants.”

“But you’re teaching them how to get better. That’s huge.” I elbow him. “Even if you weren’t the nicest judge, everyone’s gonna remember your advice. I know I will.”

He squeezes my hand. “Today did feel pretty good, you know?”

Hearing that makes me smile. “So what’s going on now?”

“Charles is busy annoying Mr. Tyson and the producers into letting you compete.”

“I want to stay so bad, but I don’t think that’s going to work out.”

“You doubt my lawyer’s ability to be annoying? That makes you one of a kind.” He nudges me, and I chuckle.

“What’s the point? I mean, I’m not gonna make it past the next round.”

“You deserve a chance just like everybody else in there, and if they don’t give it to you, I’ll quit. Trust me, they don’t wanna piss me off.”

I look over at him and smile slightly.

“I’m sure the lawyers will spend hours talking, so can I take you out tonight?”

“Really?” I’m going out with Jesse in New York! “My family too?”

“I’ve got something planned just for you.”

I wipe my eyes one more time. “I need to talk to my mom.”

“She already gave me permission,” he says with a big, infectious grin.

He guides me out of the bathroom and back into the near-empty auditorium. Sam rushes up and hugs me, and then Mom does the same.

“Jesse has plans for you tonight,” Mom whispers in my ear.

“What about you and Sam? Maybe we could all get dinner?”

My brother shakes his head. “You should go with Jesse.”

Wow. Whatever Jesse has planned must be big if my brother is letting me out of his sight.

“I’ll see you in a bit then,” I tell them quietly, and Sam gives Jesse an earful about how he better take good care of me. Or else.

I pull my warm coat on before we head outside. Jesse snuggles into a light brown suede coat, looking very much a farmer in his ripped jeans, beige hat, and red boots. He puts an elbow out for me, and I link my arm in his. He leads me to a stretch limo.

“Oh my God!” I blurt.

“Wanna drive it?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda.”

“Well, maybe later.”

A chauffeur opens the back door for us. Taking a deep breath, I climb into the limo and find Holly smiling at me. She’s wearing her usual long, flowing, bohemian-style dress.

“Hi, Maya. I can’t believe you’re here,” she says.

“That makes two of us,” Jesse says, hip-checking me across the leather bench.

“Where’re we going?” I ask as Mr. Logan climbs in the limo.

“It’s a surprise,” Jesse says.

“Getting me back for the birthday party we crashed?”

“You could say that.”

The limo weaves through traffic while we explore the minibar, finding root beer and orange soda. Jesse, the health nut, cracks open a diet root beer.

“Sacrilege,” I tell him.

Twenty minutes later, the limo rolls to a stop outside a tall building labeled New York University, Tisch School of the Arts.

I jerk my head to look at Jesse, who has a subtle, but nervous, smile on his face.

“Jess?”

He takes one last sip of root beer before opening the door and stepping out. “For me?”

I take his outstretched hand and don’t let go as he leads me up to the building and through a set of glass doors. Holly and Mr. Logan follow, and even though my palm starts to sweat, Jesse doesn’t drop my hand. I swallow hard as we go inside.

“You know why we’re here?” Jesse asks.

“I’ve got a guess.”

Holly leads us down a long hallway past a few students to a music room filled with instruments. A tall African American man looks up from playing his harp and goes to give Holly a long hug.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” she says, patting his chest. “This is my dear friend Dr. Edgar Davidson—he’s dean of Tisch.” She introduces Jesse, Mr. Logan, and finally, me. “Maya’s got a unique tone to her voice. I wanted you to meet her.”

“Let’s hear it,” Dr. Davidson says in a deep baritone voice.

For some crazy reason, I feel a lot more nervous now than any other time I’ve performed, including earlier today. I mean, Dr. Davidson is dean of the NYU music school. This audition could help me prepare for the Vanderbilt tryout. This performance could shape my whole future.

Jesse adjusts his cowboy hat and smiles at me as I sing the P!nk song I’ll perform tomorrow for the next round of auditions. I try not to look at Dr. Davidson, because he makes me nervous, but I occasionally peek at him. He taps his chin with two fingers. He seems deep in thought. I finish and clasp my hands together behind my back.

“That was enjoyable,” Dr. Davidson says. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for letting me sing for you,” I reply.

He shakes my hand. “Is this your senior year?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles. “You should submit an application. We’ll consider this your audition for the program.”

Jesse throws an arm around me. “Big-time.”

I look to Holly, not quite understanding what this means. Did he like my song? Or does he tell everyone to apply? She smiles encouragingly at me.

Mr. Logan claps his hands together once. “I have a business dinner to get to.”

Dr. Davidson asks, “Can I take the rest of you to dinner?”

Holly says, “I’d be delighted, but let’s not subject Jesse and Maya to our boring gossip.”

So after thanking Dr. Davidson again and getting his business card, Mr. Logan takes us back outside to the limo. He pats Jesse’s cheek. “I can count on you to behave tonight, right?”

“Of course.” Jesse rolls his eyes. “I’m almost nineteen, Mark.”

“Yet he still acts like he’s twelve,” Mr. Logan says to me, chuckling. “Keep an eye on him, Maya. Last time I let him loose in Manhattan, he tried to buy an antique organ from the Met.”

Mr. Logan hails himself a cab, and then it’s just me and Jesse. Together. In New York City. We slide inside the limo, and Jesse starts rooting around in the minibar again.

“Why’d you do this for me?” I whisper.

He turns away from the snacks to focus on my face. “I wanted to show you that even if
Wannabe
Rocker
doesn’t work out, you’ve got lots of options. I know you’d never ask me for help, but I want you to know that you can, okay? I’m here for you. We have to trust each other.”

I swallow. “Thanks so much. I don’t know about New York though. The people I love aren’t here…my family, my friends. You.”

A moment of silence passes between us. “We’re here now. Ready for the official Jesse Scott New York City tour?”

“Let’s go!”

We stand up on the backseat, poking our heads out the sunroof. A cold wind hits my face, but there’s no way I’d sit down.

In a very meta moment, we pass a Jesse Scott billboard in which he’s belting it out into a microphone. The limo edges by Times Square, heading north all the way to Central Park, where we get out and walk.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“One of my favorite places.”

I hold my breath as we pass the Plaza Hotel, and then we approach FAO Schwarz, this humongous toy store that’s decorated for Christmas. Twin nutcrackers flank the entrance, and animatronic penguins are singing “Let it Snow.” It smells of potpourri and hot cider.

I link my arm in Jesse’s. “Why’s this one of your favorite places?”

“Mark brought me here when I was younger, and he bought me this remote-controlled helicopter, which I loved.”

People on the sidewalk take pictures of Jesse, but it’s nothing like Nashville where he gets mobbed every two feet. Here, people keep a wide berth as we enter the ginormous toy store.

This place is wild. I gaze up at a life-size replica of a grizzly bear. The toy store back in Franklin could fit in the FAO Schwarz lobby—I would’ve gone crazy in here as a kid. And being here helps me understand Jesse even better.

“I want that train,” Jesse says, peering up at the one chugging around a track on the ceiling.

“I want that elephant.” It must be two stories tall.

He looks at the price of the stuffed animal, grimacing. “It’s seven thousand dollars. Mark would kill me.”

“I was kidding,” I say with a smile. “This guy is more my style.” I pick up a little penguin. It’s twenty dollars.

“That’s more like it, Miss Greedy Pants.”

“Greedy pants?” I smack his shoulder.

We stop every two feet to look at remote-controlled helicopters and LEGO displays. Jesse plays “Twinkle, Twinkle” on a xylophone, and then we end up in the boxer shorts section. I’ve never seen so many different kinds of underwear in my life—every superhero, every cartoon, from Barbie to Transformers to
Star
Trek
.

“You gotta get these,” I say, holding up a pair of Harley-Davidson boxers.

“Sure,” he says and adds in a sneaky whisper, “I’ll wear them for you later.”

After the toy store, we buy pretzels from a cart and just wander around. It’s freezing outside, but I don’t feel cold—not with Jesse’s hand tucked in mine. We gaze into bright, dazzling storefronts and talk about whatever, walking slowly as people pass us on the sidewalk. Before I came to New York, I figured I’d want to see the Statue of Liberty and Central Park, but now that I’ve seen Jesse’s big, bright smile, I only want to explore this new place between him and me.

I may not be fixated on seeing the sights, but Jesse is. He says he’s been to New York, like, a hundred times, but he’s never been to the Empire State Building before and wants us to see the view together. His limo drives us downtown to Thirty-Fourth Street, then we take a series of different elevators to the top of the Empire State Building and step out into the frigid night to views of the Brooklyn Bridge and Freedom Tower. The entire city.

For a long moment, I stare at the millions of twinkling lights.

“I love it here,” I whisper.

“I do too. I feel like I can be myself here and not worry who’s watching…but it’s not my home, you know?”

“I get that.”

I ask someone to take our picture, and Jesse wraps his arms around me from behind and kisses my neck. It’s warm and personal and makes me tingly all over, and when I turn around to hug him, I feel nothing but comfort.

“Can you text me that picture?” he asks.

“Yeah, and I’ll make sure you get a print for your mantel.”

“I’d like that.”

It excites me that he’s willing to put our picture up in his living room, because he has no other pictures of family or friends. Jesse’s changed so much since I first met him. But I wish he’d realize he can’t give up his music just to please his family.

Tonight, I’m telling him what he needs to hear. But what if what I have to say makes him push me away again?

• • •

“This is turning into another Maya Henry’s Day Off,” Jesse says when we get out of the limo at Wollman Rink in Central Park to go ice skating. I’ve never gone before.

“Nah. It’s a Jesse Scott’s Night Off.”

“It would be if I could go buy that organ from the Met,” Jesse grumbles.

We rent skates and stumble onto the ice. “Jingle Bells” plays over the speakers, and the air smells like cinnamon and Christmas. A lady sails across the ice, spinning and doing fancy jumps. Showoff. Does she think this is the Olympics or something? (Okay, okay, I’d totally do those jumps if I knew how.)

Jesse and I trip and fall around the rink, laughing our asses off, and he pulls me into his arms beneath a towering, sparkling Christmas tree. He tries to twirl me in a circle, but our feet slip every which way. We grab each other to stay upright and share a long kiss.

“This moment is worth coming to New York,” I say. Worth every moment I spent working at Caldwell’s, worth selling my Suzuki.

Then Jesse announces we’re going to this place that makes “big-time bread pudding.”

The bread pudding utopia turns out to be a southern-style diner called Mama’s. Tons of pictures of mothers are crammed on the walls—and not only famous mamas like Queen Elizabeth, Kate Middleton, and Hillary Rodham Clinton, but regular ole people too.

Jesse hands me a cup of bread pudding while I study photo after photo. “I want to give them a picture of my mom,” I say.

Jesse points at the wall with his spoon. “My mom would probably say all these
mamas
are sinners.”