Sing (15 page)

36 Days Until Tour

August 7th

“THIS THING IS
a total beast.”

Sidney squats in the front yard, a rusty lawn mower turned on its side in the dry grass beside her. Her hands and jeans are covered in grease, and there's a black smudge near her ear, where she uses one forearm to wipe her frizzy blond hair away from her face.

“What are you doing?” I ask, pushing through the screen door of Noel's shack. It's been over a week since Jed left, and I've spent nearly all of it at Noel's house, hanging with Sid and their dad, or out on the boat. I called Terry a few days ago, and we're going forward with the plan for a tour tie-in EP. “Anchors” will be out as a single by the last week of rehearsals, which should
be enough time to get people excited. With the anxiety of finishing the music off my chest, I've been able to relax—I want to enjoy the rest of my time here, since the future with Noel is still an unknown. We haven't talked much about what comes next, but the question is always there, like a secret, a hidden, special electricity constantly flickering back and forth between us.

“Dad said if I take this thing apart and figure out what's wrong with it, he'll buy the parts I need to fix it,” Sidney says, wrestling the metal innards apart with scary-sounding clanks and groans.

“And then you get to use it!” Noel calls out from behind the wooden doors of the outdoor shower, where he's busy fiddling with a leaky pipe.

“No dice,” Sid mutters in response. “I don't mow. I tinker.”

I pull up an old lawn chair. A few of the rubber slats are twisted and broken but I manage to get comfortable, crossing my ankles in the grass. I peer into the mess of gears and wires, watching Sidney work. With her low, furrowed brow and set jaw, she looks just like Noel does when he's on the boat, working.

“You like this stuff, huh?” I ask.

Sidney grunts and sifts through a pile of tools. “Beats working on my tan.” She rolls her eyes. “That's what the girls in my class do all summer long.”

“You don't like the beach?”

“Who said anything about the beach?” she scoffs. “They all meet up at Laura McMahon's house, the big one at the end of the point? She's got this huge deck and they line up their towels and fry like skinny pink sausages.”

The shower whines and squeals as Noel turns it on and off to test it, and I hear him chuckling.

“They do!” Sid insists. “I can't wait to get out of this place.”

I pull my sunglasses out of my hair and settle them onto my face. “Where you headed?”

“Anywhere but here,” she says, twisting a wrench deep inside the tangled machinery. “Gonna meet up with Mom somewhere as soon as I graduate. Maybe go to college if I get in.”

“If you get in?” Noel pops out from behind the shower door, drying his hands on his striped board shorts. “You've been taking community college classes since the seventh grade. You can go anywhere you want.”

Sidney grunts again, struggling to disconnect two pieces of twisted metal. There's a faraway look in her eyes, like her body is here but the rest of her is somewhere else. Her focus is mesmerizing.

“Who wants ice cream?” Noel asks, ducking into the cottage to switch out his dirty shirt for a clean white one. “My treat.”

I hop up from the chair and stretch my arms high over my head, tilting my face to the sun. “I do.”

“Sid? You coming?” Noel asks.

She ignores us for a few seconds before tossing the wrench at the ground. “Fine,” she says. “I need to read the manual anyway. Hopefully it's in Japanese. I'm working on my translation.” Sid walks briskly toward the house.

“Ask Dad if he wants anything,” Noel calls after her.

Sid waves him off. “Real ice cream. Not frozen yogurt,” she demands, before disappearing into the house.

I laugh as Noel grabs my hand and leads me to the truck. He sits on the hood and I snuggle between his legs, my back against the bumper.

“You're getting freckles,” he says, looking down and playfully tapping my nose.

I swat his hand away. “I know,” I say. “I'll never hear the end of it.”

“I like it,” Noel says, squeezing me around the waist. “If that counts for anything.”

“It does,” I say, tilting my face up to give him a kiss.

“So where to first?” Noel asks, settling back against the windshield. I hop up on the hood beside him.

“Ice cream,” I answer. “Right?”

Noel reaches for my hand. “I meant on tour,” he says,
staring at our fingers as they tangle together. “It's coming up fast.”

“Six days until I leave.” A pit opens up in the bottom of my stomach and I start to feel faint. This has been happening lately, whenever I think about leaving, so I've made a concerted effort not to do it.

“But who's counting,” Noel teases. “What's the first stop on the tour?”

“LA,” I say. “But I have a few weeks of rehearsals in New York first.”

“Cool,” Noel says. “That should give me some time to learn my way around.”

“What?” I shift abruptly on the hood to face him. I pull our hands, still woven together, into my lap. He smiles slyly. “You're coming?” I practically screech.

Noel shrugs. “If you'll have me.”

“Yes!” I wrap him in a hug. “I mean, sure, if that's what you want . . .” I clear my throat and feign disinterest, smoothing my features into a mask of nonchalance. Noel laughs and hugs me tight. There's a lightness spreading throughout my body, the hollow in my stomach filling up with warmth.

“What about work?” I ask, pulling away to glance back at the house. “What about Sid? Your dad?”

Noel turns his rope bracelet against the knobs of his sturdy wrist. “They'll be fine,” he says. “They've got
their own little routine down now. I mostly just get in the way.”

I study him carefully, skeptically. “You're sure you won't miss this place?”

“I'll definitely miss it,” he says. “But like you said, it's not going anywhere.
You
are.”

I put a hand on the soft sleeve of his T-shirt and lean in to kiss him.

“I thought we agreed this was a PDA-free zone,” Sidney shouts from the driveway, hurrying toward the truck. “Don't make me separate you two.”

Noel holds my hand as we hop down from the truck. “I'd like to see you try.”

“Lily, that was spectacular.”

I set my guitar on my knees and reach for a glass of water. The booth is hot and sticky, my throat dry and parched. As the countdown to tour continues, Terry has convinced me to schedule a few short interviews and radio spots. I've spent the better part of the afternoon—a perfect, cloud-free beach day—locked in the dark, musty sound booth of the local high school's radio station, whipping through interviews and live performances, while Sammy and Tess make faces from the other side of the glass. I've played “Anchors” at least six times, landed
on the same, Terry-approved sound bites (“Time away has been just what I've needed” and “I can't wait to get back on the road and hang out with my fans!”), and only mixed up the superanimated hosts' names twice.

This one, Joey Z out of Tucson, sounds like a chipmunk on speed. He zips through the usual roster of questions about the new album, the breakup, and my self-imposed exile from the city. But then, just as I feel the interview winding down, he catches me off guard:

“So tell us about this Noel guy,” he stage-whispers for dramatic effect. “I'm guessing he's the anchor we're hearing so much about? Sure looks like he's got a hold on you, from what I can see.”

Sweat prickles under my arms.
What he can see?
There's a rapping on the window and I look up to see that Sammy is holding her phone to the glass. Her browser is pulled up to TMZ, and there on the homepage is a full-page photo of Noel, Sid, and me getting ice cream yesterday in town. Noel and I are holding hands, and Sidney trails behind us, the cone angled to her face, mid-bite.

“Lil-y,” Joey Z teasingly intones, “anything you want to tell us?”

I breathe carefully, making sure to turn my face away from the headset before adjusting the microphone. Normally, I don't say anything about my personal life
that hasn't been vetted by Terry and the team. And rarely am I caught off guard by photos in the press. If I'm seen in public holding hands with someone new, it's usually because I want to be. I know the “right” thing to do here would be to deny it. Say Noel's just a friend—a family friend, maybe, something innocent and concrete.

But something in me can't find the words, or the practiced, blasé tone I'd need to pull them off. What am I hiding from? Noel isn't like the other guys I've dated. He doesn't have a manager, a publicity machine. On the island, we're just another couple, doing what couples do. Everything is different now. Why shouldn't this be different, too?

“Joey,” I say, breathy and casual. “You know I don't kiss and tell. But I will say that he's someone very special to me, and I can't wait for you all to meet him soon.”

I see Sammy and Tess cringe as Joey Z hoots and hollers.

“Does this mean he'll be joining you on tour this fall?”

Tess is already on the phone and Sammy is holding her head in her hands. I know I should be terrified, but instead, I feel like I'm floating, like half my heart has been locked in chains and now, suddenly, it's free.

“Nothing's set in stone yet,” I say. “But I can say it would make me very happy if he did.”

35 Days Until Tour

August 8th

SAMMY PUSHES MY
phone toward me across the backseat as K2 whips around the island's dirt roads toward the house. “It's Terry.”

I try to read her face for some clue as to what I'm in for, but her lips are tight, her eyes a trained mask of indifference. I've forgotten what my friends are like when things get hairy. Being away has changed them, too. They've been more relaxed, less consumed by the minutia of my daily life, and it's almost scary how immediately they've snapped back into work mode. There are subtle differences in the tone they use to talk to me now and in their neutral, studied expressions.

I hold my breath and bring the phone to my ear,
steeled against the barrage of reprimands I suspect are about to be spewed in my direction.

“Hello?” I greet him meekly.

“Lily!” Terry booms. “You were brilliant!”

My eyebrows cinch together. “I was?”

“The stuff about the guy? How you can't wait for us to meet him? Sheer genius!” Terry laughs. “And of course he's a dreamboat. I mean, my God, where do you find these people?”

I chuckle nervously. Terry's acting like this was some publicity play, like coming clean about Noel was a premeditated plan to get more press before the tour. I suddenly start to feel sick.

“I hate to make this about me,” he continues, “but can I just remind you that I never fell for that ‘the island is my anchor' baloney? Not for one second.”

Terry babbles on about ramping up my interviews to stay in control of the way the story plays out. I try to pay attention but my head is spinning.
The story?
Noel isn't a story. He's a person.

My legs start to twitch. I have to get off the phone. I have to call Noel. I stammer some stuff to Terry about a bad connection and hang up as we pull into the driveway.

“Bird—” Tess says from the front seat.

“Hang on,” I interrupt, finding Noel's number. “I need to make sure that Noel isn't going to kill me.”

K2 cuts the engine and the car is suddenly too quiet. Tess and Sammy are turned to look out their windows. “I'd say he's getting there,” Tess says.

Noel's truck is in our driveway, and he stands beside it, his face frozen somewhere between bewilderment and sheer panic.

“You have to get him out of here,” Sammy says.

“What do you mean?”

Tess looks over our shoulder. “She's right. Unless you want this conversation broadcast on the nightly news, you need to have it somewhere other than the driveway.”

I hear the rumble of wheels on gravel and turn to see a pair of cars squealing to a stop at the end of the road. “Are you kidding me?” I ask as a cluster of camera-wielding paparazzi forms at the edge of the lawn. “How is this happening? Nobody could have gotten here this fast.”

“The photos went up early this morning, and apparently the paparazzi showed up on the island soon after,” Tess explains. “I guess town has been a circus all day. When the interview went live, they must have found us at the station and followed us here.”

Tess flings her door open and starts toward Noel, while Sammy nudges me out of the car. “Go inside,” she says. “Don't run. Don't look concerned. Just walk like a normal person.”

I force what I hope is a casual smile and glance over at Noel. Tess is putting an arm around him and undoubtedly giving him the same orders, and they walk slowly, if rigidly, toward the house.

“Lily!” I hear the first of the catcalls coming from behind us. The crowd has grown to about six reporters, scrambling to get their shots.

“Wave,” Sammy whispers, and I lift a hand, beaming a manufactured smile before following her up the steps.

“Noel, I'm so sorry.”

We're alone in the kitchen—Sam and Tess have gone upstairs to man their phones and keep up with what's happening online. Noel leans against the refrigerator and I reach for the ragged hem of his faded gray T-shirt, tugging it gently. He tries to smile, but his eyes are jumpy and uncertain.

“I was . . . I was pulling into the harbor and they were all there, with cameras, and so many questions.” He scratches the back of his head. “I just wish I knew what I was supposed to say.”

“I know.” I nod, looping my arms around his waist. “I'm sorry. I should've . . . we should have talked about it first. I should have warned you about this part. I just, I got caught up, and . . . I'm tired. I'm tired of thinking
about everything that I say, or being told how I should spin things. This, us”—I put a hand on his chest—“it doesn't need spinning.”

But even as I say the words, I feel guilty. I feel Noel's pulse racing beneath my palm. How could I not have considered what this would be like for him? His whole life will be analyzed, his every move will be held under a spotlight and picked apart for weeks.

I reach for his hand and wish more than anything that I could lead us somewhere safe, where we could be alone, just us. It's the way I used to feel, when I was just starting out and didn't know how to handle how crazy everything would get. Back before I learned how to be “on” all the time. I remember how terrifying it was, how violated I felt that I couldn't walk outside my front door without feeling like it was a performance. All I wanted was to hide beneath my covers, to wake up in a world where nobody knew my name.

Now, without so much as a word of warning, I've done the same thing to Noel.

I force a reassuring smile, trying to calm us both down at the same time. “It's going to be intense for a little while,” I finally manage, hoping he doesn't hear it for what it truly is: the understatement of the century.

“Intense?” Noel raises a concerned eyebrow.

I nod. “They'll want to know everything about us,
about you,” I say. “But the good news is, it doesn't last long. Once they see how boring we are, they'll be on the next boat out of here, I promise.”

Noel laughs, and I can see color returning to his cheeks. “Lily Ross and Boring Local: Netflix and Chill?” he jokes hopefully.

My ragged breathing starts to even out, the tense knots in my shoulders start to unwind. “You heard it here first.”

I push myself up onto my toes and nestle against his chest, hoping that he's right. Of course there will be some photos, a story or two, but once the newness wears off, maybe they'll leave us alone. I close my eyes and breathe deeply into his shoulder, inhaling the familiar smell of sea salt and soap.

“Lily?”

I pull my head away to see Tess in the doorway. The look in her eyes is sharp and alarming. Before she says a word, I know: they'll never leave us alone.

Things have gotten much, much worse.

“What is it?” I ask.

She walks slowly toward us with her phone. She hands it to me, but her eyes are glued to Noel.

The screen is open to another gossip blog, one that I've barely heard of, and the homepage has a photo of a woman who looks vaguely familiar, but whom I can't
place right away. The longer I look the more I realize that the photo is a mug shot, a grainy, washed-out close-up of a pale, thin woman standing in front of a blank white wall. “Who is this?” I ask, waving the phone back at Tess.

Tess doesn't say anything, her gaze still locked on Noel as he leans in for a look. His face goes slack, his jaw drooping and his eyes growing wide. “It's my mother,” he says, slightly above a whisper. “It's my mom.”

There's a buzzing sound in my head and I feel an inappropriate laugh bubbling up in my throat. I look frantically from Noel to Tess, who takes back her phone and scrolls down through the story.

“What do you mean, it's your mom?” I ask him, peering over his shoulder to get another look.

My mind flashes back to the black-and-white photo on the wall of his house, his mom, pregnant, with Noel beside her. This woman is older and thinner, with new, hard lines on her face and dark shadows around her eyes. But there's no question: It's the same woman. It's Noel's mom.

I shake my head, as if I'm trying to rearrange pieces of a scattered puzzle. “I don't get it,” I say. “I thought she was in India.”

Noel slides down the refrigerator, landing on the floor. He bends his knees and draws them close to his body, lowering his head into his hands. I crouch down
beside him and put my hands on his shoulders. I wait for him to say something, but he just stares at a spot on the linoleum between my feet.

“Noel?” I urge, looking from him back up at Tess. “What's going on?”

Tess stares at the top of Noel's head, her lips twisted in a knot. Noel makes a groaning sound and I look back into his eyes. There's a sudden harshness to his features that I've never seen before. He looks older. Weaker. He looks just like his father.

“What's going on?” Noel slowly repeats, forcing a hard chuckle behind it. “What's going on is that my mother isn't in India. She's in rehab outside of Portland, where she's been since she was arrested two years ago.”

“Arrested?” I ask. The urge to laugh is back. This has to be a joke.
Rehab?
How could I not have known? “What are you talking about?” I ask again. “You said . . .”

“She's an addict, Lily,” Noel says, a wounded weariness coating his voice. “She's an alcoholic and an addict, and my dad kicked her out. She got picked up on the mainland with drugs in her car, spent a few nights in jail, and my dad said the only way he'd bail her out was if she got help. She was in rehab for a while and has been living in a halfway house ever since.”

Tess puts a hand on Noel's shoulder and for a strange, confusing moment I feel like a third wheel. Something in
me even wonders if I should leave them alone. There's no way Tess could have known the truth, but she must remember his mom the way she used to be. They have a past together, a shared history, something I'll never understand. How can I comfort him when there's so much I still don't know about him? How can I help him when it's my fault he's hurting in the first place?

Tess glances at me and puts the phone in her pocket. “I'll be upstairs,” she says, giving Noel's shoulder one last squeeze before quietly slipping into the hall.

Noel is gripping the ends of his light hair and blinking furiously at the floor. I sit cross-legged beside him. I close my eyes and see Sidney, the map on her wall, the pushpins, the postcards.

“Sidney . . .” I say, starting to work it all out.

“She doesn't know,” Noel finishes, a new flash of panic registering on his face. “She
didn't
know. Fuck.”

He scrambles to his feet, bumping a chair and knocking it to the floor with a jarring crash. I cringe and reach out to stop him as he starts for the door.

“She doesn't know what?” I stand.

“Anything!” Noel shouts, flustered. “She thought . . . we've been . . .”

I feel the blood draining from my face. “You've been lying to her?” I guess. “Your dad?”

“It was his idea,” Noel blurts, pacing the kitchen with
his arms over his head, like he's been running too long and is walking out a cramp. “This island . . . it's so small. He didn't want her to be
that
kid at school. It would have been all anyone talked about. It's hard enough for her as it is, you know? She's different.” He looks at me, his eyes suddenly searching mine, begging me to understand. “We were just trying to protect her.”

I bend down slowly to pick up the fallen chair and let my body sink against it. “What about the postcards?” I ask.

“That was Mom's idea,” Noel says. “She orders a bunch online and sends them in an envelope to a PO box. My dad picks them up so Sid doesn't see the postmark. Mom says it's the only thing that keeps her going, pretending to be somewhere else.”

I feel my eyes watering and wipe at them quickly. “So everyone's in on it but Sid?” I ask. Something bubbles in my chest and I feel like I'm the one who's been betrayed. How could they not tell her the truth? She's smarter than the rest of us put together. Did they honestly think she wouldn't figure it out, eventually? “She's fourteen, Noel,” I say, my voice harder now, almost accusatory. “She's not a little kid.”

Noel stops moving and whips around to point a finger in my face. “You don't get to judge me. You have no idea what it's like,” he says. “You have no idea what
anything's
like. You think this island is a bubble, Lily? You're a bubble. Your whole life . . . it's not even real. You complain about not being able to do what you want? To think for yourself? All you
do
is think about yourself!”

I sit frozen at the table, stung by his words.

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I didn't want you to write a song about me? That maybe I wouldn't want my entire life picked over by complete strangers?” Noel stares at me, like he's waiting for an answer.

My breath gets quick and shallow; my chest feels like it's collapsing. I see myself again, the way I used to be, before all this became a way of life. Seeing my innermost secrets splashed across the pages of magazines, explaining myself in carefully rehearsed sound bites at every turn . . . only, when it happens to me, there's a flip side. I still get to make my music. I still get to travel around the world. I still get to sing my songs to thousands of people in the dark.

What does Noel get?

I drop my head onto the table. I don't know what else to say. Noel throws up his hands and turns to the doorway, standing with his back to me. I look up to see that Tess and Sammy are hovering in the hall.

Suddenly, awfully, Noel laughs. He gestures to my friends as he walks toward them. “Even your friends have to be paid to hang out with you,” he calls back to
me, cruelly, over his shoulder. “You don't see a problem with that?”

Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, clouding my vision as I stare at a chipped corner of the kitchen table. I see the shape of Tess's arm as she reaches out for Noel, a quick flurry of color and motion as he brushes her off. I hear the hurried shuffle of his footsteps. I feel the shattering quake of the door as it slams behind him.