kind of singer. You need to be wide, diverse, generic.”
“Generic? Are you kidding me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“I’m sure your songs would be brilliant if you sang them. That’s the appeal of a singer-songwriter. But if you’re writing music to sell to other singers you have to write about universal topics that the majority can relate to. It’ll make the song more believable coming from whomever the singer is and more appealing to the masses. That’s what it takes to be successful.”
She blinked her big brown eyes, magnified by her glasses. “How do you know so much about this?”
I stared at her, looking for even the slightest hint of mockery. There was none. “Do you really not know who my father is?”
She crossed her arms. “Should I?”
“Never mind.”
“Well, now I’m curious.”
“We’ve established your curiosity,” I grumbled.
“Why do I never understand what you’re trying to say?”
“I’m saying, I find it peculiar that you’re the one person at this school who doesn’t seem to think they know every detail about my life.” I shook my head, huffing a laugh despite my irritation. “And I rather like it, Penny Layne.”
She rolled her eyes at my nickname, endearing it further to me. “Let me guess, now you’re going to tell me I’m supposed to feel bad for you because you’re popular?”
“Popular, no. Gawked at like a zoo animal, yeah. That pretty much sucks.”
“No one thinks you’re a zoo animal. You’re just new. This is a small town, and you’re the flashy new toy.”
“It doesn’t matter where I go. Thanks to my father I’ve always been the flashy new toy.”
“And he is?”
I smirked. “Nice try.”
“Oh, come on. You said everyone knows who he is.”
“Well if you don’t, I’m not going to spoil it.”
She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you want to talk about your family?”
“Do you want to talk about yours?”
“Point taken. But we do need to find some common ground or at least a solid way of communicating or we’re just wasting our time.”
“I agree.”
Layne sighed, leaning back against the wall across from me. She mimicked my stance, crossing her arms and ankles as she looked thoughtfully at the ceiling as if collecting her thoughts. Finally, she asked, “Are you still willing to try to sing my songs?”
“As long as you’re willing to teach me.”
Layne tapped a finger to her chin while thinking, again reminding me of an adorable anime character.
She looked cuter today. She wasn’t wearing that hideous band polo. Instead she had on a pair of overalls and a tight yellow t-shirt. The girl had curves under all the baggy clothes she normally wore. I wanted to ask her why she never flaunted them, but something told me Layne wouldn’t take that as a compliment, so I kept my mouth shut.
Besides, I wasn’t supposed to be looking for attractive qualities, just a distraction. Although, cute girls were my favorite distraction . . .
Layne spoke, cutting off my dirty thoughts. “We could call Lola. She knows the songs. Maybe she could sing them through once, so you get the idea.”
I cleared my throat. “Sure, that could work.”
Chapter Eleven
Layne
Back in the practice room I felt a familiar calm settle over me as I plucked a guitar from its stand. I pulled out my phone while Wyatt examined the sheet music I’d set on the music stand. He squinted his eyes at it like it was a foreign language. Which to him, I guess it was.
I still couldn’t help wondering what I was missing. Wyatt told me he could sing. And so did his mother. She’d even gone as far as to say music ran in his blood. She seemed to think he could help me and trusting her impeccable insight and stake in the competition, I doubted she’d waste my time, even to placate her son.
From our prior discussions and Wyatt’s most recent rant about songwriting, it was obvious he knew more than the average student when it came to the music industry. But he couldn’t read a lick of music.
I frowned, feeling like I was a few puzzle pieces shy of the whole picture. I stared at my phone; Lola’s number queued up. I was suddenly having second thoughts.
I wished I had more time to break the news that Wyatt Nash was my new partner to Lola. And definitely more privacy. She wasn’t going to be happy about this, and I couldn’t blame her.
Guilt consumed me as I stared at my phone. I couldn’t help but feel like a terrible