Vada are clearly more.”
“I didn’t write the song about Vada,” I blurt. “If that’s what you’re implying.” My brother freezes in his tracks and slowly turns back to me from the doorway.
“Wow,” he says, dragging out the word into multiple syllables.
“Oh, fuck off. I know you were thinking it.”
“Maybe.” He grins. “You’ve been pretty insistent, but all signs pointed to the ginger music nerd. But now I know you wrote it about her. Holy shit, Luke. How long?”
I shake my head and sink back down in my chair. “Go away.”
Cullen hesitates and sits back down. “Are you going to tell her?”
“No.”
“You should tell her.”
I glare. “No.”
“Why?”
“I already went over this with you.”
“Yeah, but that was before I knew it really was about a girl, and not just any girl, but Vada. She’s amazing, Luke. You guys would be great together. Who else understands your music nerdiness?”
I narrow my eyes but don’t respond. My brother’s lips crush to the side, thoughtful.
“Fine. The song is off the table. But what about asking her on a date? Just because you aren’t dedicating a viral hit song to her doesn’t mean you can’t let her know you like her.”
“Maybe. I might.”
“Huzzah!” Cullen says. He’s about to leave again when he turns back, looking mildly outraged. “Zack knew all along, didn’t he?”
* * *
My dad’s (very mature) unending silence has only succeeded in making me more adamantly anti–music career, so first period finds me sitting outside the guidance counselor’s office. Enough is enough. If I’m not going to do a thing, I might as well commit to not doing it. Even though Phil’s words about writing music come to mind, I mentally give myself a shake. Better to cut it off completely—shove my composing back into a secret place until years down the line, when it will rise up again and become overwhelming.
Hopefully by then, I won’t live with my twin, and he won’t be able to secretly record me and post it online.
I’m sitting in a plastic chair, phone in hand, scrolling through Vada’s latest blog post when I feel a rush of air as she sits down beside me.
“Hey,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
I quickly close the screen on my phone and tuck it away. “Seeking guidance. You?”
“Same. Well, sort of. I have an appointment to turn in some financial aid paperwork.” She holds a stack up.
“Right.”
“So … dropping Spanish?”
“Huh?”
She grins, and my stomach clenches when I realize she’s wearing some sort of lipstick that makes her teeth look blinding and her freckles stand out and God I love gingers.
Her brown eyes crinkle in the corners. “Sorry. I have this theory that if you aren’t seeing a guidance counselor about college, you’re dropping Spanish senior year. Most colleges only require three years.”
“Is that what you did?” I ask, mostly to keep the conversation going. Is it possible to never grow tired of talking to a person?
“Yup. It’s why I’m in that embarrassing but therapeutic dance class.” She huffs out a small laugh and removes her backpack, dropping it on the floor between her Converse. “I think Madame finally caught on to me, too. She’s started bringing in a lot more angsty music. Who needs counseling when you can just wrench all the anger and hurt out?”
I feel my lips quirk in a smile, and I push up on my plastic frames. “I never thought of it that way before.”
“Really?” she asks, surprised. “I figured you’d know all about it. That’s what making your music is about, isn’t it? What’s that Annie Mathers’s quote? Something about not really knowing what she felt until she put it to music?”
“Wow, that’s … profound.”
“Country singers, man. They get to the heart of the matter.”
“Yeah. So … I’m actually here to quit Senior Composition. I mean”—I hurry to assure her—“I’m still 100 percent writing your showcase music. If you want me to, that is. After, you know, the whole viral thing.”
“Of course I do! I haven’t wanted to bring it up, but I would be honored.”
I nod. “Good. I’m definitely still in. I just need to drop the class.”
“But why?”
I shrug, fidgeting with my frames again. “I don’t know. We have to perform live…”
She nods.
“Well, um. Yeah. After the aforementioned ‘Break for You’ thing, I don’t feel like it.”
“You don’t feel like it?”
“Well, okay, more like I don’t want to play for a crowd, and I don’t need my dad seeing it as a victory—”
“So, don’t tell Charlie. I’m not telling anyone.”
“But people will be there,