The piano hums as the notes fade, and Kylie looks at me for my reaction.
“Holy shit, Kylie. Just…holy shit.”
She laughs. “I guess it was okay, huh?”
Colt speaks from the booth. “Okay? Kylie, how is it I didn’t know you were that good?”
She shrugs. “I practice when you’re not here.”
“You should let me record you sometime,” Colt says.
Kylie shakes her head. “No. Not yet. Maybe once I’ve gotten a few gigs on my own.”
Nell comes around into the recording room. “You want to gig?”
Kylie lifts one shoulder, toying with the piano keys with the other. “Yeah. But I don’t want your help. I know you could get me a contract, and get me gigs, and all that. I want to do it on my own. Not because I’m your daughter.”
Nell glances at me. “Are you going to gig with her?”
I feel like my throat is clogged. “I. Um. I thought we were just doing the open mic night. I don’t know.”
Kylie frowns at me. “I told you my plan was to start with open mic night, just to get my feet wet. Now that I’ve heard you play, I know for a fact we could get a Thursday or Friday night spot somewhere off Broadway.”
“Ugh. Kylie, seriously? I don’t know.” I strum idly at the guitar. “I always saw myself in a metal band, not playing indie folk.”
“You can do both. Just do the open mic night with me. Please?”
I pluck my hat from my head and smooth a few wayward strands away from my face, replace the hat. “I guess. I told you I’d do the open mic night with you, so I will. But I’m not sure about the gigs. I’ve never performed in front of people before. You, and now your parents, are the only people who’ve ever heard me. And I’m dying here as it is.”
Nell pats my arm. “You’ll do fine. Just ignore the people. That’s what I did when I first started gigging. I was so scared. Ask Colt. He was there for my first gigs. I thought I’d pass out, I was so nervous. But you get used to it. Eventually, it’s fun. Although the first moment you step out on the stage? That moment never gets any less exciting, or nerve-wracking.”
“Yeah, not sure that helps much, but thanks, Mrs. Calloway.”
“My name is Nell.” She pats my arm again. “Do the open mic night. See how it feels.”
I nod, and then she and Colt disappear up the stairs. I let my inner panic show. “Kylie! Why didn’t you tell me they were there? I was butchering their music in their house.”
She just laughs. “You didn’t butcher anything. You did great. And I was so surprised by how good you are.” She plays a few notes, then glances up at me. “Are you sure you can’t sing? Have you ever tried?”
I shake my head. “No. And no way. I’ll play for you, but there’s no way in hell I’m singing.”
She gets up off the piano bench and circles around to stand in front of me. “Come on. Please? Just try.” She puts her hands on my shoulders, pulls me in for a hug. I’ve gotten better at hugging, she says. Her voice is a whisper in my ear. It’s tickling and hot and too much to take. I shrug away and grunt. “Just try. Please? For me?” She’s leaning into me, and it’s not just a hug. It’s too intimate for that.
I let her hang on me, because the only way to move her away is to take her by the waist, and that’s entering dangerous waters. Dangerous for her, that is.
“Sing what?” I say, resigned to the fact that I can’t seem to ever say no to this girl, even when it ends up with me embarrassing myself.
“Anything. Something you know. I’ll sing with you. How about something generic?” She pulls away, but not all the way. Her hands are on my shoulders, held at arm’s length. She pops one hip and thinks. “Hmm. How about…god, I don’t know. What songs do you know that I’d know?”
Fuck me. She’s really pushing this. I don’t want to sing. I don’t want to go up on stage at all. It’s not that I’m scared, I’m just…okay, you know what? I am scared. I’m just like anyone else: afraid of embarrassment and rejection. If she was pushing me to get up there on my own and rip some metal riffs, pretend I’m Joe Satriani or something, maybe. But this? Singing and playing an acoustic guitar like some coffeehouse hipster dick? Yeah, no.
But damn it, look at her, sapphire-blue eyes pleading with me, her hands on my shoulders like it ain’t no thing, like her touch isn’t making my pulse pound. Like I have a snowball’s chance in hell of saying no.
The problem is, I don’t know any songs well enough to actually sing—at least, none that she’d know. Except one, and I don’t want to sing that one. It’s my mom’s song. Her favorite song. The one she sings when she’s falling down drunk and whatever secret tragedy haunts her is slipping out.
It’s the only song I know well enough to sing.
I sigh. “There’s one song. ‘Come On Get Higher.’”
Squeal-and-clap, giddy, eyes bright. “Matt Nathanson!” Shit, she’s gorgeous. “I love that song!”
She has her phone out, and she’s scrolling, scrolling, and now it’s playing. Tinny, small, distant, playing through her phone’s speakers. The guitar comes in, and I’m listening close, trying to track the chords and the rhythm. Easy enough, seems like. Yeah, I could play this song.
I close my eyes, sink in, delve down. I hear my mom’s voice. She’s got a decent voice, not great, but she can hold a tune. I channel her, because that’s the only way I’ll get myself to actually sing out loud. I mean, I do sing, but it’s alone, in my room, the music loud enough to drown my own voice. I try not to hear myself. I just sing along with the song. I hear Kylie, ’cause how could I not? She sounds like a freaking angel over there. I can’t help hearing us, though, and goddammit we sound good. Which means I’ll have to do this in front of the whole f**king school. I’m not great, but I don’t sound like a walrus being throttled, so there’s that.
The song ends, and there she is, staring at me like I’m a leprechaun or something. “What?” I demand.
“Just that you’re so much more talented than you think you are.”
I roll my eyes at her. “I’m not talented, sweetness. I just don’t suck totally.”
She frowns at that. “You don’t suck at all, Oz. At anything. Why are you so down on yourself?”