— AUGUST, FOUR MONTHS LATER—
CADENCE
The saddest key in music is Dmajor.
It’s the key that rings through my head whenever I think of my mother, fingers trembling, arms dotted with pucker marks, body stretching far beyond the empty cupboard to the stash she keeps in the jar.
Some mothers store cookies in those potted tubs shaped like bears or seashells or flowers.
My mother stored weed.
She’d puff it in my face and laugh, low and haunting. It was always that tone.
D#major.
Like a vampire coughing up blood.
I love you and Vi more than anything in the world.
The line from her suicide letter plays on a loop in my mind.
I thought if I burned the words they’d disappear, but the ashes rose from the dead and started haunting me.
I love you and Vi more than anything.
Mom had nothing but audacity.
Love? Her twisted version of love was a descent straight into the darkest chords, full of brokenness and black keys.
I always saw the chaos in her, but I never let it stain me. I created a space inside my head where the music would die. Because if I couldn’t hear music at all, then I wouldn’t hear her notes either.
But now that she’s gone, music has tiptoed its way back into my life. Or more like it slammed into me at a hundred miles an hour and now I find myself on a ride with no idea how I got there and no clue how to get off.
“Like a wreeeecking ball!” A soulless, upbeat version of Miley Cyrus’s hit blasts from the speakers on the stage.
I’d descended into my thoughts to escape the noisy cover, but it seems like the music’s gotten even louder.
Three girls wearing dressed-up versions of bras and booty shorts gyrate to the rhythm.
The girl in the center suddenly rises in the air, propelled by a thin harness. Her legs spread wide as she flies over the crowd, flashing everyone in attendance.
Heads tip back in adoration. Roars erupt from the audience like they’re all her worshipers and this is some kind of cultish mating ritual.
I wonder if it’s too late for me to rip my wig off and run. “I thought you’d dipped, you skank!”
A hand grabs me before I can make my escape. I force a smile on my face and ease around.
“Me? Run from this,” I gesture to the blonde performer who’s soaking in the ‘woof, woof, woof’ erupting from the guys in attendance, “lavish display of musical prowess?” I blink innocently at my best friend. “Never.”
“You’re such a music snob, Cadey. Now bend down so I can unbutton your shirt. You’re not showing enough cleavage.”
I swat her hands away. Breeze tilts her head up and gives me a scolding look.
“Don’t you dare undress me,” I murmur.
“Do you see the act you’re following?” she whisper-shouts. “More of your clothes need to come off. Stat.”
I look down at the leather jacket, white shirt and unreasonably short skater skirt that Breeze forced on me. Black heels, giant hoop earrings, green eye contacts and heavy makeup complete the look. It’s all a part of
my best friend’s fool proof plan to rid me of stage fright—a plan we came up with when I scored the role of Mary in our school’s Christmas play.
Six years later, I still need the wig to perform in front of crowds, but at least I’m performing. I guess you can call it a rousing success.
“Maybe this is proof that I don’t belong at Redwood Prep,” I murmur. “It’s too late. You already accepted the scholarship.” She fixes the red
bob that’s covering my long, brunette hair from view. Blue eyes focused, she fusses until the strands meet her approval. “And you know why you can’t turn this down.”
She’s right. My entire future is at stake, but is it worth spending senior year as the ‘new girl’ at Redwood Prep, home to the elite and stupidly wealthy? Girls from the wrong side of the tracks get eaten up and spit out here.
As if summoned, the trio who just performed glide off the stage in their sparkles and glamor. They look left, catch sight of me and then laugh rudely as they walk away.
Breeze whirls around, nostrils flaring. She’s already on the defensive. “What’s so funny?”
“Breeze.” I grab her arm to keep her at my side. The only thing shorter than my pint-sized best friend is her fuse. “Don’t engage. I don’t want to get on their radar.”
“You can’t spend your entire year being invisible,” she argues, eyebrows tightening to punctuate her point.
Actually, that’s my sole plan. Starting next week, I’ll be a ghost floating through the halls of Redwood Prep. On the weekends, I’ll trade the sprawling lawns and elegant fountains for chain-link fences, graffiti and garbage. Once I’m on my turf, I’ll come alive long enough to get my bearings and do it all again the next week.
The curtains on stage wheel closed and the backstage crew frantically sweep all the glitter and confetti from the floor. There’s dedicated staff for the task. I’ve never seen a high school production this size and it just goes to show how seriously Redwood Prep takes their music program.
“Focus. It’s almost time,” I tell Breeze when I see she’s still evil-eyeing the Mean Girls trio.
Breeze huffs and adjusts the collar of her funky quilted shirt. “At least you have actual talent!” she yells loud enough for the entire backstage to hear.
“That’s yet to be determined,” I murmur.
She flicks me with her French-tipped nails. “Shut up. We are not allowing self-doubt to have a seat at the table.”
“Self-doubt is the only one at the table,” I grumble.
“What was that?” Breeze frowns and leans in. Then she quickly jumps back. “In fact, I don’t want to know. It was probably something self- deprecating and not true.” She flaps her hands. “Let me repeat myself, Cadence Cooper. You are going to kill it out there.”
Even with my stomach twisted into knots, her words lure a smile from
me.
A member of the crew approaches at that moment. “Hey, are you Sonata
Jones?”
He squints at the clipboard as if he’s not sure he’s saying that right.
Breeze snorts and covers her mouth with one hand. I pretend not to notice. Creating new stage names for every performance is a thing I do. It helps me pretend that I’m someone else while I’m playing.
I nod. “Yes, that’s me.”
He gives me another weird look before saying, “Our final act isn’t here yet, so we’re going to intermission. You’ll be up as soon as they arrive.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He gives me a blank look.
“What act is so important that you’d go into intermission rather than cut them from the lineup?” I demand. “Isn’t this supposed to be a student showcase?”
It’s not that I want to perform for the students at Redwood Prep tonight, but I’m halfway through my next-on-stage jitters. The thought of prolonging the torture makes me physically ill.
Clipboard Guy purses his lips. “Look, it’s already unprecedented to have an act we’ve never heard of open for The Kings.” His stare turns icy. “Feel free to bow out if you have an issue.”
“You’d kick me out rather than the ones who couldn’t be bothered to show up on—”
The rest of my words die a flailing death as my best friend bumps me out of the way with her hip and shrieks, “The Kings are playing tonight?”
I give Breeze a bewildered look. “You know them?”
“Of course I know them. How do you not know them?” she accuses. Clipboard Guy stalks away as if he can’t be bothered.
My phone chirps, drawing both our eyes to the device in my hand. Breeze leans forward nosily. “Your brother?”
There’s a painful scratch against my heart when I shake my head. Trying not to let Breeze see how much it affects me, I shrug it off. “As if he would care enough to call me before I performed.”
If he did call, it probably wouldn’t be to say anything encouraging.
Her eyes turn wide. “It says ‘unknown number’. Maybe it’s a scammer.” She flicks her wrist. “Hand it over. I’ll deal with it for you.”
“It’s not a scammer.” I shut the phone off because I don’t want to think about anything other than the performance.
“Who is it then?” Breeze insists. “I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know, how are you so sure it’s not a scammer?” She plants her hands on her hips, causing her bangles to dance.
Yup. Definitely not a conversation I want to have right now.
I lift my head and point to the stage. “Look, they’re bringing out the piano.”
Breeze looks that way and her eyes brighten. “I’m going to check it out.
You stay here and try not to hyperventilate.”
I eye her suspiciously as she crosses the stage. When I see her chatting it up with one of the guys in the crew, I realize why she was so eager to leave my side.
Typical.
I’ve known her since we were in diapers. Breeze will never give up an opportunity to flirt.
With her effusive presence gone, I’m back to being stuck in my own head.
I glance towards the exits one last time, wondering if I should back out now rather than step into this new and frightening chapter.
But those thoughts skitter away when the door bursts open. The air backstage shifts and something deep inside, some primal part of me, warns me not to look directly at whatever caused the disturbance.
I force my gaze up anyway because I never listen to that voice.
Three deities stalk backstage, all broad shoulders and brooding eyes. They move as one, like a pride of lions about to close in for the kill, bodies knifing effortlessly through the crowd that parts for them.
Predators. And proud of it. Their presence sets off a chorus of squealing from the people backstage.
They ignore the noise. Unbothered. As if this clamoring, this worship, is only right.
I can’t look away even if I want to. A steady thrumming fills my head. The perfect background music to their gait. A diminished chord progression.
A# D# G
Wild and dramatic. The sound of a hurricane at its peak, winds strong enough to uproot a tree and send it lashing into a building.
They draw closer. The music in my head swells as I notice the finer details of their faces. Hard jaws and cheekbones chiseled by the gods. Straight noses. Full, pursed lips.
The two at the front look exactly alike although one is blonde and the other is raven-haired. The third has thick brown hair and almond-shaped eyes.
They’re all wearing faded shirts that stretch across their large, barrel chests and taper down to narrow hips. Blue jeans cling to long legs that go on forever. Their incredible height sets them above everyone else and their gait is better than any model on any catwalk. Ever.
I’ve never seen people who look as hauntingly beautiful and effortlessly intimidating in real life.
Are these The Kings? The boys who were powerful enough to shut down the entire show?
The two brunettes at the ends break off. One is twirling drumsticks while the other clutches a guitar bag. The blond in the middle gets flocked by two girls who edge up under his armpits for a selfie.
Clipboard Guy huffs toward me.
I rip my eyes away from the three guys, realizing that I’m flushed and a little breathless.
“Okay, Soprana,” Clipboard Guy says. “Uh, it’s Sonata.”
He waves away the correction. His eyes jump from the three newcomers and back to my pale face. “Curtains go up in three.”
I nod my understanding.
He turns and yells in his headset loud enough for everyone to hear. “Surano’s opening for The Kings in three! Get the lights ready!”
The three forces of nature—there’s no other word to describe the way they suck the air out of the room—notice me at the same time. The two on either end smirk and glance away, but the blond keeps his killer eyes on me.
Dear Bach, he’s beautiful.
The lights burn an orange glow across his tan skin so it seems like he’s bathing in fire. He raises a muscular arm—that looks like it lifts more than the guitar on his back—and squeezes the strap. I swear my soul presses in right along with it.
He smirks and my breath is ripped away by a charisma that doesn’t ask but demands my attention. Everyone disappears. All I can see is him. His dark eyes trap me in place. Violent and merciless.
I feel every step he takes in my direction. The rhythm of his stride ricochets down to my toes.
It’s frightening, the chokehold he has on me. I don’t know where it’s coming from. I only know that—if bad news had a face—it would be this guy.
Tattoos climb under his braided leather bracelet with the gold beads and disappear into the worn sleeve of his shirt. From the shaggy blond hair to the easy way the tight T-shirt wraps around his pecs, it all screams danger. Damage. Destruction restrained to the body of a Greek sculpture.
My heart starts racing at an unhealthy speed. The music in my head screeches to a halt. I don’t have a chord progression for him. I don’t even have a melody. He’s too much. He pushes out every sound, every thought until he’s all that’s left.
I want to look away, but I can’t take my eyes off him.
“What are you doing?” Clipboard Guy is back. And he sounds annoyed.
Breeze is beside him. Her smile is dreamy and I wonder if she hit it off with the guy she targeted on stage.
“You ready for this?” my best friend asks.
I drag my eyes away from The Kings and am eternally grateful that Breeze catches sight of them when I’m already enroute to the piano.
I hear her excited squeals and figure Clipboard Guy is getting attacked by her swatting. My best friend’s arm turns into a paddle board when she’s overjoyed.
The piano falls into my line of sight and I feel the draw the way I always do. An undercurrent, similar to the one I felt when I spotted that guy backstage, vibrates the air around me. Except this tug isn’t violent. It’s
gentle. Warm water on naked skin. Sunlight kissing my palm. Enveloping. Whispering that I could drown and like it.
I tried my hardest to resist the call, especially when mom found out that I could make money playing music. She turned something beautiful and precious and stained it with her junkie fingers.
Even so, even when music felt dirty, it still sang to me. Dug under my skin and told me that I could never run away.
I feel my skirt flare around my hips as I take my seat behind the piano. It’s a Steinman and I’d be confused, dazzled even, if I didn’t know that this is Redwood Prep. Of course they have one of the most expensive acoustic pianos lying around for random students to use in their end-of-summer showcase.
I lift the lid and run my fingers over the gleaming keys. The weight of it takes my breath away. I’ve been practicing on the keyboard I lugged out of a thrift store. Those keys sounded like a dying toy and the key bed was so cheap that it sprang like a jack-in-the-box whenever I touched it.
Just outside the curtain, an announcer yells my name to the crowd. No one claps. Not even out of politeness.
They don’t know me. They don’t welcome me.
I take a deep breath and settle my nerves. It doesn’t matter. They will never know me. The real me.
And there’s safety in that. I’m not Cadence Cooper.
In this red wig and heavy makeup, I’m braver than her. Cooler. And this audience doesn’t have to like me, but they will respect me. They’ll listen to what I have to say.
The curtains roll back and a spotlight bursts to life, aiming right at my head. I feel the warmth of the light and hear the shuffle of bodies packed close together in front of the stage.
I keep my eyes on the piano.
The first few notes are a haunting melody. Dark. Oily. They flow through the auditorium like imps set loose from the darkest depths.
I shift octaves, taking the crowd on a journey. Faster. Faster. I pound the keys with all my heart, throwing myself into the moment because that’s the only way I know how to play.
And then I pause.
The lights go dim.
A new, heavy beat pours from the speakers. It’s the track I gave to the sound guys. The music is heavy on the bass and kick. Hip-hop to the max. I layer my melody on top of it. The threads intertwine like lovers who are opposites in every way yet helplessly drawn to each other.
The crowd starts to come alive. I hear their distant cheers and astonished gasps from somewhere outside of myself.
I knew that would happen. I chose this piece based on data. It’s the song that raked in the most cash when I bussed in the park.
My fingers dance above two black keys as I hold out the crescendo, building to a climax along with the backing track. My back is bent over the keyboard. My hair’s all in my face.
Adrenaline pounds in my veins. My soul moves right across the keys, dancing in the flames and blowing heat all over my face.
At last, I strike the keys once. Twice. Three times.
The note suspends and then bursts like a bubble, leaving nothing but silence. I push the red strands out of my face and stand.
Someone starts a slow applause. It catches on like a flame.
Then it sweeps through the auditorium, building to a roar. The rich folks of Redwood approve.
Whistles follow. The roar strips me of my joy and leaves something nasty in its place. The shame comes swiftly, drenching my skin. It doesn’t matter how many layers of clothing I have on. I feel naked and vulnerable.
Breeze is to my right, in the wings. She’s gesturing for me to come her way. Clipboard Guy is standing behind her, clapping. An impressed look is on his face.
I struggle to breathe. Out.
I need to get out of here.
I rush to the opposite side of the wings where the sound booth is set up. Skating past the crew who give me wide-eyed stares, I tear through a long, concrete hallway and crash through the exits.
It’s only when I’m outside and far from the crowd’s prying eyes that I feel the oxygen hit my lungs. A second later, the door bursts open and spits out Breeze.
She stumbles toward me. “Damn, Cadence. You were… that was… holy crap. You were incredible. Even the Kings stopped and took notice. I saw Dutch staring you down like he wanted to pick you up and,” she curls her tongue, “lick your face.”
“Dutch?” I don’t know why, but the name sends a tingle down my spine.
“The lead singer of The Kings. The blond one. His brother’s Zane.” She fans her face. “Hotness personified. He’s the drummer and the social media king. Finn, he’s their adopted brother but he’s just as s*xy with his eyes and his mouth… oh.” She chews on her bottom lip. “I’ve been listening to their music for months.” Breeze clutches her hands and does a little hop. “I can’t believe I got to stand so close to them tonight.”
“They’re professionals?” I wonder. It would explain why they got preferential treatment. Although they seem a little young to be famous rockstars.
Her jaw drops. “Do you really not know?”
I shrug. Between taking care of Viola, working, and keeping up with school, I don’t have time to keep up with the latest trends.
“They’re amazing. Their singles have, legit, gone viral. Plus they’re Jarod Cross’s kids.”
“Who—”
“If you don’t know who Jarod Cross is I will literally smack you across the face,” my best friend threatens.
I frown at her. “Of course I know who Jarod Cross is. What I was going to say is who cares? They’re a bunch of rich, entitled musicians with a famous dad. Does that give them a right to show up late and hold up the entire show?”
Yeah, I’m still not over that.
“Their dad practically owns this school.” She blinks. “Out of everyone at Redwood Prep, they’re the only ones who have the right to do whatever they want.”
A rolling electric guitar riff screams from the building. Breeze whips around, her eyes bright. “Oh my gosh! They’re starting!”
“You go ahead. I’ll take off now.”
“What?” Her jaw falls in disappointment. “You’re not going to stay? I guarantee you’re going to love their set. They’re amazing.”
“Viola’s home alone,” I tell her. My little sister is thirteen going on thirty-five, but I still don’t like it when she’s alone with no supervision.
Her bottom lip trembles. “Okay. I’ll come with you.” There’s not a bone in her body that means that.
I let her off the hook. “It’s okay. You stay.” “Really?” She squeals.
I nod.
Breeze jumps on me and hooks her arm around my neck. “Best best friend ever!”
I watch her scurry inside and turn to face Redwood Prep’s sprawling courtyard. The school is as big as a college campus and twice as distinguished.
I rip my wig off and turn back into the Cinderella with rags.
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Unknown Number: Nice wig, New Girl. But friendly advice, you might want to leave that on until you clear the campus. If not, I won’t be the only one who knows your secrets.
Unknown Number: Call me Jinx, by the way. Welcome to Redwood Prep. And good luck. You’re gonna need it.
