The Art of Taking Chances Read online

  Me: So am I! I’m majoring in jazz. Tenor sax and composition. You?

  I tap the side of the keyboard as he types. The dots are taking forever to turn into words.

  Jeremy24: Contemporary music. Vocal and composition.

  I flop against my seat. What are the chances that this guy’s studying at the same music college as me next year? I suck the inside of my cheek then break out in a grin. But contemporary music could mean anything. Even a love for boy band pop. I have to ask…

  Me: So if you could see any concert you wanted regardless of cost, who would you see?

  Jeremy24: Easy! Sam Stokes for sure!

  My bubble of excitement deflates to match the “Happy Eighteenth” balloons littering my bedroom floor. And here I thought—

  Jeremy24: Kidding! Take me to a Pearl Strickland concert and I’ll be your friend for life.

  My jaw drops into my lap. Again, what are the chances? Finally, someone who understands Pearl Strickland’s lyrical genius like I do. Someone who might fill the hole Sam left in my life when he walked out to become a traitorous pop star.

  I smile, this time without sucking the inside of my cheek. The chances are looking pretty good.

  I hesitate for only a second before I type the next message:

  Me: I’m thinking the message function on this site is a bit clunky. How about I give you my number instead?

  When my phone dings for the sixth time in as many minutes, Bea points at it. “Okay, what gives? That thing’s been going off all morning.”

  I tuck the phone into my pocket and clear a plate with remnants of Nutella cake off the coffee table. We’ve been cleaning up the lounge room for a good hour, and we’re still finding food in strange places.

  “It’s the guy I sold the tickets to,” I say.

  Bea frowns. “He’s come to his senses and is bombarding you with reasons as to why you should give him his money back?”

  “No… Not exactly.”

  I get a what’s-going-on look from my best friend.

  “We’re talking Pearl Strickland songs. He’s trying to convince me Heartland Jade is musically superior to The Last Summer, and I can see what he’s getting at because of the complex harmonies in the second half, but…”

  Bea’s eyes glaze over, and I trail off. Being the loyal friend she is, she’s always supported my Pearl Strickland obsession, but she descends into a boredom coma as soon as I start talking about the finer points of music composition. Bea’s a top forty kinda girl.

  Bea waves her hand in front of my pocket. “So you’ve been messaging with this Jeremy guy all morning?”

  I go to tell her that, no, it hasn’t been all morning, but snap my mouth shut. A glance at the clock reveals it’s almost lunchtime, and we’ve been messaging since just after eight.

  I shrug. “Yeah.”

  My phone dings in my pocket, and I scramble to fish it out.

  Jeremy: Okay, tell you what, it’s a tie. Heartland Jade will always be one of my favorites, but those sixteen bars of strings in Last Summer make it a valid contender for equal first place.

  His words tip up the corners of my lips the way they have all morning. An overwhelming need to explain myself to Bea straightens my spine. “Turns out he’s also going to the Con next year. Then there’s the whole Pearl Strickland connection, and yeah, well, we seem to have a heap in common.”

  “The Con? Interesting.”

  It’s not so much her words, but rather the loaded way she says them that leaves me frowning. I try to read her face, but she ducks to pick up an empty Maltesers packet from under the coffee table. I use the opportunity to quickly type I can live with a tie :), then scoop up the trail of Minty wrappers littering the floor between the sofa and TV.

  Not two minutes later another ding draws our attention to my pocket. I reach in, itching to look at Jeremy’s latest message, but I leave it when I catch Bea’s eye. I’ve been distracted all morning, and it’s not fair to her. Besides, if I keep acting all eager she’ll read more into it than there really is.

  I force myself to push all thoughts of Jeremy aside and take a look around the room. “I think we’re pretty much done here,” I say with a satisfied nod.

  “Great.” Bea takes the garbage bag from me. “I’ll dump this on my way out.”

  My brows draw together. “You’re leaving? I thought soccer training didn’t start till two?”

  “The Kraken told us to get there an hour early.” Bea heads for the door. “She’s getting worse the closer we get to the final.”

  Bea might moan about Coach Krakenau, but she’s as serious about her soccer as I am about my music. Doesn’t mean I’m not bummed about her needing to leave early. But it does mean I’ll be able to message Jeremy without feeling guilty.

  I walk Bea to the door and watch her tear off in her little red Mazda just as another ding chimes in my pocket.

  This time I don’t hesitate. I pull out my cell, read the message, and break out in a goofy grin.

  Three

  For the next two weeks, not a day goes by that Jeremy and I don’t message. We cover a lot of ground.

  Movies: he’s mainly a thriller fan, but since seeing The Greatest Showman he'll watch anything starring Hugh Jackman. (Who can blame him?)

  Books: he’s read the Harry Potter series. Twice. (Serious points there.) And he’s currently into the latest Jay Kristoff trilogy. (Yay! I loved The Illuminae Files.)

  Food: he’ll eat anything, except avocado. (A guacamole gagging incident left him scarred for life.)

  Favorite color: teal, like the ocean, which he loves but doesn't get to enjoy enough even though he lives close to the beach and likes to body surf. (Something I wouldn't mind learning!)

  Siblings: One younger sister. Gets on okay with her as long as she doesn’t make fun of anything to do with his music. (Preaching to the choir here! Can’t stand it when Jamie makes fart noises whenever I play my sax. The guy is eleven! He should know better.)

  All the messaging has made the time fly, and today’s the day we’re meeting in person. This afternoon. Only a little over four hours to go. Less than the length of a Pitch Perfect movie marathon.

  I may be a little excited. Somewhere over two weeks and hundreds of messages it’s become more than just a quick meetup to hand over concert tickets. It’s now an official coffee date. (Mochaccino for him, double shot cappuccino for me).

  But first I need to put up with Sam Stokes at the dreaded Brinski-Stokes family get together. Ugh.

  My phone dings. It’s exactly the distraction I need.

  Jeremy: So is 4 still good for you? I could meet earlier if you want.

  Me: Trust me when I say I’d love to, but my mom would kill me if I ditched this lunch any earlier than half past three.

  Jeremy: Totally understand. These family friends must be a real drag.

  Me: Not all of them. Just the son.

  As soon as I send that message, I want to whack my head against my desk. Why did I just mention Sam? I don’t want to talk about him, especially not with Jeremy. Sam and Jeremy are at complete opposites of my interest spectrum, and I’d rather not think about the two in the same brainwave.

  Jeremy seems to have other ideas.

  Jeremy: So what’s the story with the son? Does he make fart noises like your little brother when you play your saxophone?

  I splutter a laugh at the thought of Sam making fart noises while I play my sax. It’d never happen. Despite everything going sour between us, Sam never belittled my love of music. He understood all about the hours of practice, the grip-you-by-the-throat nervousness during an audition, the underlying passion that beats like a jungle drum beneath all the stress, making it worth it. Which is why his betrayal hurt so much.

  My fingers hover over my cell. I still haven’t met Jeremy, but I feel like he’d understand.

  Me: No fart noises. Just the echo of an old friendship that died when he said some hurtful things a few years ago.

  I watch for his reply
, but there's nothing for the longest time. Not even the little dots that tell me he’s typing. I suck on the inside of my cheek—maybe I’ve scared him off with my deep and meaningful comment.

  I should head downstairs; the Stokeses are due to arrive at any moment, but then three little dots dance across my screen. I hold my breath and watch them.

  Jeremy: You have no idea how much I wish I could take back some of the things I’ve said to people I care most about. Maybe give the guy another chance?

  I clutch the stair railing. He knows nothing about Sam and me. About the words that carved a hole in my heart. I blink back the memory, but it’s no use. I still see them in my mind’s eye, hear them booming in my head, feel them barreling through me like a stampeding horde of barbed wire-covered rhinos:

  You're holding me back.

  You’re holding me back.

  You’re holding me back.

  The doorbell rings. I swallow, blink again, and type.

  Me: Not sure he deserves another chance.

  From downstairs, Mom calls, “Ally? Where are you?"

  I tell her I’m coming and trudge down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs, my cell dings again.

  Jeremy: We all make mistakes. If he’s anything like me, he’s probably regretting this big time.

  I frown at my phone. If Sam truly regretted what he said, then why hasn't he apologized? He's got my number. He could have called. Then I remember: he did. Just after the blowup. But I wouldn't talk to him.

  Mom opens the door. I look up, and a mix of emotions hits me. Anger. Regret. Defiance. And a stubborn sense of familiarity and longing that just won't die no matter how much I try to kill it off.

  After the customary hellos and ohs and ahs about how grown up we all are, Sam and I find ourselves trailing behind the others onto the back patio.

  Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his designer jeans, his shoulders roll forward like he’s trying to fold in on himself. He’s sneaking guarded glances at me from beneath a fringe of dark blonde hair. I bet his personal groomer or image coach or whatever he calls the person in charge of his appearance has told him he's not allowed to cut it because all the girls think it looks hot.

  And they’d be right, damn it. The too-long hair, the gray-green eyes, the whole boy-next-door-meets-runway-model look he's got going on works annoyingly well. I hate how aware I am of his looks.

  We step out onto the patio and…crap! There are only two seats left. Opposite each other at the end of the table.

  I throw Mom a pleading look, but she's too busy chatting with Mrs. Stokes to notice my desperation. So I slide into my seat opposite Sam and reach for the water jug to give my hands something to do.

  “How’ve you been?”

  His voice startles me, and I nearly spill iced water into my lap. I put down the jug and meet his gaze. It's still cautious but also surprisingly…friendly.

  “Good. You?”

  “Yeah…me, ah, too.”

  Well, isn't this riveting. But at least we're not shouting at each other. Yet.

  Lunch progresses as it usually does. Jamie drags my little sister in the direction of the pool as soon as he and Eleanor have scoffed down a sausage sandwich each. The Stokeses then ask the requisite questions: How did my final exams go? Am I excited about getting into the Con? What will I be majoring in?

  When Mom and Dad ask Sam similar questions, they’re careful not to focus too much on the pop star thing. I like to think it's because they know it annoys me, but in truth, it’s probably because, surprisingly, he doesn’t glam it up. The way he talks about the punishing tour schedule, people wanting to know Sam Stokes the star, not Sam Stokes the guy… I feel sorry for him.

  Before long, our parents are back to their own conversation, leaving Sam and me to fend for ourselves.

  “So, school,” he says. “Weird that we don't have to go anymore after so many years, huh?”

  I shrug. What does he know about going to school? He's had private tutors follow him around on tour for the past three years.

  He pours himself a drink. “Congrats on getting into the Con.”

  “Thanks,” I say, avoiding his eyes.

  It was once our shared dream, one that he pushed aside in the name of fame and fortune. I wonder if he regrets it even just a little?

  “I’ll be seeing you there.”

  My head snaps up. “What? How?”

  “I got in, too.”

  That’s not possible. “You’re barely ever in the country. Last year you spent nine months out of twelve overseas.”

  Eyes suddenly bright, he angles his head. “Been keeping tabs on me, have you?”

  The possible truth of his words slaps me in the face, and my cheeks flame. Have I been keeping tabs on him? Oh man, I have been keeping tabs on him. How else would I know exactly where he was every day of last year? Let's be completely honest, probably the year before that as well.

  It takes all my willpower not to drop my face into my hands. I’ve been keeping tabs on Sam Stokes! What does that mean? No, wait. I don't want to know what that means.

  I give myself a mental slap. Focus. “Seriously, how are you going to attend classes when your tour schedule means you'll miss half the course?”

  “Distance Ed,” Sam says, around a mouthful of salad. “I’ll be doing all the theory online.”

  My mouth drops open. “The Con doesn't offer distant education.”

  Sam pushes a cherry tomato around his plate. “I’m being given special dispensation.”

  I cross my arms. “Because you're a rock star?”

  His brow pinches like I've hurt him. Good. Why should he get special treatment?

  “I’ve got a solid record as a committed distance education student,” he says, still pushing that tomato around his plate.

  “How lucky for you.” I don’t even try to keep the edge from my voice.

  He finally looks up. “Ally, can we…” He slides a hand through his hair, sending that too-long fringe of his falling across his brow.

  I smother an eye roll.

  “We’re doing the same course next year, at the same school,” he says. “We should…” He glances down the length of the table at our parents, still engrossed in their own conversation. Eyes somehow equally guarded and pleading, he lowers his voice. “Can we go back? I hate us fighting. I want to go back to the way it was, Al, to being your friend.”

  I’m stunned. As in, I sit perfectly still in my chair, not even blinking. Finally, the words I’ve wanted to hear for the past three years hang between us. Inside me, something stirs and opens and— Wait. Something is missing. Something important.

  Something that sounds like an actual apology.

  I fold my arms tighter across my chest. “A friend doesn’t accuse you of holding him back.”

  Sam cringes. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But you did.” And it hurt. Badly.

  “I didn’t mean—” He leans forward. “Don’t you get it? I wanted you of all people to be happy for me.”

  “Happy?” I scoff. “For selling out?”

  “I know that kind of music isn’t your thing, but would it have been so hard to support me?” His gaze pins mine. “Because if it’d been me, I would’ve been there with you every step of the way. Cheering you on, spurring you forward.”

  “Not holding you back, you mean.”

  Sam clamps his jaw.

  We stare at each other, the words floating jagged and hurtful between us. I’m waiting, I realize, for him to negate them, to say they aren’t true. That they were never true, because they were uttered in the heat of an angry moment. But the only sound I hear is something cracking and breaking inside of me. Or maybe that’s my phone dinging in my back pocket.

  It shocks me up out of my chair. I can’t let Mom hear it—no phones allowed at the table—but more importantly, I need to put some space between Sam and myself. I can’t believe I thought he’d actually apologize.

  I grab an empty bo
wl of coleslaw and mumble some excuse about going to top it off, then hightail it into the kitchen. My eyes seek out the clock. Twenty-five to three. Mom definitely won’t be happy if I leave now, but I can’t go back out there. I pull my phone out of my pocket to read the message—and deflate a little. Not Jeremy.

  Bea: You surviving?

  Me: Barely. Am ready to make a break for it, though. Are you good to meet now?

  I’m guaranteed a stern word from Mom tonight, but this is an emergency. I need to get out of here or there’s a high likelihood I’ll end up on the front page of tomorrow’s paper under the headline: Crazed Teen Knees Pop Star Sam in His Stokes!

  Bea: Sure. Meet at The Thirsty Bean in fifteen.

  Good. Now I just need to see if Jeremy is still able to meet me earlier. I send him a quick one liner. He replies straight away, saying he can be there around three.

  I grab my purse as well as the concert tickets, and take a quick peek to make sure no-one is missing me or the coleslaw. My parents and the Stokeses have taken their conversation across the pool to the cabana lounges, while Sam is still at the table, nose buried in his phone. Probably posting something about the lame BBQ he wishes he’d never gone to. Well, screw him.

  I’m heading for the front door when Jeremy messages again.

  Jeremy: Everything okay?

  Me: No. But it will be in about twenty minutes. Can’t wait to meet you :)

  I pull the door shut behind me with a smile.

  Four

  Bea’s already at The Thirsty Bean when I arrive.

  “Let me guess, the annual Brinski-Stokes get-together didn’t go so well?”

  I huff and pull out a chair next to her. “If it was a paid event, I’d want my money back.”

  “Sam?”

  “Who else?”

  She scrunches her nose.

  “What?”

  She shrugs. “I just thought this time would be different.”

  The café door opens and my head snaps up, taking my heart rate with it. But it’s only a group of women in a burst of brightly colored activewear.