Sing (10 page)

58 Days Until Tour

July 16th

THE NEXT MORNING,
I'm brewing a pot of Terry's imported coffee when there's a knock at the door. I shuffle down the hall in my jersey bathrobe and peer through the stained-glass window. Ray stands on the deck, a small brown bag clutched in his giant fist.

“Thanks,” I say as he passes me the bag. I peer inside at the gooey pile of doughnuts. “Want to stay for one? Promise I won't tell.”

Ray smiles and shakes his head. “K2 gets lonely.” He shrugs back toward the car in the road. “We're listening to an audiobook. He's on a Dickens kick.” He rolls his eyes and hops back down the steps, lumbering down the driveway.

I texted him early this morning out of desperation. I wasn't sure that breakfast treats and Terry's coffee were going to be enough to turn things around with Tess, but I knew I had to do something. I tossed and turned all night, replaying in my head all of what happened. When I decided to tell Sammy and Tess the truth about Noel, I knew they would be disappointed. But with Tess, it feels like something more. And she's not one to “talk things out.” There's only guessing what's wrong, and doing whatever can be done to fix it.

Usually, this involves doughnuts. Every morning at camp there were doughnuts. Tess knew where they were kept in the kitchen and how to sneak in. Whenever one of us was down, or she was feeling city-sick, Tess would round us up for a late-night rendezvous, and we'd tiptoe down the woodchip-covered trail and stuff our faces in the dark with sticky, glazed goodness.

I stand at the stove, boiling water for tea—I've never been a coffee drinker, I'm jittery enough on my own—and I remember what Tess said about this summer. She thought it should be for us now what camp was for us then. Suddenly, I understand why that could never happen. There were no boys at camp.

It's hard to imagine now, after years of serial dating and ping-ponging from one long-term relationship to the next, but when I was younger, boys were never on
my radar. Or, I should say, I wasn't on theirs. I'd get jealous, sometimes, about the way guys always waited for Sammy outside after junior high, showing off and acting like morons, fighting for her attention. In high school, it was clear that Sammy was on the fast track to popularity—captain of the dance team, prom queen, the works—while I was still going fishing with Gramps and goofing around on my guitar. But by that point, Sammy was too loyal to set me free. Sometimes I think she's the only reason I got out of that place alive. Sammy, and writing music.

Tess was different. I could sense that she needed us, from the very first day of camp, even if she didn't immediately agree. She mentioned her parents' recent divorce only to say that getting rid of her for the summer was the first thing they'd agreed on in years. By the end of that first summer, Tess had dragged us out on all kinds of late-night adventures, and gotten us into more trouble than we ever would have found on our own. She replaced every Top 40 song on my iPod with obscure indie bands, and to this day, any cool cred I may have earned in my life or my music, I owe almost entirely to her. She's a big part of the reason I moved to New York. I knew I wanted her by my side, physically and emotionally, for as long as she could handle being there. Which is why I can't let her stay mad at me for long. No matter how badly I screw
up, Sammy and I have too much history for her to ever give up on me. But with Tess, I'm not so sure.

The kettle whistles and I pour a cup of tea for me, a mug of rich-smelling coffee for Tess. I arrange a pile of doughnuts on a dainty floral plate, and balance the whole spread on a tray, then pad carefully up the creaky steps. I knock gently on Tess's door.

Nothing.

I open the door a crack. She's sprawled on top of the quilt, her dark curls piled over her face. “Tess?” I whisper. “Are you awake?”

Tess grunts and rolls over. I edge the tray onto the wicker bedside table. “I brought you something,” I say, nudging her shoulder.

Tess inches toward the wall and tosses the quilt over her head.

“Doughnuts!” I announce cheerily. “I know they're not Krispy Kreme, but they look pretty authentic. Cinnamon glazed . . . Your favorite.”

Tess doesn't move. I watch the bulge of blankets rise and fall with her breathing.

“Real coffee, too,” I try. “It smells amazing. Here.”

I waft the steam from the tray over in her general direction, but Tess continues to ignore me. Finally, I throw up my hands. “Come on!” I erupt. “I'm trying! I said I was sorry. You have to give me something!”

Tess whips the quilt from her shoulders and spins around to face me on the bed. “Give you something?” she spits back at me. “I give you everything! I work for you! I live with you! I do everything for you. Everything I have, everything I do, revolves around you. Is it too much to ask for something to be
just mine
?”

She stares at me, breathing heavily, sleep still stuck to the corners of her eyes. I sit, frozen, stunned and confused.

“Noel?” I finally ask. “But . . .”

“Ugh!” Tess groans, picking up a pillow and aggressively flopping it into my lap. “Not Noel! Not everything is about a
guy
, you know . . .”

“I know,” I say defensively. “I just don't know what else I did wrong.”

“You didn't
do
anything wrong,” she says. “That's the point. You don't do anything, and still, it's like, just by being here, you make everything different.”

I sigh, a strange sadness settling around my heart. It's the same old story, the never-ending balancing act that has become my life. “Oh. That.”

I used to spend a lot of time worrying about how being around me was affecting my family and friends. At first, of course, all the attention, the fame, was exciting for all of us. But it wasn't long before the newness wore off, and I could tell it was a struggle. It's been hard for
me, too, but I signed up for this. They didn't. That's why being on the island, for me, has felt like a magical escape. I feel it changing me, slowly breaking down the walls I've been so carefully building. But I've never stopped to think about how
I
might be changing
it.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I know this was your place.”

Tess pulls the quilt into her lap, picking at the worn corners. “It was the only thing that always stayed the same. Every time I came back, no matter what else was going on, at school, my parents . . .”

I peer through the curtains of Tess's crazy curls and see the same girl I met that first day of camp. No matter how much she complained about the early morning wake-up calls, the heat, the bugs, the silly camp uniform we had to wear on Sundays, we always knew the four weeks we spent there were her favorite four weeks of the year. We knew because it was the same for us, too.

“I know,” I say. I want to say more. I want to say that sometimes I hate all of the attention, too. But complaining about this life, this ridiculous, privileged, anything-is-possible life, always makes me feel uneasy. Like it might be snatched up, taken away in an instant, and I'd be left the same awkward girl I used to be, stuck in the middle of nowhere, dreaming. So instead, all I say is, “I'm sorry.”

Tess picks up the pillow and bats me with it again, playfully this time. “Me too,” she says. “I didn't mean what
I said about bringing you here. I'm sorry I'm such a brat.”

“You can't help it.” I shrug playfully, handing her the plate of doughnuts. “It's all you know.”

Tess nods earnestly and takes the plate into her lap. She peers at the doughnuts, gingerly picking one up and taking a bite. “Imposter,” she rules, dropping it back onto the plate with a
thud
.

I laugh and pass her the coffee. She takes a careful sip.

“Better?” I ask.

“Anything would be better than the watery junk they sell in town,” she says, taking another sip. “Are you going to see him again?”

“Who?”

Tess rolls her eyes. “‘
Who
?'” she mocks me, feigning innocence.

There's a tightness around my heart as I remember the text I sent last night. “I don't think so,” I say at last. I know it wasn't my seeing Noel that upset Tess, but I also know that he's a part of what makes this place so special to her. There isn't a lot that happened in her childhood that she remembers fondly. I can't ruin this for her.

“Oh, don't be an idiot,” Tess says. “I want you to see him.”

“You do?”

Tess nods, licking her fingers.

“But what about all that stuff you said? I need to stop
losing myself in relationships. I'm not ready.”

Tess shrugs. “You're probably not,” she says. “But so what? This is who you are, Bird. It's the reason people who have never met you send you holiday cards, and knit your face into sweaters, and light candles for you at church. They love your music, yes, but they also love
you.
Like, really love you. And it's because they know you care about them. You care about everyone. You'd fall in love with a paper bag if it hung around you long enough.”

I laugh, pressing the corners of my eyes to keep the tears from leaking out. “I just feel like I'm always letting you guys down,” I say. “I'm afraid I'll screw things up again, and next time, you won't be there. I'm worried you'll give up on me.”

“Give up on you?” Tess looks at me like I'm speaking in tongues. “You're the only reason I'm here right now. You cared about me when nobody else did. When my own parents couldn't stand to be around me. I did everything to get you to leave me alone, and you wouldn't.”

Tess pauses, her eyes glassy. The only time I've ever seen her cry was when she rode her fixed-gear bike into the open door of a garbage truck and cracked two ribs. She sniffles, looks away, and swats at her face with both hands. “There aren't enough bonehead boyfriends in the world to make me give up on you.”

I lean my head on her shoulder. She lets me cuddle
for a second before straightening and stretching for her coffee on the table.

I shift on the bed and reach into the pocket of my bathrobe for my phone.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I scroll through my contacts and find Noel's name. My thumb is poised over the red Delete Contact button.

“Don't do that!” Tess squeals. “I told you, I don't care.”

“I know,” I say. “But I do.” I press the button.

Are you sure you want to delete this contact?
the phone asks.

In a flash, I see Noel's face. I remember the way he looked when I left him, after another night on the water. I caught him watching me walk away and he'd pretended he was searching for Murphy in the dunes. My heart clenches at the idea that it could be the last time I see him. It feels impossible that I won't even get to say a real good-bye.

But not as impossible as losing Tess.

I press the button—
Yes
—and tuck the phone back into my pocket. There's a sad tug on my heart, but I breathe through it. It's for the best. I need to get back to work anyway. No excuses. No distractions. Even if it means no Noel.

Tess shakes her head. “Lily Ross, breaking hearts and taking names.”

I roll my eyes. “Better me than them.” I jump off her bed and scrounge around in the messy top drawer of her dresser. “Now hurry up.”

“Where are we going?” Tess asks, lowering her feet to the floor and stretching her arms to the ceiling.

I find her bathing suit and toss it onto her lap. “We're going to the beach,” I say. “Because we're on vacation. And those waves aren't going to surf themselves.”

52 Days Until Tour

July 22nd

TESS TRUDGES TO
the shore with her surfboard, dropping it with a heavy
thud
onto the pebbled beach. “And that's a wrap.” It's been almost a week since I brought her doughnuts and dragged her into the water, surf gear in tow, and very little progress has been made.

To Tess's credit, the waves haven't exactly been cooperating; they're either too small, or too big and sloppy, or they're breaking too far out. As a show of solidarity, I've paddled out once or twice, zipping myself into her rented wet suit and splashing through face-fulls of whitecaps. I stood up on the board once, but just long enough to see a rock in my direct path, panic, and tumble off gracelessly.

“You're giving up?” Sammy asks, her book spread open on her lap. She refuses to go swimming—Sammy's afraid of sharks, an excuse she's been using since the water safety class we had to take in the notably shark-free lake at camp—and instead has spent the week working her way through her romance novel. “But it's your summer goal!”

“Don't talk to me about goals, Speed Reader.” Tess slaps her towel at Sammy's ankles. “You've been buried in that book for weeks. How are you possibly not finished?”

“I have bad eyesight,” Sammy says, pulling her reading glasses out of her hair.

Tess laughs. “I've heard those work better when you actually wear them.”

It's a good question, actually—Sammy has been spending a lot of time on a book she hasn't seemed to have made much of a dent in. She's never been a big reader, but I'd know if my best friend was illiterate, right? I wave off Tess's teasing, though, not wanting Sam to feel embarrassed.

“Ladies,” I intervene. “This is supposed to be fun. Nobody has to surf—or read—if they don't want to.” I try not to sound smug, though I'm secretly proud of my own recent progress. In the last week, I've written two more Noel-free songs and proven to myself, once and for all, that my talent is not inseparably linked to whichever
member of the male species I've temporarily decided is “the one.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Tess sings. She dries off her hands and reaches into the pocket of Sammy's bag for her phone, glances quickly at the time. “I have to get ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask.

“Yoga,” Tess answers, reaching around to unzip the back of her wet suit.

“You're going again?” Sammy asks.

The three of us have been back to Maya's Saturday morning yoga class twice, but lately Tess has been finding other classes to attend on her own. Tess is notoriously against any kind of organized group activity, particularly those involving exercise, so her newfound commitment to down dogs and warriors has raised a few eyebrows around here.

“I like it.” Tess peels off the thick layers of her wet suit and leaves it in a wrinkled heap on the sand. “And we're not exactly overbooked.”

“I think it's great,” I say, smiling at her.

“Meet you back at the house,” Tess says. “What time's dinner?”

“Whenever we want.” With more songs under my belt, I've decided to switch gears and work on my other summer goal: cooking. The fact that it also distracts me from thinking about Noel is just an added bonus.

After deleting his number, I expected it wouldn't be long until I heard from him, and I spent many nights lying awake, imagining how I'd explain myself when I did. But he never called, or texted, and even though I was the one who'd made the decision to lie low, I found myself getting frustrated that he wasn't trying harder. Hadn't he wondered why I didn't show up on the beach that night? Didn't he even care?

Sammy and I make our way lazily back to the house, and while she showers I text K2 and ask him to run me into town. Tonight I'm making my favorite: linguini in clam sauce. We picked up most of the groceries earlier in the week but I figured I'd save the seafood for last.

The fish market is at one end of Main Street, tucked against the harbor. It's bustling with activity, fishermen hauling in the day's catch through the back door, and shoppers standing in a line that snakes through the front. The people waiting are a mix of day-trippers, waiting to take photos of themselves with a live lobster, and islanders picking up fish for dinner. Noel taught me to recognize the difference: Day-trippers usually wear shoes and carry purses. Locals wear flip-flops, when they wear shoes at all, and tend to pay on credit.

I shuffle inside the cozy shop. Deep coolers stacked with shellfish and fillets line the walls, and a big chalkboard advertises the day's offerings and prices.
I scan a nearby refrigerator and choose a few dips and spreads, balancing them in a Tupperware tower as I head toward the register. One of the plastic containers topples to the ground, rolling along the floor and stopping at the feet of an older man.

“Here you go,” he says as he passes the container ahead to me in line. He has a scruffy gray beard and studies me with kind eyes. “Hey! Aren't you that gal on the radio? The one my granddaughter is so nuts about?”

I smile and rearrange my pile. The people in line between us stop their conversations and a hush falls over the busy room. “I sure hope so.”

The man beams. “What the hell are you doing out here?” he asks to the amusement of the growing crowd. “Don't they have fish out in California?”

“Not like this, they don't!” A woman behind the counter breaks in, holding up two enormous lobsters and tossing them into a cooler in the back.

“She doesn't care about your sea rats,” the man says, cutting the line to stage-whisper to me. “You ever want a real meal, you come to my house. I make the best fish stew on the island.” He taps my elbow with two arthritic fingers.

“Is that right?”

I realize how good it feels to be interacting with people again. This is the longest I've gone without doing
an event or making an appearance—even an informal one like going out to lunch or surprising a fan club—and I hadn't realized how much I'd missed feeling connected.

“Keep it moving, George,” a familiar voice interrupts from just beyond the back door. “Or I'll tell Louise you've been flirting again.”

I turn to see Noel dropping a heavy cooler on the dock behind the market. Our eyes meet for a quick moment and he nods, then walks back out to his boat.

“You tell her!” George shouts. “She could use a little competition.”

Laughter fills the market and George offers to buy me my clams. I decline, but promise to try his famous stew one day, and take a few photos with twin girls and their shoe-wearing parents, visiting from Montreal.

After I've paid, I sneak through the back door and glance around the dock for Noel.

I find his boat docked near the fuel pump, and see him huddled together with Latham and J.T. They're busy unloading traps and gear, and I wait for the guys to leave, shuttling coolers back to the fish market. I take a breath and walk out onto the pier, the uneven wooden decking creaking beneath my feet.

Murphy sees me first. He races toward me, his tail wagging ferociously. I scratch behind his ears and keep walking, his nose nudging the side of my knee.

“Hey,” I call out. Noel's back is to me on the boat and he doesn't turn around. I feel my face getting hot—is he really going to ignore me?—until I notice the white cord of his earbuds running from his ears to his pocket.

I grab on to one of the tall wooden pylons and lean into the boat, tapping Noel on the shoulder. He jumps slightly and plucks the earbuds from his ears.

“Anything good?” I ask him as he stashes his phone in his pocket. My arms are folded tightly across my chest and I can feel my heart beating against my wrist, so intensely that I worry it may be shaking the whole boat.

“Just your average clown rap.” It's a joke, but his eyes aren't smiling. They look tired, their usual sparkle flattened and dull. “Hope George wasn't giving you too much of a hard time in there.”

“Not at all. He seemed sweet.”

“He's a troublemaker.” We stand for a few moments in quiet before he clears his throat. “How have you been? Good?”

“Really good,” I say, my voice strained and too loud. “Everything's great. I just . . . you know . . . I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

He keeps busy as I'm talking, hopping onto the dock and uncoiling a long, damp rope. I'm not sure why I feel the need to lie to him, to make it seem like I haven't
missed him every second of every day. I lean heavily into the pillar.

“The other night?” he asks distractedly.

“At the beach,” I say, my face flushing. He bends down to loop the rope around a metal cleat. “And for not calling. It's been . . . things have been kind of crazy.”

He inches by me, our shoulders bumping as he passes. A shock of electricity runs through me and I want more than anything to touch him, to hug him, to sit on the boat beside him and steam off toward the horizon. I take a deep breath. “I've been doing a lot of writing,” I say. “And hanging out with my friends. You know, that's really why I came out here. It was supposed to be this, like, bonding trip, and so, I don't know, I guess I just decided that . . .”

Noel rummages loudly through the storage bench. He takes out a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle and starts to scrub the windows of the cockpit. The towels squeak across the glass in intense circles. “Can you please
stop
?” I finally shout.

Noel pauses mid-wipe and balls the towel up in his hand before tossing it into the back of the boat. With crossed arms, he sits down on top of the bench and chews the inside of one cheek.

I take a deep breath. “Sorry. I just . . . I'm trying to explain . . .”

He looks up at me abruptly. “Explain what?”

His voice is harsh. I feel flustered, and then annoyed. Why is he making this so difficult?

“Look,” he says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You don't have to do this.”

“I don't?”

He shakes his head. “No. I get it. It's not like I thought this was a real
thing
, or whatever. I know you're busy. And I'm . . .” He gestures out to the water. “I'm here. It's fine. It is what it is.”

I stare at him. There's so much I want to say that it feels like the words are trampling over each other, tumbling around and getting mixed up. I want to tell him that this week has felt like an eternity, that it's taken every ounce of willpower I have not to call him. That going to the beach with my friends has been torture because every time I see the water I think of him. I want to tell him that I don't want to be busy. I want to be here, too.

But then I see the familiar shape of two girls walking along the pier in yoga clothes. It takes me a minute to realize that it's Tess and Maya, and they're laughing, each holding an ice cream cone. It's not until they get a few paces closer that I realize their free hands are clasped together between them.

“What's wrong?” Noel asks. I realize that my
mouth has dropped open. I'm frozen in place.
Tess and Maya?

I keep watching as they pass the fish market. Maya looks out toward the water, squinting into the sun, and Tess turns, too.

Noel follows my silent gaze. “Is that Tess? Who is she with?”

“Our yoga teacher.” I hold my hand over my head to wave, and watch Tess's eyes widen as she sees me. There's a moment where she looks like she wants to run away, her eyes darting frantically toward the parking lot, the water, searching for the quickest escape.

“That's Maya Scott,” Noel says.

“You know her?”

He nods. “She was a grade above me. Valedictorian of her class. Way to go, Tess.”

Tess holds Maya's hand tighter and together they walk toward us on the dock.

“Hey, Birdie. Noel.” Tess greets him with a big smile, as if she'd planned the whole thing: running into the two of us together, being with Maya, all of it. “I was hoping to catch you guys.”

“You were?” I eye her skeptically, before smiling at Maya. “How was class?”

“It was great,” Maya says. “Even got this one to stay awake.”

She nudges Tess playfully. Despite being caught off guard, Tess seems happy and calm in a way I haven't ever seen before.

Noel is back to tinkering with his boat and Tess looks from him to me, trying to telepathically communicate something. I shrug, not sure what she's asking, and she clears her throat.

“Noel, I don't know what Lily's told you, but I want to apologize,” she says. I try to catch her eye again, to wordlessly communicate that it's not necessary, but she stares steadily at Noel. “I was . . . I was having a hard time with . . . lots of things . . . and I kind of freaked out. This place was always special to me . . .”

I glance at Maya and see her give Tess a reassuring smile. I can't be sure, but I have a strong suspicion she's heard at least part of this before. I feel a quick spike of jealousy, realizing that Tess has been confiding in someone else.

“You were part of that,” Tess goes on. “And when Lily told me you guys were seeing each other, I think I was scared of losing it all. So if she's been weird . . . weirder than usual, I mean . . . it's my fault.” She turns to me with a smile. “The truth is, I haven't seen her this happy, like, ever. And if, for some strange reason, that has something to do with you, how could I stand in the way?”

Noel blushes and looks down at the shifting slats
of the dock. My shoulders suddenly relax, a flood of warmth filling my body.

“And now that we've all survived my very first grown-up apology,” Tess continues, “who wants to go surfing?” She looks from Noel to me, gently squeezing my elbow. “This girl is dying for a lesson.”

Noel looks to me uncertainly. “Really?”

I beam. “Absolutely.”