Sing (16 page)

33 Days Until Tour

August 10th

I SPEND THE
next few days in bed. At least, my body does. My mind is somewhere else, everywhere else, cycling through events—the things I've done and said, the things Noel said, the looks on my friends' faces as they stood like statues in the hall—and wondering how it all could have gone so wrong, so fast.

I was happier than I'd ever been. I'd finally done it, finally found a way to have everything I've ever wanted. My music, my fans, my career . . . and a normal, stable relationship with a guy who cared about me as much as I cared about him.

But now I'm back to square one: a life that will never be normal.

I flop my head against the pillow. Every so often, I hear myself making weird noises, low, guttural groans, like I'm being passed through some invisible torture device, my insides twisted into unbearable knots. How could I have been so thoughtless? Going public should have been something that Noel and I decided together. If he'd had all the facts about what he was getting into, maybe he wouldn't have wanted to come on tour with me, but at least he would have been prepared.

I sit up, staring out the dark window. It's night again. Soon, Sammy will bring me something to eat, a simple, lovingly prepared meal that I'll barely be able to pick at. Tess will read through my emails and keep me up-to-date on what's going on at home, how the set for tour is coming along, who's doing what and what's being planned. I'll nod and thank her, blankly, without actually hearing a word that she's said.

My phone buzzes, buried beneath the comforters. I've been ignoring it for days, racking up voice mails and texts alerts in terrorizing little red bubbles. But this time, something tells me to look.

It's my mom.

I swipe the screen and press the phone to my cheek. I try to say “hi” but all that comes out is a pathetic-sounding cry.

“Sweetie?” Mom says. I hear the beeping sound her
car makes when the door is open, the rumble of her engine as it starts. “Honey, what's wrong?”

“I ruined everything,” I say once my breath has steadied and I seem to be out of tears. “I forgot what it's like. I forgot how easy it is for me to hurt people I care about, without even thinking.”

“Honey, we've been over this,” Mom says. Hours after the story about Noel's mother broke, Mom called. I could tell that she wanted to fly out, to be with me, and part of me wanted nothing more than to let her. To have her sit in bed beside me, rub my back and tell me everything was going to be all right. But it felt wrong.
Sidney
is the one who should be able to get a hug from her mom whenever she needs it, whispered reassurances, a cheerleader when times are tough. Not me.

“This isn't your fault,” Mom says for the zillionth time. “It's a shame, what happened, but you didn't do this.”

I shake my head, as if she can see me from her car. “What if he's right?” I say. “What if I'm not the person I think I am?”

I hear Mom sigh, her blinker clicking in the background. “Do you remember when we used to get the piano tuned? The upright we had in the old house?”

I stare at my teary reflection in the window, rubbing damp circles away from my face. “The motorcycle
guy?” I ask. Once a year my parents would have our secondhand piano tuned by a guy who showed up on a Harley, lugging a shoulder bag of tools and instruments and leaving behind a trail of musty cologne.

“Yes,” Mom says, and I can hear her smiling. “You used to love him. You'd hang around him like a puppy dog, until I made you sit on the steps to stay out of his way. You watched him plunk the keys and duck his head under the lid for hours. When he was finished, he always played a few bars of the same song—I think it was the Beatles or something—just to make sure it sounded all right.”

“‘Let It Be,'” I say with a smile, the memory flooding my senses. I can see his leather coat as he sat on the too-small wooden bench, I can hear the tinny chords as they rang out in our cramped living room.

“One year you came to me in the kitchen, practically in tears. You were so upset. Do you remember what you said?”

“I asked you to let him finish,” I say.

Mom laughs. “That's right,” she says. “As if I had told him he couldn't. So we went in there together and you asked him if he'd play that song for you all the way through. He looked like he was going to cry, like it was all he wanted to do. And he played the song, and you sat there with that sweet smile . . .” Mom trails off. “You
know exactly what people want, Lily. It's like a sixth sense. All you've ever tried to do is make people happy. You do it with your music, and you do it by putting yourself out there, again and again. It takes courage to do what you do. Sometimes it can be hard for other people to understand. But it's who you are.”

I hear a sniffle on the phone and then a chuckle. “I'd say it's who we raised you to be, but I can't take any credit,” she says. “I was just worried that guy was going to sit on my sofa in his greasy motorcycle pants.”

I tell Mom that I love her and that I can't wait to see her in a few weeks—she and Dad always come to the first few cities of a tour, to sit front row and help me transition back to life on the road.

I hang up and hear a knock at the door. Sammy and Tess peek in. Sammy sets a plate of food on the bedside table, grilled cheese and tomato soup, my childhood favorite. “Admit it,” she says, watching as my eyes light up. “Nine-year-old you is so totally psyched right now.”

I laugh and nod. “Totally,” I agree. “Thank you.”

Tess sits at the end of my bed, her phone loose in her palm. She looks at me apologetically. “Should we get this over with?”

“I guess.” I sigh, pulling the plate onto my lap and biting into the sandwich.

“Okay,” she says, opening the first email. “So
wardrobe sketches are in, and I think you're going to really . . .”

“Wait,” I say suddenly, my mouth half full of hot, melty cheese. I swallow and put the plate back on the table. “Stop. Sorry, I just . . . I want to . . . I have to say something first.”

Tess and Sammy look at me expectantly. I smile at them, my best friends, the people who know what I want, who anticipate what I need and bend over backward to give it to me, every time, all the time, without me even asking.

Except that I do ask. I've asked them to be here, to do these things, to put my life before theirs. And they've agreed to do it. It's worked, for a while. But now, I want something else. I don't want them to worry about giving me bad news. I don't want them to plan my days, or cook for me, or manage my correspondence.

I want my best friends back.

I take a deep breath. “You're fired.”

Tess and Sammy look quickly at each other.

Tess scoffs. “What are you talking about?”

Sammy glances at the bedside table. “Is this about the grilled cheese?” she asks. “I can make you something else.”

I put a hand on her knee. “No,” I say. “The grilled cheese is perfect. Everything you guys do, everything
you've done, has been perfect. But I can't do this anymore. I asked you to work for me because I couldn't imagine spending so much time with anyone else. And I've loved every minute of having you around. But you can't stop living your lives just because it's easier for me.”

Tess shakes her head. “Noel was upset,” she says. “What he said, about paying us—”

“He was right,” I interject. “You're my best friends. When things go wrong in my life, I want to be able to call you and complain. I want you to tell me that I'm being crazy, that I'm thinking too much, or not enough, or whatever.”

“We do that anyway,” Sam says, anxious wrinkles creasing her forehead.

“I know you do,” I say. “I just don't want you to worry about what I'm doing the other twenty-three hours of the day. You have your own lives to live. It's time for you to start living them.”

Sam looks at me, her eyes pooling with tears. I wrap her in a hug. “It's going to be okay,” I say. “It's going to be better than okay.”

Sam nods uncertainly. “I'm scared,” she says, biting her full lower lip.

I nod, squeezing her hand. “Me too,” I say. “But we're all still going to be—”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It's not that.”

Tess looks at her, an eyebrow raised. “Sam?” she asks. “What's up?”

Sammy looks back and forth from Tess to me. “I'm going back to school,” she says. “In Madison. I'm going to be a nurse.”

“What?” Tess and I exclaim in unison.

“Since when?” Tess follows up.

Sammy pulls at the bunched-up blankets between her crossed legs on my bed. “I've been taking an online class all summer. Biology. It's a prerequisite, and I need to pass before I start up in the fall. It's impossible. I've spent practically every night with these textbooks . . .”

“So
that's
what you've been locked away reading,” I say with a smirk.

Sam nods. “Trying, anyway,” she says. “I don't think I can do it.”

“Of course you can do it,” I say. “You work harder than anyone I know.”

“I work hard because I have to,” Sam huffs. “The only thing I've ever been any good at is this, helping you. At least with you, I know what I'm doing.”

Tess rolls her eyes and gives Sammy's shoulder a shove. “Don't be so dramatic,” she says. “Of course you can do it. And if it doesn't work out, I'm sure there are a hundred needy pop stars who would love your grilled cheese sandwiches.”

I nudge Tess gently and lean in to grab Sammy's hand. “This is so great,” I say.

“You think so?” Sam asks.

“I do.”

Tess shifts on the bed and I look at her. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you ever think about going back to school?”

“Hell no,” Tess answers. “I'm riding these coattails as far as they'll take me, I don't care what you say.”

We all laugh, and Tess fidgets with the straps of her tank top. “Kidding,” she says. “But I'm not sure what I'll do. Maya wants to go to Brazil . . .” She shrugs casually.

Sammy and I raise our eyebrows at each other, as Tess looks at the floor, little red patches blooming on her cheeks. Tess has rarely spent more than a night at a girlfriend's apartment, let alone followed one to a different continent.

Though I've been too distracted to realize it, both of my friends have spent this summer taking chances, learning about themselves and who they are, without me. It took me a while to figure it out, but we've all ended up at the same place. I'm so proud of them, of all of us, that my heart feels like it could explode.

“Send me a postcard?” I tease Tess, and she nods. Sammy sniffles and we both wipe our eyes.

Tess pushes herself off the bed. “Jesus, enough with the hysterics,” she says. “At least you still have a job.”

I roll my eyes and flop heavily back into the pillows on my bed. “Do I?”

Tess tosses her phone onto my outstretched legs. “According to the eleven hundred emails you'll now be reading for yourself, I'd say you do, whether you like it or not.”

Sammy squeezes my ankle and I hear them start back down the stairs.

I stare up at the ceiling for a few moments, the cool night breeze rustling the curtains. I reach for Tess's phone in my lap. The browser has a bunch of screens open: one to her business email account, one to an account dedicated to fans, and a few to the various social media feeds she and Sammy have been hard at work updating during my little hiatus. I scroll through a few of the latest posts, where fans have added links to the story about Noel, my stomach lurching as I read the sleazy, over-the-top headlines. But the comments are more than just the usual heart emojis, exclamation points, and occasional trolls. Things like:

Hi Lily. First of all: I love u! Second, my dad has been in and out of jail and rehab my whole life and it sux. I hope ur friend's mom gets better. He's lucky 2 have u to talk to.

And:

I wish everyone would leave Noel's mom alone! She is trying to get better. I wish my mom would do that.

I pull up my latest Instagram post, a photo of Noel's arm, stretched over the edge of his boat, holding out a wriggling lobster. I'd captioned it:
Introducing: Dinner.
So far, it's been “liked” 1,176,006 times.

The most recent comment is from @lilylove02.

It says, simply:
Come home.

30 Days Until Tour

August 13th

I CRUNCH UP
the gravel driveway to Noel's house, relieved to find that neither his nor his dad's truck is parked out front. Though I've spent the last few days rehearsing all the many things I want to say to Noel, I'm really here to see Sidney.

The plan was to spend the whole day packing, since I leave for rehearsals tomorrow. But after roaming around the house, collecting stray flip-flops and sunglasses, and saying good-bye to the views from each window, I realized it was time. It's been four days since I last saw or heard from Noel, and I haven't stopped wondering what things have been like for him and his family. I've tried texting a few times, but when it became clear that he wanted to be
left alone, I gave up. I wanted to apologize, but more than anything, I wanted to know how Sid was doing. I imagined her tearing down the postcards in her room, devastated.

Outside on the back deck, Sid has rigged up an impressive outdoor workspace situation, her laptop open on her lap and a towel thrown over her head and the screen to counteract the sun's afternoon glare. For the first time that I've seen all summer, she's wearing a bathing suit—a cute polka-dotted one-piece—and her legs and arms are oiled and glistening in the sun. I feel a tender tug near my heart, remembering her speech about the girls in her class and their blind dedication to summer tanning. I instantly remember, too, the peculiar loneliness of not being asked to do something you'd never want to do in the first place.

I put one foot on the uneven deck stairs and it groans beneath my weight. Sidney jumps, the towel crumpling into a heap between her head and her computer.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was just . . . in the neighborhood.”

Sidney looks at me skeptically. She folds the towel carefully and lays it on the deck beside her. “Does Noel know you're here?”

I shake my head. “He wouldn't return my calls.”

Sid carefully snaps her laptop shut and hugs it to her chest. “He's been practically living on the water.” She sighs. “He's pretty mad.”

“I know,” I say. “And I didn't want to bother you guys anymore, but I'm leaving tomorrow. I came to say good-bye.”

Sidney hugs her computer and stares at her outstretched legs, her blond eyebrows pulled together. My heart is pounding in my chest and I have to bite the insides of my lips to keep from crying. I perch awkwardly across from her, my back to the crooked railing.

“Did you know that vitamin D deficiency causes cardiovascular disease?” Sid asks abruptly. “Also, asthma and cancer.”

I stifle a surprised chuckle. “No,” I say. “I didn't know that.”

Sid nods seriously. “It can,” she says. “That's why I'm out here. Not because I care about what the stupid girls in my class think.”

“Okay,” I say, braving a small smile. Sid nods again, picking at a sticker advertising the local public access station that is peeling from the corner of her laptop. “Sidney . . .” I start tentatively.

“I already knew,” she says, looking up at me quickly. “About my mom, if that's what you're going to say. If you're here to, like, apologize to me for unearthing this terrible secret, or whatever, don't worry about it. I've known the whole time.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. “You have?”

Sid shrugs. “My dad worked so hard,” she said. “It seemed like the highlight of his week. Going to the post office. Bringing me back those stupid postcards. You could see it in his eyes. There was this two- to three-minute window every time where I think he actually believed it himself. That she was somewhere incredible, seeing and painting beautiful things. That one day she'd just show up, all tan and happy, and things would go back to normal again.”

There's a pressure in my jaw and I clench and unclench my teeth, trying to relieve it. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm sorry to take that away from him. From all of you.”

Sid looks at me. “You didn't take anything away,” she says. “If anything, you gave us an excuse to stop lying, which is exactly what we needed. It wasn't healthy.”

Sid drops her legs from the railing and picks up a bottle of sunscreen from the round patio table. She snaps open the lid and squeezes out a dollop of lotion into her hands.

“Something like forty percent of all heart attacks are caused by lying,” she says, lathering her legs in solid white streaks. “Did you know that?”

This time, I can't help it: I laugh outright. “No,” I say. “I didn't know that, either.”

“That's because I made it up,” she admits. “But still, it can't be good for you.”

“You're right,” I say. “You're right about a lot of stuff, you know that?”

Sidney shrugs again. “Not according to the people around here,” she says, pressing the top of the lotion shut and laying it down on the table. “According to them I'm some kind of freak. Noel was so worried about what kids at school would think if they knew about Mom. That's the least of my problems. Half their parents are drunk most of the time, anyway.” She shrugs. “Who knows, maybe now I'll finally fit in.”

I drag one of the deck chairs closer to her and sit beside her. I want to do something ridiculous, like pick her up and put her in my pocket and keep her there until she's eighteen and old enough to go wherever she wants, be whoever she wants. “You know, I was just like you when I was your age,” I say.

Sid gives me a sideways glance before dramatically rolling her eyes. I hold up my hand to keep her from interrupting. “I know. You probably think it's some ridiculous media invention or something I say to get publicity, and I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I promise it's the truth. I didn't have a lot of friends. I never had the right clothes, or cared about what anyone thought was cool.”

Sid twists her rope bracelet, a twin of the ones she
gave to Noel and her father, around her wrist. “Really?” she asks, still not convinced.

“Really,” I say. “And I know you probably have a lot of people telling you that things are going to get better, that someday you'll find your
tribe
, or whatever . . .”

As I'm talking I dig into my bag for my journal. I flip it open to a blank page and fumble around in the bottom of my bag for a pen.

“And I don't know if you will or not, but I do know that you're one of the strongest, smartest, and weirdest people I've ever met.” I scrawl my phone number on a piece of paper and pass it over to her. “And if you ever find yourself looking for a tribe in the New York City area, give me a call.”

Sid stares at the paper between her fingers. She looks from the number to me and back again. “I could do a lot of damage with this, you know.”

“I know,” I say. “And I'd deserve it.”

“You would,” Sid agrees, a stubborn smile pushing across her face. Before I know what's happening, she lunges for me, her long arms around my neck, her face pressed against my shoulder. I squeeze her tight, giving her ponytail a soft tug.

“What happened to your PDA-free zone?” A voice startles us.

Sid jumps back and we both turn to see Noel. He's in his orange waders, shiny rubber overalls tucked into big black boots, and he's hauling a trap down from the back of his truck.

I reach up to smooth my hair and fidget awkwardly with the hem of my shorts. Sid pulls me in for another hug. “If you need an out, remember: lady troubles,” she whispers in my ear. “Like father, like son.”

I give her a thumbs-up and walk toward the truck, where Noel is piling up the lobster pots on a dry patch of grass near the shed.

“Hi,” I say, my hands clamped tightly behind my back. “Sorry. I thought you'd be out. I tried calling . . .”

“Yeah.” Noel shrugs at the traps. “Dad wants to finish up the season strong. Says our numbers are low. Guess I've been slacking.”

“That's probably my fault, huh?” I ask with a sad smile.

“Probably.” He reaches into a cooler in the back of his truck and pulls out two bottles of water, offering me one. I take it and we stand together with our backs to the side of his truck.

I run my hand along a wide, shallow dent. “This was my fault, too,” I muse, remembering the morning we met. What would this summer have been like if I hadn't gone into town that morning? If I'd stopped at the intersection as I was supposed to?

Noel leans over to peer at the damage and shrugs. “Add it to the list.”

I glance down at the dirtied tops of my sneakers. As hard as I'm trying to fight them, hot tears push through the corners of my eyes. Standing here, with Noel, I wish we could just go back. I wish I'd never done that interview. I wish we could stay in our bubble, just the two of us, like the old man and his floating cabin, our own private island, forever.

“Hey,” he says, nudging me gently. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have . . . I didn't mean any of what I said. I was . . .”

I shake my head. “You were right.”

“No,” he says firmly. “I wasn't. I was mad. And scared. But it had nothing to do with you.”

I look at him, the strong, square line of his jaw, his tired blue eyes. “I'm so sorry,” I say. “If I had stopped and thought, I would never have been so careless.”

Noel shakes his head. “I should have told you the truth.”

“No,” I say. “You shouldn't have. Not until you were ready. That's the problem. That's
my
problem. I try to do everything too fast. I never give things enough time to happen on their own. It's just . . . it's what I'm used to. It's the way my life works. I wish it wasn't, but it is.”

“It doesn't have to be,” Noel says. He turns the bottle
of water around in his hand, the plastic creaking and popping between his fingers. “You could stay.”

I feel a fluttering in my chest. “Here?” I ask. “You'd still want me to?”

He looks at me carefully. “Of course,” he says. “I've been thinking about it, and I don't think I can come away with you. Not now, anyway. I should be here. Sid, my dad . . . I owe it to them to stick around for a while.”

I nod, imagining Sid and their dad battling with the microwave each night. I feel another pang and wish I could take them all with me.

“But you don't have to go,” Noel continues, tentatively. “You could stay. Write more songs. When you're ready, you can leave for shows, tours, whatever. You don't have to give up your life. Just . . . slow it down a little.”

I look out past his house, at the grassy hills, yellow-green and broken by stretches of blue. I breathe in the damp, salty air, like I'm trying to memorize the taste of it. All of it.

I twist my fingers inside Noel's rough palm. “I came here because I was trapped. Every relationship I've ever had ended badly and I thought that it was my fault, that there was something wrong with me. You showed me it wasn't true. I
can
be happy.”

Noel squeezes my hand, an easy smile brightening across his face. The fluttering near my heart turns to a
sharp ache. “I fell in love with you and this place at the same time,” I continue. “You showed me a life I never thought I could have again—something grounded, and real. Something easy. You showed me how badly I want that.” I take an uneven breath. “Someday.”

I feel Noel's fingers loosen in mine. I feel him slipping away. “Someday?”

I nod reluctantly. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish I could be ready now. But I'm not. There's more I need to do first.”

“Can't you do it from here?”

“Not now,” I say. “Being with you, your family, spending time away . . . it was just what I needed to see things differently. And seeing things differently helps me write the kind of songs that I should be writing. Songs about life—all of it, not just love songs. I need to be out there, experiencing more. If I stay . . .”

My mind wanders back to the morning Jed left, to sitting on the steps with Maya. I wanted everything to be easy, but maybe she was right. Maybe easy isn't the answer. There's a stirring inside of me that keeps me going, keeps me asking questions and writing songs to discover the answers.

“I know it probably sounds silly,” I go on, feeling stronger now, “but I feel like I have this . . . one chance, you know? To say all of the things I want to say. And if some of it makes people feel better, or less alone . . . well,
not everyone gets to do that. I don't know how long it will last. But I can't turn my back on it. On
them.
Not yet.”

Noel crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So, what? I'm just supposed to wait here until the rest of the world is done with you? Until you're ready?”

My limbs feel suddenly restless, jittery. I want to wrap my arms around his waist and beg him to come with me. To convince him that his family will be fine, they don't need him. There's a whole world out there. He could be anyone. Do anything.

But I remember Maya again. Maya, Noel, they were born to speak the language of this place. It lives inside of them. They can leave and come back, but they'll always know what home feels like. They'll always feel that pull.

I don't have a home—not yet. But I know that pull. I know what it's like to feel incomplete without the rhythm of the road, the sound that forty thousand people make singing the same words, words that I've written. I think about Sidney, about the confused, quirky, sometimes-lost little girl I used to be. My songs are the way I've always made sense of the world, the mistakes I've made, the people I've met and what they've taught me. I'm not done with any of that. I don't know that I ever will be.

“Of course I don't expect you to wait,” I say softly.

Noel tucks his chin low to his chest and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He kicks at the dirt driveway,
dusty clouds rising up around our ankles. “But you still have to go?”