Sing (6 page)

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought it might be easier that way, in case you said no.”

“Okay,” I say, regaining my composure and standing up at last.

“
Okay
, you want to hang out?”

“Sure,” I say, even though everything rational in me knows it's the opposite of what I should be saying. The opposite of why I'm here. The last thing I need to do. “Why not?”

“Cool.” He smiles, wrinkling the corners of his crystal-blue eyes. “Like, at a reasonable hour, maybe?” He points to my pajamas. “You could wear real clothes.”

“I'd like that.”

Noel nods, as if still convincing himself that I actually said yes. “Right. Okay. So we'll hang out.”

“We'll hang out.”

We stand there, sort of awkwardly nodding at each other for a second, until I remember my journal in the pocket of my sweater. “Here,” I say, handing him a pen. “Write down your number.”

He scribbles it sideways in the margins of a blank page. “Just, you know. Don't go passing it around,” he fake-whispers. “I'm trying to keep a low profile.”

“Scout's honor,” I promise.

He holds up his hand in that same lazy wave and calls to Murphy again. They run back along the water toward the faraway cluster of houses. I watch as they get smaller, bobbing alongside the coastline, turning the bend and disappearing around the point. I gather my things and head back up the path, shaking my head.

Here we go again.

80 Days Until Tour

June 24th

WHEN I GET
home I curl up in bed, and though I'm sure it will never happen, I manage to get some more sleep. I wake up slowly a few hours later, and as the hazy memories of those early morning hours start to come back, I'm gripped by an intense game of emotional tug-of-war.

Part of me loves it—the familiar, fuzzy aftershock of meeting someone new. It feels like I've been stalling, my batteries running low, and now, after one little encounter, one glimmer of attention and interest, I've been fully recharged, my spirit shocked back to life.

On the other hand, I feel pathetic. I've never thought of myself as having an addictive personality. But now, I
know the truth. I'm a love addict, and I've fallen off the wagon.

I roll over in bed and reach for my journal, flipping to the page where Noel wrote his number. I stare at the slope of the sevens, the quick, confident dashes between lines. What kind of ridiculous person gets butterflies looking at ten numbers scrawled in the margins of her notebook?

An addict. That's who.

I slap the notebook shut and pull the blankets back over my head. It's not too late, I tell myself, taking deep, controlled breaths. Just because he gave me his number doesn't mean I have to use it. There's still time to be strong.

I should probably just stay in bed.

“Ladies and ladies,” Tess shouts from downstairs. “Your chariot awaits!” Tess has seemed to relish her self-appointed role as tour guide/activities director lately.

I groan out of bed and shuffle toward the door. “Now what?” I peer sleepily down the stairs.

Today, Tess is wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with a skull-and-crossbones printed across the chest, cargo pants, and hiking boots. She looks like a cross between a Girl Scout and the drummer in a heavy metal band. “We're going for a walk. There are ticks. Wear layers.”

“Ticks?” Sammy calls out from her room. “No thanks.”

“It wasn't a question,” Tess yells. “This summer of bonding was your idea, Samantha. Now get down here and bond.”

I close my door and head into the bathroom, hoping a shower will turn things around. After, I stare at my phone, considering leaving it behind. But I know it's not an option; Terry is finalizing tour dates and there are all kinds of details I'll need to approve. He'll have a panic attack if I'm not reachable all day long. There's an anxious rumble in my stomach at the thought of the tour—we've been here almost two weeks and I still haven't written a single song. I grab my journal, too. If I can just steal a few minutes this morning I might be able to get some lyrics down. It's not a whole album, but it'd be something. Terry would be so relieved . . . and, truthfully, so would I.

Sam's door is still closed when I leave my room. I knock quietly and hear some shuffling and a soft thud. Finally she calls out: “Come in!”

Sammy's spread out on her bed, a paperback novel—the same one she's been reading since we got here—propped open.

“You're really not coming?” Sam's room is tiny and toward the front of the house, the only one without a view of the ocean. When we got here it was assumed
that Tess would take the cozy room in the back that she'd slept in when she was a kid, and I got the master suite at the end of the hall. I haven't spent much time in the room Sammy was left with, and I now realize that it's actually more of a storage space, with a portable wardrobe and a frameless twin bed pushed up against one corner.

“Do you mind if I hang out here?” Sammy looks at me apologetically. “I'm really into this book.”

I lean over her shoulder. “What is it?”

She flops it shut. “Just some sappy love story.” The cover shows a muscular man with Fabio hair embracing a woman in a flapper dress in front of an airplane hangar. “But it's really well written.”

I laugh and rest my hand on Sammy's head. “I'm glad you like it.” Sammy's never been much of a reader. In high school I used to help her write her papers; in exchange, she'd take me shopping and help me pick out what to wear to the open-mic nights I played in Madison.

“Want us to bring you back anything for lunch?”

“As long as it isn't a lobster roll,” Sammy says, making a face. “After our little fishing trip, I don't think I can ever eat one of those poor creatures again.”

I gesture toward the open window. “The sun's out again. Don't stay inside all day.”

Sammy promises to at least read on the deck and I
run downstairs and out the door, where Tess and Ray are waiting with the car.

“I think Sammy has a secret.”

Tess is a few feet ahead of me on the trail, her boots trampling over roots and fallen pine needles. She turns over her shoulder and gives me a doubting look.

“Our Sammy?” she asks. “Sammy has never kept a secret in her life. Remember the surprise party debacle?”

A few years back, Terry and Tess and Sam and my parents got together to throw me an epic surprise bash at Disneyland, of all places. There was an elaborate cover involving a music video shoot, and I thought we were just going to work. But the night before, Sammy let slip that the massive icebox cake she'd ordered (my favorite) would have to be picked up in the morning.

“Remember she tried to play it off?” I chuckle. “Like it was a surprise party for somebody on the crew, who also happened to have a birthday and love theme parks and icebox cakes?”

Tess laughs and stops in the middle of the trail, crossing her arms over her waist like she's fighting off a cramp. “Oh man.” She sighs, catching her breath. “So what's the secret?”

“What do you mean?” I blurt. My journal and phone
are burning holes in the pocket of my sweatshirt, and I've been thinking about sneaking a text to Noel all morning.

“You said Sam has a secret,” Tess reminds me, her eyebrows arched in suspicion. “Somebody's jumpy.”

“Sorry,” I say, pushing on through an opening in the trees. “There's just no way she cares that much about a book. She was being kind of weird this morning.”

“Well, that makes two of you,” Tess says, hustling to catch up.

I force a grin. “Are those blueberries?” I ask, a not-so-subtle attempt at changing the subject. Luckily, Tess is an undercover nature freak, the hidden underbelly of her city-girl status that grew out of her summers here on the island and at camp.

“Yup.” Tess nods, bending down to pick the tiny, wrinkled berries. She pops a few in her mouth and hands the rest to me. They are sweet and tart at the same time, nothing like the mushy, tasteless fruit you find in stores.

“Wow,” I say. “These are incredible.”

“Good things come in small packages.” At barely five feet tall, Tess is a sucker for anything tiny. “Come on,” she urges. “We're almost to the summit.”

Out of the corner of my eye I spot a wooden bench, wedged between a pair of pine trees. “Do you mind if I meet you up there? I want to write down some lyrics before I forget them.”

“New song?” Tess turns around quickly, and there's a glimmer of relief in her eyes that makes my stomach clench. She and Sammy have bent over backward for me, encouraging me to take a break, to recharge, but deep down, they must be scared, too. In a lot of ways, my career is their career.

“Maybe,” I say carefully, afraid to commit to too much. “I'm not sure yet.”

Tess gives me an encouraging nod. “You got this, Bird.”

I manage a strained smile and watch as she starts back on the trail. “See you at the top!” She calls over her shoulder, disappearing around a wooded bend.

I follow the sandy path out to the small point and sit down on the bench that overlooks the water. In the distance there is a collection of smaller islands, connected by narrow patches of marshland. Shorebirds race up and down the pebbly coast, chasing one another in and out of shallow pools.

I take out my journal and close my eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of the water, the wind rustling the trees. The melody is still there, but every time I try to put words to the notes, it feels wrong. Eventually, the whole thing slips away.

My eyes snap open. There's a frustrated whirring in my chest. This used to be so easy. Ever since I was young,
I've been able to write full songs in the shower. It would start with a silly rhyme, a catchy jingle, and before I'd even realized what was happening, the verses, the bridge, the whole thing would practically write itself. But even then, when I hadn't even had my first relationship, the songs were about boys: wanting them, feeling ignored by them, dreaming of the one I would never let go.

Now when I try to write
new
words, I'm lost. Literally lost, like there was a road I used to take and now I can't seem to find it. Like it's overgrown or paved over, or I'm in the wrong part of town. I look up at the trees, a low, groan stuck in the back of my throat. How did I end up here? And how do I get back?

Without thinking, I take out my phone and my journal. I open to the page with Noel's number and I punch it into the keypad. My thumbs fly across the screen.

        
Hey.

        
It's Lily.

I hit Send and hold my breath, before letting the air out in one giant, calming whoosh. I feel surprisingly tired for somebody who has been on vacation for three weeks. I bury my head in my hands, my phone pressed against my forehead. Why do I always do this? Why, when I need inspiration, when I'm feeling stalled or
blocked, do I assume that attention from a boy will help? Is my songwriting ability inexorably tied to my inability to stop thinking about boys? The idea makes me feel cringey and weak.

The phone buzzes between my temples and I jump.

        
Noel:
Lily who?

My stomach does a flip-flop as I stare at the screen.
Lily who?

The phone buzzes again.

        
Noel:
Just kidding.

I laugh and scramble to type back.

        
Me
:
You're funny.

        
Noel
:
I try. What's up?

        
Me:
Tess dragged me on a hike.

        
Noel:
Which one?

        
Me:
I'm not sure. There's a creek. And blueberries.

        
Noel:
You'll need to be more specific.

        
Me:
There are these cute little islands.

        
Noel:
Pease's Point?

        
Me:
Yes!

        
Noel:
Cool. Look for the floating cabin.

        
Me:
The what?

        
Noel:
Where are you now?

        
Me:
On a bench. I'm supposed to be writing.

        
Noel:
Walk up and around the next bend. There's a trail marker and a tree that looks like a monkey.

I look over my shoulder, as if he might be watching me somehow, and stand. His directions lead me up a hill and around the corner, until I spot a white signpost near the ground. Beside it is a small, knotty tree, its limbs contorted into unmistakably monkey-esque shapes.

        
Me:
It really does look like a monkey!

        
Noel:
I know.

        
Me:
Okay. Now what?

        
Noel:
Now turn around.

I turn and look down. There's a small inlet tucked between two clusters of giant evergreens. In the middle of the water, floating all alone, is a tiny cottage with a red shingled roof and a bright yellow door. It sits on a square dock and bobs gently up and down in the current, like it might drift off down the creek and disappear into the ocean.

I smile as I hold up my phone. I snap a quick photo and send it to him.

        
Me:
I love it.

        
Noel:
I thought you might.

        
Me:
Who lives there?

        
Noel:
Nobody anymore. The town takes care of it.

        
Noel:
When I was little there was this old guy who lived out there by himself after his wife died. They used to sail together and when he got too old to take care of the boat, he wanted to live on the water. So he built a floating cabin.

        
Me:
What happened to him?

        
Noel:
He died a year after she did. To the day.

        
Me:
Guess they couldn't stand to be apart.

        
Noel:
Maybe.

        
Noel:
Or maybe there was something in the water.

I laugh, a short, hard cackle, and a trio of birds scatters from the bushes beside me.

“What's so funny?”

I whip around to see Tess standing behind me, her cheeks pink from climbing.

I tuck the phone guiltily into my pocket. “Nothing. Just Terry. He sent some new ideas from wardrobe for the tour.”

“That bad?” Tess loves to poke fun at the crazy things my style team comes up with. Last tour, she called me “Bubblegum Barbie” for two months straight.

I swallow. I hate lying, but I tell myself it's for the best. The last thing I need is a speech from Tess about boys. If anyone knows what I'm doing is wrong, it's me. But there's that little part of me that does wonder if I
need
this, if I'm unable to write without it. “Yeah, it's absurd,” I say. “I'll show you later.”