17. Bea
17
BEA
I ’m flying high from my recent date and the flurry of cute texts we just shared.
That’s the only explanation.
Regular Bea would never have sat down to write a song, gotten upset about how Octavia had been so cavalier about making me lose the contest, and then sent an email to her, demanding she meet me for lunch. By the time I brush my teeth, put on my pajamas, and hop into bed, she’s already replied. My hands are trembling when I click on her reply.
G reat. Name the place. My treat. Noon.
-Octavia.
B etween the twinges of a new song taking form inside my head, and my nerves about tomorrow’s jog and lunch, I can’t sleep. I toss. I turn. And finally, I wake up and drag myself into the family room. With a pencil in my mouth, I start working through what I’ve got.
No words.
Not a single one.
I have no idea what it’s about yet, but the song—it’s bright. Sharp. Clear. It’s equal parts anger and joy. It’s beautiful and furious. It’s a tumult, like how I feel inside. It’s a combination of my rage at my family and my joy in meeting Dave and Seren and Jake and Emerson. It’s the relief that I’m loved and the fury that I was abandoned.
I’ve never written a song that’s bright and dark in equal measure.
Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard one close enough to compare this to. I scrawl one word across the top of the music once the gist of it is out—BIPOLAR. I finally collapse into bed and pass out.
That’s probably why I struggle so much to wake up—that, and the fact that I usually roll out of bed around noon. Of course, as I down a glass of orange juice, which is about all I can tolerate before I go for a jog, the stupid song comes back. This is how it works for me. Until I can get the song finished, it’ll yell at me in waves.
I’m pulled out of the fiddling of my brain when Jake comes banging out of his room, bleary-eyed and cranky. “That’s my toothbrush.”
I pull it out of my mouth slowly and stare. “It’s not.”
“It is.” He holds out his hand, glaring.
“Jake, I bought this a week ago, and I have several more just like it right here.” I open the top drawer and show him the package.
He swears under his breath. “Well, sorry.”
“Sorry?” I arch one eyebrow.
“I’ve definitely been using it. ”
I spit and rinse my mouth. “Really?” I huff.
“I said sorry.” He shrugs. “But, like, didn’t you say you had a few more?”
I toss the toothbrush at him and shoot out the door.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Easton’s coming over to go for a run with me.”
“Of course he is. Is he bringing his golden retriever?”
I ignore the jab. He may be jealous, but Easton is the perfect guy. A golden dog would fit. “Do you want me to make you some coffee before I go?”
I hear him rinse his mouth. “Why would you do that?” His face, when he emerges from the bathroom, is suspicious.
“So I can spit in it.” I lean over to tie my shoes.
Jake disappears.
“Hey, where’d you go?”
“If you think I’m going to let him steal my only running buddy, you’ve lost your mind.”
“You don’t even like to run,” I say. “You only do it to bother me.”
“You hate it as much as I do. That’s why we run so well together.”
“Mutual hatred?” I’m shaking my head, but it feels a little like sibling bonding. “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”
“What is?” Jake’s slipping his feet into sneakers.
“Those shoes can’t be helpful if you don’t even have to tie them.”
Jake stands up. “I have such perfect feet, it doesn’t matter what I wear.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“What’s better than nothing? You never answered me. Is this a new thing, because I don’t like it. ”
“Our trauma bond,” I say. “That’s what is better than nothing.”
“It’s not really trauma,” Jake says. “Running is. . .miserable, but not traumatic.”
“Misery bonding just sounds dumb.” I reach for my air pods, but then I stop. “I can’t even listen to music, can I?”
“Not when you’re going to be watching two alpha males vying for your attention.”
“Alpha males?” That makes me laugh. “Just stay home.”
“Why?” Jake puffs out his chest. “Worried Easton will act dumb and I’ll have to beat him down, ruining any admiration you had for him?”
“Hardly,” I say. “I’m worried my alpha male will make you feel even more insecure, and you’ll posture the entire run. That would be terribly sad and tiring for all of us.”
Jake’s frowning when there’s a knock at the door.
“Right on time, as usual,” I say. “Now tie your shoes tighter, or we’ll leave you here.”
The second he bends over and unties them, I jog to the door and run right through it. “You ready?”
Easton’s mouth is dangling open, but his shoes are on, and he’s wearing a water bottle on a belt.
“Great.” I start jogging and he catches up quickly.
“What are we doing?” Easton’s glancing behind me at the door I just slammed shut.
“We’re trying to ditch Jake.” I can’t help my smile.
“Are we really?” He speeds up a bit.
“It’s my favorite morning pastime.”
“I can’t tell if this is a joke or not.” Easton keeps glancing behind us.
“I mean, it is for sure, but also, I really do ditch him every time I can. I told him to tie his shoes and then took off.”
Easton’s able to keep up admirably well, though it should be pretty easy. With as short as I am, most guys could sort of saunter at my jogging pace.
“Why do you like ditching him?” Easton asks. “We could just go earlier next time, before he’s even awake.”
“He hears me getting ready,” I say. “That’s why it’s funny. Jake’s not even a runner. He just has such a horrible case of FOMO that he cannot help himself. When he’s home, if I go running, he has to come along. It’s like he’s a tiny dog—not really interested in running, but he can’t help but long to go.”
“So ditching him?”
As if on cue, Jake comes huffing up behind us. “Really? You shouldn’t do this with guests.” He’s wheezing.
“I thought movie stars were all in amazing shape,” Easton says, speaking easily. “But you seem. . .remarkably unfit.”
Predictably, Jake whips his shirt off, knotting it around a belt loop on his shorts. “Six pack and perfectly sculpted abdomen.” He’s wheezing like a smoker running the mile at school, but he looks like a Greek statue.
“You’re a remarkable combination of bizarrely conflicting values, Jacob Priest,” I say.
“Shut up, Hornet,” he rasps. “Or I’ll saran wrap the toilet again.”
How he ever thought he was in love with me, I will never know. “Do it,” I say. “You had to clean it up.”
Easton’s eyes are traveling back and forth between us like a tennis spectator. “You two are. . .a lot.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “He’s leaving soon. He has a movie—actually, will you be gone before Sunday? Because I’m taking Easton home with me. It would be nice to have a friendly face cheering for us.”
“I mean, you’ll have Elizabeth,” Jake says. “But I’ll be gone by the first family dinner.”
“Will you really? When do you leave?” I ask.
“Next Wednesday,” Jake says.
“I’m confused,” Easton says. “The dinner’s Sunday, right? And today’s Wednesday.”
“But this Sunday’s Uncle Bentley and Aunt Barbara’s wedding,” Jake says.
“No way,” I say. “They’re doing a fall wedding theme—it’s not until. . .” I freeze, swearing under my breath. “Wait.” I stop running. “It’s this Sunday? How self-centered am I?”
Jake jogs in a circle around me, grinning. “This is a fine moment for me. You’re always so on the ball.”
“I don’t even have a gift yet,” I say. “And I never took my dress to get it taken in.”
“Your dress?” Easton asks.
“I’m a bridesmaid.” I groan. “Shoot. How could I lose track of when the wedding is?”
“Too self-centered, I guess.” Jake’s smiling, probably because he’s the most selfish person I know, and yet he remembered. What does that say about me?
The next mile or so, I come up with several ideas for gifts, but Jake shoots them all down.
“You could try their registry,” Easton says. “Isn’t that what people usually do?”
“Like Bentley would register,” Jake says.
But I’m already poking around on my phone, desperately checking the usual places. “Nothing at Target.”
“Multi-millionaires don’t register at Target,” Jake says .
I shove him. Hard.
He doesn’t even stumble, the jerk.
“Aunt Barbara and Uncle Bentley have given us the best presents of anyone we know for our whole lives,” I wail. “I have to give them something decent.”
“I got them a Greatest Showman Broadway poster, signed by Hugh himself.” Jake has never looked more smug. “Aunt Barbara loved that show.”
“I really, really hate you.”
“Love you, too.” Jake’s in front of me, keeping his distance thanks to my recent violence, and he spins around to blow me a kiss.
“What about a song?” Easton asks. “I know there’s not much time, but I can’t think of much that would be better than their own custom song.”
“Oh my gosh,” I wheeze. “Yes!” I’m not sure whether it’s exhaustion, my anxiety over this wedding, or being generally out of shape, but I’m not sure I can go much farther. “We should turn around.”
“Panicking much?” Jake jogs another annoying little circle around me, his gloating at maximum level. “Don’t forget the dress modifications.” He jogs back toward the apartment before I can even try to kick him.
Easton stayed with me. He’s my new rock. “What’s wrong with the dress?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m four feet tall. Every dress I buy off the rack has to be hemmed.”
“Four feet?” Easton’s smirking. “That might be a bit of an exaggeration.”
“But not by much.” I’m huffing and puffing, but at least we’re headed home again. “I’m barely five feet tall, so the knee-length dress Aunt Barbara chose hits me a few inches above my ankle.”
“Ouch,” he says .
“If I had started sooner, I’d have had them take in the bodice too. It’s always a little too long when they don’t have a petite option.”
“For my little China doll.”
“Dude.” I glare at him on principal. I’ve never met my dad, but he must have been from some Asian country, because my eyes are clearly not like those of my Italian mother.
“Not because—like, the Asian thing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, I meant doll for small, you know, petite. China doll is just a kind of doll.”
I arch my eyebrow, but I let it go. I don’t really care. It’s just fun to mess with him.
“Speaking of alterations, if you don’t mind coming by my office, we have a whole design team I’m sure I could put to work getting your dress fixed up.”
“You have—what?”
“I mean, they mostly do men’s clothing design, but they could definitely hem a dress. They could probably take up the bodice, too.”
“You’re suggesting that your designers could modify my bridesmaid dress?”
“I mean, if I were going to be the plus one for someone’s wedding, it would only be right for my date to look her very best,” Easton says. “It makes business sense.” He is so stinking cute when he smiles.
“Alright,” I say.
“Wait, does that mean I will be your plus one?” He looks nervous. “Because I had already blocked off Sunday for Bea.”
“If you don’t mind coming to a family wedding, then sure.” It’ll be really nice not to go alone for once .
“Maybe I can come by the office with the dress tomorrow morning,” I say.
“What time do you have to be at work?” he presses. “If you came today, they’d have more time to get it done.”
“I know, but I’ve already wasted most of my morning with you, and I’m meeting Octavia for lunch.” I glance at my watch. “Really soon, actually.”
“Octavia?” His brow furrows.
“Octavia? Why does that name sound familiar?” Jake has slowed down enough for us to catch up. “Wait, isn’t that the snooty singer who voted your song down?”
“Someone voted it down?” Easton’s frowning. “OH!” He nods. “With the burned face.”
Jake glares at him.
“What?” Easton looks confused. “Is that who you mean?”
“That’s who I mean.” Like Jake, it bothers me that people would identify her that way, but I can’t quite figure out why. I mean, it’s probably her most distinguishing characteristic, but it’s sad that it is. It makes her whole persona about something traumatic that happened. That’s probably why it bothers me.
“Why are you going to lunch?” Jake asks.
“I have an idea I want to run past her,” I say.
“About the song contest?” Easton asks.
“You and Octavia sent me information for the exact same contest,” I say. “But I wonder whether either of you noticed that it requires us to perform the song, and that part of the prize is cash, but it’s also a record deal.”
“That’s kind of awesome,” Jake says. “So is she on the team that makes that decision too?” He snorts. “You should make sure she’ll be on your side this time.”
“She’s not affiliated with this contest,” I say. “She works for the agency that put together the jingle thing for Jello.”
Jake has always been doggedly fixed on anything he doesn’t understand. “Then what are you going to ask her?—”
“Jake, after our lunch, if my idea works out, I’ll let you know. Okay?”
Easton and Jake exchange a glance, which is kind of cute and a little irritating. I’m not some high-strung diva who’s hard to manage. “I have to shower quick. I’m low on time.”
I take off as fast as my stubby legs will carry me.
“Wait, I could join you? It’ll be time economical and save water.” Easton’s smiling, at least. “I’m all about saving the dolphins.”
“Nice try, lover boy.” Jake grunts. “But I really don’t think you’re there yet.”
I should just be happy that Jake gave up on his idiotic insistence that I belonged to him. He’s like a Golden Retriever dropping his slobbery ball, only I’m the ball. As it turns out, the dog’s even more annoying after it lets go of the ball.
It takes me forever to blow dry my hair, and when I race out the door, I check the clock. I should have just enough time to get to Toss’t and Press’t. Thanks to lights, I’m a few minutes late, and when I get there, Octavia’s already sitting in the corner with a jacket over the seat next to her. I can’t help noticing that she’s turned so that the non-burned side of her face is toward the window.
“Octavia,” I say.
She turns, a half-smile on her face. “You made it.”
I nod. “Parking’s always a challenge, but thanks for meeting me here. I’ve been craving their oxtail tacos. ”
“I ordered a salmon taco already.”
“Just one?” I arch one eyebrow. “I’ll order you a second. You’ll want it—trust me.”
A moment later, I sit down next to her.
“I bet you’re wondering why I asked to meet with you.”
“You’re angry,” Octavia says. “And I think it’s probably justified. I’ve wondered several times whether I did the right thing. I’m not someone who usually meddles in other people’s lives.”
“Why did you?” I ask. “Why me?”
“You—” She sighs. “You have a lot to offer, and you shouldn’t get stuck doing jingles.”
“Yes, you said.”
“And I know that’s not really my decision to make.”
“You should have chosen the best song,” I say. “For Jello and for me.”
“I’ve thought about that a lot.”
“Mhmm.”
Her name’s called, but since I’m in her way, I go grab it.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Her expression’s pained.
“Do what?” I frown. “You’d have had to walk around me.”
“Oh.” She nods.
“Look, I asked to meet with you, because I think you owe me.”
“I’m not sure what I could possibly?—”
“I want a job at your agency, or at least, I want you to recommend my portfolio. Jingles are what I want to do.”
“No way,” she says. “That can’t be true. No little kid’s dream is writing jingles.”
“Why not?” I arch my eyebrow. “Why can’t that be my dream? ”
“People want to write songs that touch others. Songs that stick with them. Songs that resonate.”
“I can’t perform my own songs,” I say.
“You could.” She takes a bite, and I wait. “Wow, this is really good.”
“I don’t want to perform my songs,” I say. “It’s not that I’m afraid or I have to get over it. It just sounds like torture to me. I can’t think of anything that I would want to do less than sing my own songs. And besides, there are plenty of people who could do them better than I can.”
“Plenty of people play piano better than you?” She sounds skeptical.
“Well, no, not that part, but the singing, yes. Including you.”
“But your voice?—”
“Is fine,” I say. “I’ve been told. But you’re not listening. I love writing songs. I don’t like singing them. I don’t want to perform them. I just don’t. I’m not the gorgeous yet reserved girl who just needs to come out of her shell.”
Octavia laughs, and even her laugh sounds like bells.
“Look,” I say. “You were born to sing. I’m not sure whether you noticed, but the contest you sent me—the prize is a record deal. I don’t even want that. I want someone else to sing my songs.” I lean closer, but before I can say anything else, my stupid tacos come. “That one is for her.” I point.
“You could negotiate all that with the label,” Octavia says. “My agency could even represent you once you have a deal on the table.”
“I’m negotiating now,” I say. “With you.”
“But I’m not the person at our agency who does this sort of thing. ”
“Not your agency,” I say. “With you . I want you to sing my song.”
“But the rules say?—”
“Yes.” I nod. “The rules say that the person or persons who are submitting the song will perform it. I will play the piano, and you will sing it.”
Octavia freezes. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I sure do,” I say. “In fact, I’m crystal clear on what I’m asking. You’re the reason I lost the jingle contest, and you suggested this one as an alternative. I have not one, but three songs already in the works, and I’d like you to come over and work on them with me. Then I’d like the two of us to submit one of them. The best one. And with your voice? We’ll make it to the finals. I’m sure of it.”
She stares at me for a moment, and then another. Her hand is trembling where it’s hovering above her taco. “You really don’t understand. The second we walk on that stage, you’ll lose, no matter what your song is.”
“Why?” I want her to say it.
“Why?” Her eyes widen, but the one on her burned side widens slightly more. “Are you really asking?”
I nod.
“Because of my face. No one will ever risk having someone like me recording an album. Ever.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“That makes exactly one person who thinks so.” She folds her arms.
“Octavia.”
She shakes her head. “No. Look, I don’t know if you’re trying to punish me or whatever, but I will not do this. Never.”
“You said I can get up and sing my songs,” I say. “I have zero desire to do it, but I heard you that day. You love performing. Your voice—it’s like an angel’s. I know that’s corny, but I have no idea how else to describe it. I could listen to you for?—”
She crumples the end of her second taco into a ball and shoves the basket into the corner. “You could listen to me all day. You could listen to me all year. But Beatrice, no one wants to look at me. Not you, not the record label, not even me . I avoid mirrors. I try to spare people whenever I can. If you partner with me, not a single person will vote for us. Do you understand me?”
“I think you’re wrong,” I say. In that moment, something happens that has never happened. Something that may never happen again. It’s miraculous . That’s the only way I can describe it. The song that was bugging me, the song that I was up half the night writing, the melody without a message. . .distills.
The words are just there .
“I have the song already,” I say. “I wrote it for you—for us. And if you follow me back to my place, and if you listen to it, and if you still don’t want to submit it with me, I’ll never bother you about it again. You’ll recommend your agency consider my jingle portfolio, and we’ll never speak.”
“Beatrice.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m only asking you to listen to my song—to our song. And if you have no faith in me then, fine. Fine . I’ll walk away. But at least listen.”
“Our recording studio has a practice room,” she says. “It’s two blocks from here.”
I don’t have my music with me—the sketch from last night. But the notes are clear in my brain. “Sure.” I nod. “Let’s go.”
She says exactly nothing as she cleans up her area. I scarf down the end of my second taco, and then I drop some cash in the tip jar on my way out. I have another thirty-four minutes on my parking meter, so I should hopefully be fine. I follow her around the corner and down the street—two and a half blocks away, just as she said. I walk behind her into the studio.
She checks in with some woman at the front, who looks surprised to see us, but then we’re waved through. And suddenly, I’m sitting in front of an unfamiliar piano. I sit, close my eyes, and inhale and exhale a few times. Then my fingers start to move.
The song starts out soft, lovely, wistful. The opening bars are harmonious and almost ethereal.
T he world is full of beauty.
The world is full of peace.
The world is full of light and joy,
that almost never cease.
You made me lots of promises.
You made them all come true.
I can hardly imagine living in,
a world devoid of you.
B ut then it segues. The run becomes progressively more discordant until the chorus hits full force, and it’s harsh. It’s angry. It’s full of rage and fury.
B ut the world is dark and terrifying.
The promises were a lie.
The same ones who talked of beauty,
Were the first to decry.
The face that once was gorgeous
You say now is horrifying
The world has made it ugly,
A gorgeous monstrosity.
T he transition to beauty again is seamless, like my fingers know what my heart wants to say as long as I stay out of their way.
Y ou told me I was gorgeous.
You told me I was beloved.
You said you would be faithful.
No matter what the world did.
All the joy inside of me,
All the hope for a brighter day,
The monster consumed it all,
I became beast and also prey.
T he chorus stays the same—angry, all my rage and fury transformed into discordant notes and staccato rhythms, but then there’s one last transition. The entire thing moves up a step, and the melodies from the two parts—angry and ethereal—combine.
T he world is dark and terrifying.
That much, at least, was true.
But those who spoke of beauty,
Were the villains, not me and you.
It’s not the face at fault here
It’s those glaring and jeering
The real beast is inside them,
They get back what they give.
S o stop looking for monsters,
And start cleaning out yourself.
The gorgeous monstrosity to fear
Is the one staring back in the mirror.
T he only part of the song that fails me is what to do at the very end. As my notes trail off, I turn around. Most people look terrible when they cry. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone look beautiful when they’re crying. Your face gets blotchy. Your eyes scrunch up, and your nose too, usually, but Octavia’s the exception. Her face is nearly smooth, her eyes simply full of unshed tears.
One rolls down her face on the right—her unburned side. Then another slides down her face on the left, slipping over the ridges and curves made by the fire. As I look at her, I feel the words of my song.
I wrote it for me.
But I also wrote it for her .
“My mother neglected me.” I’ve never said the words out loud. “She left me anywhere and everywhere. She was too busy getting high to care much where I was or what I was doing.”
Octavia swipes at her tears.
“I wrote that song for myself—I spent the first eleven years of my life feeling like a monster every single day. The lies people told upset me. My mom and my grandfather would tell me that she would change. They would tell me that tomorrow would be different. But the biggest lie they told was that they loved me, when every action betrayed them.”
She’s still crying, but the tears are coming faster.
“I know you probably thought the song was about you, and it is. You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met, and you have the most amazing voice. But I bet some people are too stupid to see it.”
Now she’s sobbing.
“That’s not because of you. I want to show the world and make them face their own ugliness. It’s all theirs. Not yours.”
Octavia pulls me against herself for a hug. “Fine.” Her whisper’s barely audible. “I’ll do it. But you’ll regret it.”
“Not for a single day,” I say. “If the world has any real beauty in it, we’ll win. And if they don’t, they’re the ugly ones. Not us.”