Chapter 3 #2
“Exactly.” Miranda turns back to me, all warmth and understanding again.
“See, Alice? You’d really be helping. And it’s not like it would take much of your time.
Maybe an hour or two a day? You’re so bright, I’m sure you could catch Ryder up in no time.
Plus, it’ll give the two of you a chance to bond before school starts.
You’ll already know someone on your first day. ”
She makes it sound so reasonable. Kind, even.
“I guess... I mean, if it would help...” I fumble for words.
“Wonderful!” Miranda claps her hands together delicately. “I knew you’d understand. You’re such a thoughtful girl, Alice.”
Ryder says nothing, just stares at his plate with a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“You can start tomorrow,” Miranda continues, as if it’s all settled. “Ryder has practice in the morning, but perhaps after lunch? That gives you time to settle in. How does that sound?”
I feel as though I’ve been swept up in a current I can’t control. “Okay.”
“Perfect.” Miranda beams at me, then turns her attention to Ryder. “Now, tell me more about practice. Is the setlist finalized for the showcase?”
As Ryder responds, his voice careful and measured, I push food around my plate and try to figure out what just happened.
I’m tutoring someone?
I’m not exactly in the right frame of mind. I don’t even know how I’ll do my own schoolwork. My whole world has changed. I don’t even know if my new classes will be working on the same material as my last ones.
But Miranda makes it sound like I’d be selfish or ungrateful if I didn’t help. My gaze lifts to watch Ryder. How much does he factor into my new life? Is it financially beneficial to make sure he succeeds? Does his career fund Miranda’s living expenses and, therefore, mine?
The dining room suddenly feels smaller, and the dark paintings on the walls press in. I force down a bite of salmon, and it tastes like ash.
“Alice?” Miranda’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’re being awfully quiet, dear. Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good.” Her smile is warm, but her eyes are calculating. “I’m so glad you’re here, darling. I think this will work out perfectly for everyone.”
The way she says it sends a chill down my spine.
Ryder catches my eye across the table, and for a moment, I see something there. Sympathy? Warning? But then he looks away, back at his plate, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
“A producer from Sound Nation called me earlier,” Miranda says to Ryder. “They want to book the band to perform next month.”
Ryder nods but doesn’t directly answer, keeping his attention on his dinner plate.
I try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible not to notice things. The way he holds his fork. The way he sits with a slight slouch, yet holds a dominating presence. And, dang. The way he has an unconscious habit of running his hand through his hair when he’s thinking.
“Ryder’s band is breaking through nationally,” Miranda goes on. I assume it’s for my benefit, even though she’s not turned my way.
No one’s saying anything. Are they waiting for me to say something? “Cool.”
“They just performed on the Jameson Late Show last month. Their social media following has exploded.” Miranda taps her phone as if to prove her point. “You’d have heard of them, Alice? Sky Chaos?”
I glance at Ryder, and then back at my aunt. “Is that the name of the band?”
Miranda lets out a hearty laugh. “Have you been living under a rock, darling?”
I’m really getting over the word darling.
Ryder exhales, shifting in his seat. “We only just broke out. Not everyone watched the show.”
“But everyone’s on social media,” Miranda counters.
“I’m not,” I pipe up. “Well, only to upload photos of my parents’ catering business. And now, well… No need for that anymore.”
Miranda grimaces. “Positively morose, dear.”
I’d scoff if she hadn’t scared me into paralysis. Am I supposed to apologize for alluding to my parents’ deaths?
“Going off social media doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
I look up after Ryder says this. He’s watching me closely, and soon there’s feeling in my facial muscles again.
Ryder nods at Miranda. “I’d delete mine if the label didn’t insist I have one.”
“Darling, you need to build a following,” Miranda replies.
Ryder’s brow furrows. The word darling might repel him too.
I almost laugh, but Miranda’s presence keeps me on mute.
I pick up my fork for more pretend eating, and ask, “What kind of music do you play?”
Ryder’s chains jingle against his chest as he sits taller in his seat. “Rock. Alternative rock, I guess you’d call it.”
I try for a smile. It doesn’t really show, but I give myself points for the effort. “I’ll have to find the clip from the Late Show.”
Ryder shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but I catch a hint of satisfaction in his expression. “It was a good break, but we’ve got more work to do.”
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of Miranda talking about Ryder’s upcoming performances, his social media metrics, and his image. The more she speaks, the more he sounds like a product rather than a person. Ryder nods when appropriate and agrees when expected.
Finishing my played-with plate of food, Miranda finally dismisses me with, “You must be exhausted,” and I practically flee to my room.
I call Mrs. Patel to let her know I arrived safely. I keep the conversation short and sweet, knowing we probably won’t talk again unless it’s about the boxes in her garage.
I then read a text from Jill. “Why didn’t you tell me you left today? I had to find out from Mrs. Patel.”
I exhale hard, sitting on the timber floor and resting my back against the base of my bed as I text her back. “How did you expect me to tell you I was leaving? I didn’t want to admit it.”
“Well, where the heck are you?”
“I don’t even know. This place is out of a movie, and not the good kind.
My aunt is...” I pause, trying to find the words.
“She’s nice. Like, fake nice. And she’s got me lined up to tutor this musician.
I don’t know what to think. I just got here, and she’s already given me a job. I don’t trust her.”
My hands tremor, and I drop the phone to my lap.
I don’t trust my aunt.
My guardian.
It’s a heavy admission, but in my gut I know it’s true.
She smiled and used all the right words, but there was nothing behind them. No real warmth or genuine concern. Just calculation.
She never said she was sorry for my loss.
It was her loss, too. Her sister and her brother-in-law.
Now I’m a tool for her to use in making Ryder a success.
“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper to the empty room.
I get up off the floor, not reading Jill’s new text, and get ready for bed in the enormous bathroom.
When I brush my teeth, the water tastes different from at home.
Once changed into my pajamas, they feel inadequately thin in this stone room.
The bed is comfortable, piled high with down comforters and soft pillows, but it somehow doesn’t feel right.
I close my eyes and listen for anything resembling the familiar hum of civilization. In a huff, I reach for my phone, happy for the blinding backlight to take away the darkness.
I search for the clip of Sky Chaos on the Jameson Late Show. It has almost two million views. Wow. Even if it is only the band’s fifteen minutes, it’s extremely impressive.
The clip opens with Ryder center stage under bright lights. His electric guitar slung low across his body in a casual yet practiced way. Although when he strikes the opening chord, something about it is off. Like he missed the mark, and the sound warbles awkwardly through the speakers.
That must be the stumble Miranda mentioned. The shame on Ryder’s face at dinner makes more sense now.
More lights shine on the band as the drummer and the bassist join in. With the trio combined, the sound cuts through my phone with a clarity that makes my breath hitch. The initial hesitation in Ryder’s performance disappears with the backing of his band.
Ryder’s fingers move across the fretboard with fluid precision, each note deliberate and clean.
As his other hand works the strings, it’s like the rhythm pulses with its own heartbeat.
When he leans into the microphone, and a rough edge textures his voice.
The camera catches him, eyes closed, completely lost in the music.
This is more than fifteen minutes of fame. He has the stage presence of a rockstar.
But I can also see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches between verses. The fear hiding behind the performance. Miranda’s words echo in my head: “One mistake and they’ll move on to the next act.”
No wonder he looked so trapped at dinner.
Something inside me shifts. A fluttering sensation that isn’t panic or grief. It’s some kind of thrill. A stimulating warmth that reminds me of his callused hands examining my cut palm. An excitement that synchronizes my heartbeat with the rhythm of his guitar.
His moves on stage are mesmerizing. His whole body is engaged with the music. When he hits a high note, chills run down my arms. There’s something about his voice. How it cracks on the emotional peaks. It doesn’t even matter that rolling credits cover half the performance.
I watch it three more times, my phone clutched in my hand.
Having seen his performance, he somehow feels more unreachable now. How on earth do I survive being alone in a tutoring session with this boy? He’s basically famous.