Your Biggest Fan

1. ROXANNE

Chapter one

I knew we didn’t stand a chance the second they played Hot For Teacher .

The minute those drumsticks started tapping out the rapid double strokes on the floor tom, I saw it drive a nail in our collective coffin.

And I knew it the second he was front and center on stage. Squeezing his beanpole body into jeans tighter than the clamps on my cymbal stands, ripping out the scream of every girl in what’s likely to be a five-mile radius.

Noah Jackson.

Just thinking of his name makes me want to gargle nails.

It's not enough that he's the frontman for Iron Fillings (a name that makes my molars ache) purely to collect groupies. No, the universe had to go and make him actually good at it.

Singing, not getting attention.

Though he was good at that too, always soaking it up like the pretentious little sponge he is in an ocean of adoration. All that talent is wasted on the inside of a rotten man who I know doesn’t actually give two shits about music and probably thinks 38 Special is a pancake platter you can get from The Burger Shack.

But the real kick in the teeth came whenever they announced the winner.

“And this year’s end of the summer Battle of the Bands goes to... Iron Fillings!” The MC said and handed them the hefty wad of cash that they’d won.

I stood in the middle of the crowd, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, and watched as Noah Jackson strode onto the stage, the cheers of the crowd ringing out around me.

$500. That’s how much cash now lined the pockets of those tight jeans.

$1000. That’s how much I needed.

$100 for a bus ticket.

$600 for a roof over my head that isn't my childhood bedroom.

$300 for surviving.

That was all I had left to save in order to get the hell out of this town. Bellpond, Illinois is a black hole for ambition, sucking in dreams and spitting out small-town despair. Get stuck here after high school, and you may as well go ahead and change your name to Sisyphus and start pushing that boulder. And I'm getting the hell out.

April 23, 1985 is when I made The Promise. Standing on the edge of town, feeling the warm spring sun shine on my face, but not quite reaching the coldness in my heart. Tonight was supposed to be the night I cashed in on that five-year-old vow.

The blue brick backdrop of the stage at The Velvet Ostrich has been the site of many performances from me over the year. It's seen more of my blood, sweat, and tears than my own mirror. Broken drumsticks from hard rim shots, band squabbles, acting as a support when I tip over my throne—we've been through it all together. But on August 20th, 1990, this is where my limits of patience—and fury—come to die as four teenage boys take home the grand prize for the fourth time before my senior year of high school.

I have a plan, dammit.

Step One: Slave away at Primal Vinyl, sacrificing my social life on the altar of minimum wage. Goal: Hoard enough cash to survive two months in the wild unknown before landing a "real" job. Whatever that means.

Step Two: Bask in the glow of sweet, sweet revenge as Noah's stupid face crumples in defeat when I finally dethrone his band. Bonus: Pocket that sweet Battle of the Bands cash.

Step Three: Pack my life into a duffel bag and buy a one-way ticket to anywhere after graduation, doesn’t matter where.

Step Four: Get the ever-loving fuck out of Bellpond for good.

Simple, right? A foolproof plan. At least, that’s what I intended to happen tonight, if my band members would simply cooperate.

As I banged out on my drums tonight, my heart filled with determination, I knew that wherever I was going, I was doing it for Dad. I'm so close to that silent goodbye, to finally starting the real journey, but the checkered flag at the end isn't waving quite yet.

Because I missed Step Two.

Noah’s stupidly punchable face plays in my mind again. The way he jumped into the crowd while performing…

My hands ball into fists and I kick a Coke can across the alley far enough to score some kind of a goal, if Coke can kicking was a sport. Which it should be. I'd win a trophy.

“Jesus, Roxy. Take a chill pill,” Riley says, shaking her copper hair at me and leaning up against the brick wall. The very picture of nonchalance and uncaring over what went down tonight. “I don’t even treat my cigarette butts like that.”

I bob my head in acknowledgment, rolling my eyes—not at her, but at the situation itself.

I wanted to do something more intense, with enough power to wake the dead and make them headbang. Something that would melt faces. Something like Holy Diver by Dio, but Riley insisted that we cover The B-52’s Love Shack since it was “the song of the summer.” And since she's the singer, whatever she said generally went. It was kind of an unfair democracy, but what else could I do?

I still thought it was ridiculous. Do you take a baby to a bear’s den?

No . You're just asking to be eaten alive.

Which is exactly why you shouldn’t perform a pop-rock song at what’s expected to be a heavy-metal cover show. We're at a Battle of the Bands, not a middle school dance. We looked like a joke.

Yeah, maybe my eye roll was a little bit toward her.

No one knew the song and it was so embarrassing as everyone stood there. I've never been so glad to be hidden behind my drum kit, while Riley's large dance moves distracted the crowd from our collective shame.

And it’s still true that Noah Jackson has a stupid face. With his mouth perpetually hitched up higher on one side like he knows something I don’t. God, yeah, I want to punch that face. I can’t help but kick another pile of cans I find, imagining each one as his ego.

I hate this town.

I glance up at the stars, those sparkling onlookers glaring back down as I allow myself a Why, oh God, why? moment as a broke, ambitious teenager in a town that's divided, then shake my head at our lead singer.

“Riley, you and I both know that this competition was rigged. I mean, who do you think the town is more likely to favor?”

It doesn’t seem fair . How could it be fair that someone like Noah, who already has all the money in the world while living it up on the right side of the pond—where all of the trust fund babies hide out—should win the competition and take home the cash prize? What's he going to do with that money? Buy another pair of tight jeans?

I stare out my car window often at the imposing estates of those neighbors when passing by, their huge McMansions filled with all the luxuries money could buy. Swimming pools that double as small lakes, garages that house more cars than our local dealership, and lawns so perfectly manicured they make the grass on our side look as if it's going through an awkward puberty phase. It's a stark contrast to my own home.

Why do I bother looking? They never spare a glance to the left side of the town after passing over the Moonbridge when they all come back from their fun weekend trips in Chicago. The pond may as well be the Berlin Wall, separating the haves from the have-nots. It’s a harsh reality, alright.

I probably shouldn’t be complaining to one of the pond royalties, but I keep my eyes locked on Riley as I continue anyways. “This town has never been on my side, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Oh, stop whining about the goddamn competition already!” she groans back, flicking the ash from her clove cigarette. “The judges said that Noah’s band had a better sound. So what if everyone in this whole damn town favors him and his band over us? We don’t need some stupid competition to prove ourselves. Now, quit complaining and let’s get something to eat.”

My eyebrows shoot up my forehead, practically lifting up into a new dimension of their own.

Is she really asking me to splurge on a quesadilla and onion rings? It’s like she consistently overlooks the importance of what I’m trying to achieve here.

Riley doesn’t miss my look. “Jesus, Roxy, so bitchy tonight. What's crawled up your butt and died?”

My head jerks forward like a chicken. “My problem? Oh, I don't know, maybe it's that we covered Love Shack when everyone knows that Dio would have been perfect. I just think next time we should shoot around more ideas until we’re all happy. Maybe we would have won!”

Her face darkens, her freckles blending in with the red. “Now you want to blame me for our loss? That’s real cute. How exactly would your precious Dio have saved us? You can’t expect the whole crowd to start headbanging the moment we start playing it. We thought the B-52's would be a much more fun and upbeat choice.”

She says we , but she means her .

“It’s catchy,” she barrels on, “everyone actually enjoys listening to it. But of course, you wouldn't know good music if it bit you on the ass.”

Again. She says everyone but she means—

Wait a damn minute.

“I have no appreciation for good music?” My voice leaves my mouth as more of a growl. “You’re one to talk when you listen to that overproduced pop music nonsense. You think Love Shack has anything on Holy Diver?”

I can’t explain why I said it. I also like ‘overproduced pop’ music. Hell, I like any music. There is no such thing as bad music—it all makes someone feel something, even if sometimes that something is the urge to smash the radio.

Anything that has a distinct sound can be appreciated, but I’m seething so much anger from her dig, coupled with our unfair defeat, that my head is permanently jammed into the red meter zone and I wanted to slash something mean back at her.

I don’t pass a glance at Josie or Eden stepping outside, both lugging their bass and guitar at their sides, because a look of something that looks disturbingly close to satisfaction passes over Riley’s face. She gasps loudly—and I mean soap opera heroine loudly.

“How dare you compare some heavy metal song to a rock masterpiece like Love Shack!? Sure, maybe that Dio song would have worked for some crowd of wannabe metalheads, but this song has widespread appeal to everyone.”

I bite down a scream threatening to shatter every window in this area when Eden steps up, her hands tight around the neck of her red Gipson.

“Hey, guys—”

I whirl around to face her, met with her jet-black bob, and her nose ring that glints in the alley light. I've always been able to recognize her anxiety-riddled eyes because I first met Eden back in preschool. We basically shared a diaper brand.

She’s my musical soulmate, the one who I learned to play with and later on, introduced me to Josie and Riley and their garage band utopia. Josie, our soon-to-be-ex-bassist, was spending her final summer in Bellpond. This was her last night performing with us, and we plan to start scouting for a new bassist once school starts again.

Which makes me even more pissed off.

No, not pissed. Jealous .

I'm so damn jealous. Jealous of Riley and her stupid relaxed outlook on the band, Jealous of Noah with his stupid perfect voice, and especially Josie with her stupid perfect escape plan. She's about to break free of this town, blasting off to Massachusetts to hit the reset button on her life.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I should shut the fuck up and agree with everything everyone is saying like a good little band member. But I needed that money, and it just slipped between my fingers, which makes my insides bubble up like a shaken Dr. Pepper can that is set to explode.

“Roxy, I think you need to relax,” Eden squeaks out.

Meanwhile, Riley hovers in the background, lips curled into a subtle smirk. A look I can’t quite interpret. Smugness? Condescension?

No—if I didn’t know better, I’d almost call it delight .

Why should my rage delight her?

“You know what, Roxy?” Riley starts to say the second I open my mouth to speak. I lock eyes with her over Eden's shoulder, crossing my arms as the wind shrivels up my bare skin. “I think I can speak for us all when I say we have had it with your drama and your whining.”

A scoff flies out of my mouth. “Drama?”

What is she talking about? I've been swallowing my feelings all summer, letting things slide to make them happy. I've been a goddamn saint.

Riley saunters closer, grinding her still lit cigarette with the toe of her boot. “We’re only a cover band, and Josie is leaving town anyway, so…” She casts a glance at each one of our band members, then flips her hair and smiles down at me. “Consider yourself out of the band. Find a new one, because we’re done with your little tantrum. Maybe you can finally learn to play something other than Cherry Bomb.”

My mouth falls open and I can taste the cigarette smoke and dried piss in the alleyway. All this time, I’ve been the one compromising, and now that I’m speaking up for once they’re going to call it a tantrum?

I glance at Josie, then Eden, silently pleading for... what? Support? A sudden change of heart? A "just kidding" followed by uncomfortable laughter? But Josie's too busy adjusting her fishnets, and Eden's fiddling with a hole in her flannel as they proceed to follow Riley, who jerks her chin towards her white BMW.

Fucking traitors . Last week we were all laughing our asses off, getting high in the back of that car, joking about that time Josie puked on stage. And now they’re… leaving me?

Riley turns around once more, not done and eager to spit, “By the way, if we’re having a moment of honesty, you’re kind of a shitty drummer. You should stick to banging on your pots and pans, Roxy.”

A shitty drummer? That’s rich, coming from the girl who can’t keep her eyes focused on the crowd instead of staring at all of us in the back.

I want to shout that back at her and more, but I’ve never been skilled when it comes to insults or confrontations. Even if I was always on the edge to do it, I could never cross over it, like there was some invisible hand that won’t let go of me. It was probably the ghost of my grandma who always told me to “be a lady” every time I sat with my legs a little too open. Josie told me that’s what anxiety is called, but she also said it might be the government putting chemicals in the water to control our minds. I think she was just paranoid from watching too many episodes of Unsolved Mysteries .

Well, fuck them.

“I pity the fool that has to replace me,” I mumble under my breath instead.

Jesus . Did I really quote Mr. T?

With a huff, I grip the handle of the door to the venue with so much rage that I’m surprised I don’t rip it off its hinges the second I whip it open. My skin is burning with heat, with bile rising up in my throat. I immediately head toward the bar, sitting on top of one of the blue leather stools, trying to cool down my rage by getting a bottle of water.

Shitty drummer. As if she has any room to criticize my musicianship from her throne of mediocrity.

I’m not the second coming of Tommy Lee, but I know I'm still amazing at it. Maybe not amazing but you know… pretty good.

My heart and soul went into every drum beat, rhythm dancing from my wrists down to my fingertips and right through those wooden sticks. The drums give voice to emotions I can’t articulate out loud. Nothing else matters but the music, my sticks and the plastic heads, the connection with my bandmates, and everyone watching us.

At least, that’s how it felt when we first started—four girls united through our shared love of rock covers and shared delusions of escaping this town.

I’m sure I’ll be able to find something like that again one day. Another band eventually. Hell, maybe I’ll start my own girl group. In the meantime, I have ten long months of dealing with Riley’s stink eye now.

“The usual, please,” a low voice rough from singing beside me drawls, and even without looking, I can see the smart ass grin on its owner’s face. “Gotta drown out the fucking ringing in my ears after that set.”

I suppress a gag, wanting to smack the arrogance right off his smirky lips. My lips part once more to call out for the barkeep when another voice feeds his ego.

“Dude, you killed it.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Believe me, I’m never surprised by your singing skills. It’s just that I like seeing your arrogant ass getting praised.”

“You like seeing me be praised?” Noah snickers. “Maybe you should start going to church then. They do a lot of that during services.”

“Ha ha, very funny. I meant it’s nice to see someone else stroking your ego for a change. Like that blonde chick in the front row.”

“The one with the ‘Marry Me’ sign? Think she meant it?” He laughs, and I hear the playful shove that follows.

“In your dreams, man. She’d run screaming once she realized you spend more time primping than performing.”

I roll my eyes, trying to tune out their mutual admiration society. That’s when the same voice, now too close to my ear, interrupts my internal seething.

“Well, someone’s a little antisocial.”

A single finger, adorned with a black band, taps the bar top. I inch away, swiveling to meet those large, blue eyes framed by strong, dark brows that I can’t stand. The lightly feathered locks that drape down the back of his neck that I hate. The loose curls that frame the sides of his face that really piss me off. God, I hate it all.

He's looking down at me as if I’m another nameless face in his pathetic fan club. To him, I probably am.

My jaw tightens so much I half expect my teeth to crack. Of all the people in this place, it had to be the one who took everything from me fifteen minutes ago—staring at me like I'm a complete stranger.

He probably doesn’t know me. Because the right pond doesn’t look at the left pond.

We’re merely tadpoles.

If it weren’t for the fizzing can inside my chest, I’m not sure I would have had the balls to say what comes next.

“Of course, you’re the one that would be here,” I hiss, my voice tighter than his pants. Until now, I’ve at least been able to keep a stage between us. “What’s the matter? Fan club ditched you?”

My eyes narrow as I glare up at him, daring him to remember who I am. To acknowledge what he's done. But his face remains blank.

Fucking prick.

“Wow. What a nasty thing you are,” Noah Jackson chuckles, sticking his narrow nose where it doesn't belong as he leans on the bar. The tilt of his head makes a dark curl fall over his left eye as he throws me a wink. “Not a fan of us?”

My gaze involuntarily drops to his chest, and I instantly regret it. His tank top, a shredded victim from all the grabby hands during his crowd-surfing stunt, hangs on by a thread. More holes than fabric now, it sticks to every damn curve and dip of his torso. Sweat makes the thin cotton translucent, a shadow-show of what's underneath.

A drop slides down his collarbone, tracing a path to his chest that rises and falls, each breath making that useless scrap of cloth shift.

I grit my teeth, restraining myself from shoving him. I really do hate this guy.

“More like I’m not a fan of you.”

“I’m heartbroken. Whatever shall I do?” He clutches his chest like I’ve stabbed him in the heart, but the laughter in his eyes tells me he’s loving every second of this. “Did someone piss in your Cheerios this morning, or are you always like this?”

Before I can erect a force field of sarcasm, he moves in closer, holding a hand out. “Noah.”

“I know who you are,” I sneer. The Dr. Pepper can is now reaching critical mass. “Everyone in this town knows who you are because they’re all up your ass.”

“I’m sure you wish you were one of them.” He grins, taking a sip from the drink the barkeep slides toward him.

Is Noah Jackson flirting with me? Me, the social equivalent of pond scum?

Why?

Just to make a fool of me?

I scoff to myself. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Next, he'll ask me to prom and dump pig's blood on me.

Layering sweetness over smoked out eyes, I immediately deny his invitation. “I would rather stick a fork through my eyeball than be remotely associated with your ass.”

Noah barks out a laugh, smiling even harder behind his glass as I start to slap a couple of quarters down for my water and fish my keys to my Chevy Blazer out of my pocket. My keychains dangle—a mix of band logos and ironic Lisa Frank stickers my best friend put on there. I spin in my stool, hopping down to get out of here, with no protest from him, thankfully, and move through the crowd.

Hopefully he can go find one of these other ladies to find his arrogance charming.

I turn back one last time to glance at Noah, our eyes connecting through the crowd briefly until I’m back in the alleyway and climbing in the front seat of my Blazer. My eyes need to be cleansed with one of those wash stations in the biology room just for looking at him.

I'm so exhausted from his presence, from Riley, and from performing that I don't realize how much my arms ache until I'm steering out of the parking lot.

Or realized that I paid for water I never even got.

That conversation with Noah consumes every piece of my brain until I turn on Riversedge Street and pull up in front of my house.

Let’s go ahead and get it out of the way that, yes, Noah is objectively attractive— unfortunately —with that aura of danger, charisma, and a voice that makes girls want to grind their thighs together and doodle his name all over bathroom stalls, but that isn’t enough to let anything he does slide. While he has about a million fans, he was also born with a silver guitar pick in his mouth, which means he naturally excels at life.

It’s not just that he’s attractive and in a band, though. Oh no, that would be too simple. This town’s collective boner for him stems from a trifecta of bullshit:

1. He skateboards, which is a rare sight in this town.

2. He’s tall enough to make you crane your neck.

3. He’s got those goddamn eyes that dare you to take a closer look—you know, the ones that scream “I’m trouble” while his paint-stained fingers flip you off.

He’s the walking, talking version of every “bad to the bone” heartthrob any teenager has wet dreams about. I’ve seen it with my own eyeballs. Teachers throw A’s at him for showing up, girls soak their panties if he looks at them, and guys want to be his best friend. It’s nauseating. And he knows it. He revels in it, like a pig in shit.

Everyone is basically sucking his dick in this town, and I sure as hell will never be one of them because I at least still have standards. I'll gnaw off my own arm before I join that parade of sycophants.

Ugh . Why am I wasting my mental energy analyzing him?

I have to get out of Bellpond.