Your Biggest Fan

7. ROXANNE

Chapter seven

The morning after what I like to refer to as “The Incident,” my stomach was tight with anxiety as I stepped into the first period classroom. Hoping against hope, I was still silently pleading for Noah’s absence from my other classes. I also prayed extra hard to my poster that he’d magically vanish from my first class entirely, but lo and behold, there he was in his seat. Bright and early.

He’d come for my reckoning. Who could blame him?

Summoning all the courage to walk past his desk, I braced myself for the inevitable onslaught of snarky comments.

Nothing happened. He sat there, staring straight ahead like some kind of freaking statue. It was weird as hell, and it set me more on edge.

What was he planning? Was he gonna stand up in the middle of class and give some kind of presentation about how much he hated me, complete with charts and graphs? Was he taking his time to brew up a diabolical scheme against me, waiting for the right time to explode? He was a damn ticking time bomb.

As the sweet sound of the bell rang, I tidied my notes, now decorated with little doodles of twisted trees whose branches spelled out “Noah is lame” in my margins, and went through the rest of the day.

A beam of sunshine broke through the clouds when he was nowhere to be seen in any of my other classes. It was like winning the lottery, but instead of money, I won a Noah-free education.

Oh, the sweet taste of victory. I danced a little jig in my mind.

While I counted my blessings, I was still cursed to endure him in first period for the next thirty four weeks. I’m not sure if this is a fate worse than death or merely something I can tolerate with copious amounts of caffeine. But it’s a delicate balance between wanting to scream into a pillow and reminding myself of the fact that at least it isn’t a full day of Noah torture.

As much as I tried to appreciate the silver lining, his existence still made me fidget in my seat. That stupid red jacket had its own body heat, like a neon sign screaming, “Hey, look at me!”

I’m still planning to ignore him today, even after the guilt that snuck up on me yesterday when I saw that his band had replaced him with Riley. Was it my fault for embarrassing him? I actually feel a little bad about it—but not that much.

No, the sympathy pang is more like the size of a stomach sore, a pesky little thing I can ignore. Must be the caffeine wearing off.

Mentally I’m still hitting the fast-forward button on a remote control, trying to skip through my day with Noah the Dreaded Red Jacket Jackson. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still curious about what went down between him and Iron Fillings. I’m nosy, alright? Seeing Riley on the mic is like finding out the class clown lost their sense of humor or something.

Harley told me to let it go when I asked if he knew anything, so I’m trying not to obsess over things that aren’t my business. I decided to push it to the back of my mind and focus on other things.

I threw myself into work, picking up an extra shift to keep myself distracted. Then when I needed a break from reality at home, I dug through my dad’s box of cassette tapes and found his Rainbow tape. I thought my mom had tossed out years ago because she’d been so sick of hearing him play it for me.

The epic drumming in Stargazer painted this picture behind my eyelids, one of me sitting in my dad’s lap as a kid, moving with him as he spun around on the stool, his drumsticks flying so fast around the kit.

I have my eyes closed while waiting for the first period bell to ring, my headphones pressed against my ears, bobbing my head to that same song over and over while playing the air drums at my desk. I get to the chorus when my desk tips forward, and my eyes shoot open.

Looking at me with one hell of a grin, is Noah Jackson, perched on top of my desk with his red traffic cone jacket on. My face instantly burns.

Exactly how long has he been watching me?

I reach for the gray Sony attached to my hip, hitting the stop button, and Noah keeps staring at me with amusement swimming in his blue eyes.

Quirking a brow, I stare right back.

Noah waits, looking inordinately pleased with himself as I pull my headphones down to set them snug around my neck. Oh, yeah. Now he’s come for my reckoning.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, and that grin starts to stretch even further.

“It looks like you’re sitting on my desk?”

“You know… I’m surprised you haven’t invited me to sit on your desk before,” he says as he holds his arms out and shakes the desk around with his hips. “You can relax, though.” He drops his palms back to his thighs. “But it is cute when you’re nervous.”

My face steams again and I roll my eyes in a futile attempt to hide my mortification from his shameless flirting. This guy is the epitome of my personal “Hall of Hate.”

I brush it off, but I may as well be trying to ignore a mosquito buzzing in my ear. And let me tell you, I’d rather deal with a swarm of mosquitoes than have him get any closer.

“Get. Off. My. Desk. Now,” I order slowly.

“Or. Else. What?” he mimics.

His face is completely calm and unaffected as he leans in close to me. So close his forehead almost touches mine as he looks straight down, the light hitting his expressionless, blank eyes. As still as water. I can almost count each dark lash framing the coldness.

“You gonna dump more soda on my head?”

I shrink back, pulse racing as he so casually brings up The Incident. If I had any soda now, I’d totally drench him again, but my fingers are fidgeting with the fringed edges of my shorts under the desk, and I dart my eyes to the right to see if anyone’s staring at us.

The guilty stomach ache starts morphing into a rock because I’m starting to realize how embarrassing it is that I let my anger get the better of me and dumped soda on his head.

I flick my eyes back up to his face.

“Why are you even doing this, Noah? Move. Now.”

Despite my demands, he leans in even closer, his breath warm on my nose. “I mean, if you want me to move, you could ask more nicely.”

“Oh, my god. Move. Right now.”

My frustration shows as my expression shifts from impassive to irritated. Shit. If I catch even a glimpse of that smug grin, I might lose it and shove him off my desk after all.

Three heartbeats later he does finally relent, raising both hands in surrender and sliding off my desk. I’m stunned back into silence as he slowly drags his desk closer to mine by the edge of the table.

With a small gap between our desks, he manages to free his fingers and settles into his seat, using his heels to scoot even closer.

“What are you—?”

The horrible sound of his chair scraping against the tiled floor catches the attention of a few classmates, their judgmental gazes burning into my soul. My face starts to set in flames again while I ignore them. Noah, meanwhile, seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself as he scoots closer. His black Chucks come dangerously close to brushing against my boot, but he stops short, and our desks are now conjoined. Like a furniture fusion experiment gone wrong.

To add insult to injury, he spreads his legs wide, forming a barrier around the side of my chair, effectively blocking me into my seat.

Trapping me.

His pant covered knee brushes the side of my thigh and I yank my leg away instantly. This guy has clearly never heard of boundaries or personal bubbles. Is he secretly training for a career in professional cuddling or does he genuinely enjoy making people feel uncomfortable?

He looks down at me and smiles, those eyes of his wandering down my now crossed legs before he raises one eyebrow and looks back up at me.

“Better?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. I scoff, not even close to being better.

Actually, I’m pretty sure my annoyance levels have reached an all-time high. What does he freaking want from me?

If this is because of The Incident, then this is getting out of hand. Can’t we settle our differences over a civilized game of rock-paper-scissors like normal people instead?

With a hand trembling in the limited space between us, I attempt to gesture towards the very obvious lack of space. My words come out in a stuttered rush. “You’re insufferable, you know that? Can you… I mean, seriously, what part of ‘move’ didn’t you understand?”

“I guess the part where you were polite about it.”

“Are you playing a game of selective hearing?”

“I told you to relax, Roxanne. I’m only here because I have a proposition for you.”

“It’s Roxy.” I narrow my eyes. “And a proposition for what? What could someone like you possibly offer to me?”

Noah’s tongue digs into his bottom lip. “You mean someone as horrible as me? What could I possibly have to offer to someone as sweet and innocent as you, you ask?”

His eyes flick towards my Walkman on my hip, then cut sharply back to my eyes. That stupid smile grows.

“I don’t know if it’s something you can handle,” he says, leaning back in his seat, draping one arm on top of his desk and the other on the back of his chair. The silver of his belt glints in the sunlight streaming through the window, and my eyes dart down before I can stop them. “It’s a lot of hard work, being in a band and all. But if you think you can handle that kind of pressure... maybe I can help you get somewhere. Fame, recognition, it’s all just waiting for you.”

My head jerks back, catching me completely off guard. If he weren’t blocking me in my seat, I probably would’ve fallen out of my chair.

“You… you’re trying to say that you want me to join your band?” My lungs burst into laughter at the idea. Even though he looks serious, it feels like a punchline to a joke, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s fucking with me. Payback for the soda, maybe?

“Yeah, RoRo, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Don’t call me that—”

“Roxanne,” he sighs, leaning forward again, those eyes glued to my face. “You’re a drummer without a band, and I’m a singer without a drummer. Seems like a match made in heaven to me.”

Okay, this is definitely some prank or he’s simply lost his mind.

“What are you getting out of all this? Are you looking for more girls to come running at your beck and call?” The words slip out before I can stop them. But I can’t swallow his proposal so easily. It’s hard to believe that his sudden interest in forming a band with me is purely altruistic. There’s got to be an ulterior motive.

Noah leans against my desk and twirls a strand of my hair around his finger. “You could say that,” he murmurs, voice soft and low, but I can feel the heat of it anyway. “Maybe I’m only asking because I know it will make you mad and I do my best work when there’s a little... friction.” His lips twist into a knowing smile before he lets my strand of hair fall from his finger. “So, you in?”

The guilty stomach sore is long gone—he’s using my anger as fuel for his creativity.

Dick .

“Noah, this is not how you form a band. I won’t be a part of your games.” I narrow my eyes and grip the strands of my hair, leaning away in my chair. “And don’t touch my hair again. Understand?”

He chuckles and nods. “Sure thing, sunshine,” is what he calls me before leaning in closer, his voice suddenly serious and quiet, “So… you gonna help me get back at your old bandmates or what?”

What the hell is he talking about? I wonder, trying to keep a straight face until all the pieces start to slowly connect in my head, and it dawns on me that his proposition isn’t rooted in anger. It’s driven by a desire for revenge.

A grin I’ve never done in my life before starts to spread across my face at the thought of getting back at Riley, nodding my head slightly as the ultimate fantasy of her walking up to me with pleading hands and apologies starts to fill me up with this wicked sense of satisfaction.

But then I bite my bottom lip against it—I’d be forming a band with Noah Jackson. The same Noah Jackson who I’d also fantasized about two days ago driving his dirt bike into the Bell Pond and getting eaten by whatever creatures hid at the bottom.

I burst into laughter again.

“Noah,” I say between giggles, “you don’t even know if I’m good.”

“I don’t know if I need to,” he shrugs, still leaning in close. “I trust you.”

My eyebrows furrow in surprise as his forearm slides onto the back of my chair. He tilts his head at me as if to say: what do you have to lose?

My sanity, probably. And my peace of mind.

But…

I trust you.

I chew my lip, emotions seesawing. I don’t want him to get to me. I don’t want to cave. It’s not easy, and I’m starting to have more respect for whoever felt brave enough to kick him out of Iron Fillings. I blame his immediate trust in my drumming abilities that makes a knot twist in my stomach. I can’t imagine why he would, considering he’s never heard me play.

Riley’s words replay in my mind again: you’re kind of a shitty drummer.

In a sick way, it makes me worried about not being the prodigy he envisions.

“Why would you trust me?” I ask him.

“Because I’m a risk-taker,” he replies simply. “I’m willing to put it all on the line if it means you and I could get back at the folks who did us wrong. My only question is, are you brave enough to do it?”

My nails start to pick at my shorts when his arm brushes my back. I’ve never seen him look so serious before. It’s like he’s asking me to join him in a secret mission to take down an evil band empire.

“I’m willing to fight alongside you,” he continues. “But are you willing to fight for it by yourself?”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. This has to be some sort of joke, and I keep looking around as if waiting for people to pop out from underneath the desks to shoot out confetti and laugh at me.

When no trap springs, my hand scratches at my chest, resisting the need to pull my necklace into my mouth once my fingers brush the silver chain. This is too much, and the thought of fighting alongside him tickles my funny bone in the most unexpected way.

“Can I have a moment to consult my magic eight ball? This is kinda a big decision for a morning.” It’s a fair request I think.

The corner of Noah’s mouth lifts. “Sure, take all the time you need. But just know, I won’t ask again.” The toe of his shoe taps against my boot, rattling my drumsticks to tease me. “You’d look good actually using these.”

I roll my eyes just as the first bell rings. Noah leans back, finally giving me some breathing room. His face softens, but the smirk quickly returns as quickly as it fled, reminding me that he’s not one to be taken lightly.

“Take your time though,” he says, “but you can’t spend the next couple of days trying to decide, and then say no. If you’re in, you’re in. If not, well... I don’t think you would like that.” He pulls his arm from out behind me, scooting his desk back. “Think about it, Roxanne.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “If I were to say yes, what exactly is your plan? How do you propose we get back at my old band?”

He runs a hand through the long, wavy hair at the back of his neck before shrugging. “We’d get back by beating them in the Battle of the Bands with you at the helm. Imagine the look on their faces...” He swings toward me again, clasping his hands in between his knees. Even hunched down he’s still taller than me.

“You’d get $1000 in cash and will be recording without them. You’ll be drumming in front of hundreds of people, and they’d have to watch you in awe. I’ll make it happen.” He’s looking at me as if I were silly for even asking. “That’s what I do. I make the impossible a reality,” he adds on after he fishes out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, revealing a Battle of the Bands flyer.

This is a serious offer. With huge cash. The opportunity to travel far away to New York for what sounded an awful lot like a record deal. But for what? To be a band replacement? To be a tribute band? To shape us into the future of music?

Neither one of our bands sang our own songs, and us turning into a ragtag group of musicians playing in front of a large audience, attempting to steal the show from former band members who are much better than me, while facing real judgment and ridicule, fills me with the highest form of anxiety.

Tension moves up my spine the longer I stare at the paper. “Sounds like a lot of pressure,” I admit.

It’s a fucking scary position to put myself in. I could accidentally drop my drumsticks mid-performance or send them flying into the crowd. The boos are already sounding off, sending another panic ripple down my muscles.

“Don’t worry, RoRo.” Noah pries the flyer out from between my fingers. “I’ll be there to catch you when you fall. Besides, if you’re with me, you’ll have the confidence to take on anything. Just imagine. All of your adoring fans. You could do anything and they’d love it.”

I try to picture it: commanding a crowd, the audience screaming when I hit the chorus fill. And damn, his words are making me feel more and more tempted to cave than ever before.

The warning bell rings.

“Well, as long as they’re not throwing tomatoes at me.”

Noah punches my arm lightly and shoves the paper back into his pocket. “What? Do you think you can’t handle some hecklers? C’mon, don’t sell yourself short.”

How does he do it? Noah’s brazen confidence disturbs me as his words continue to annoyingly work their magic on me. It’s unbelievable how his stupid smooth voice has me almost wrapped around his finger. I want to kick myself.

“You’re good at this,” I murmur as Mrs. Taylor walks into the room and sets her bag down on her desk.

“Good at what?”

“I think you might have a future as a motivational speaker. Or maybe a hypnotist.”

Mrs. Taylor pushes her tortoise shell glasses up the bridge of her nose, the chestnut ponytail at the top of her head bobbing as she marks off everyone present as she takes attendance. When she reaches Noah’s name, he flashes her a sweet smile. “Thanks, Mrs. T.” Gag.

She scrunches up her nose before walking back to the middle of the room and tells us to take out our books. Noah doesn’t bother with it, instead turning back to me.

“So, Roxanne.” He stretches out over the aisle and grips the back of my chair for balance. “You in?”

“I said I’d think about it and it’s been literally five minutes.”

He seems almost offended, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Fine, take your time. I just think you owe me for that little Coke incident.”

“Are you seriously—”

“Ms. Wishmore and Mr. Jackson!” Mrs. Taylor’s stern voice cuts through the classroom.

I straighten up in my seat, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Sorry, Mrs. Taylor.”

Noah chimes in with a less caring, “Sorry, Mrs. T,” as he moves back into his chair.

Her sigh fills the room as she shakes her head. “Is it going to be like this all year?”

“No ma’am,” I assure her and open up Wuthering Heights . I need her off my ass this year, but naturally, Noah can’t resist leaning over the aisle again to continue pestering me. His whispered question about what song we played at the Battle of the Bands makes me dig my nose into the spine.

“Love shack,” I mumble into the crease of my book.

A dramatic gasp meets my ears. I peek over to see Noah slumped in his chair, clutching his chest in abject horror.

“Oh no, not the Love Shack!” he exclaims, his voice dripping with disgust as he flips open his book. “That song is like a musical crime against humanity.”

My smile stays contained at his over-the-top reaction. Even hearing Noah trash it weirdly comforts me.

“Yeah. I know. We were trying to spread the musical torture, one performance at a time.”

Noah shakes his head sadly. “A damn shame. An artist like you deserves better material.”

He catches my eye and winks. I hunker back down inside my book, skin flushing.

Absolutely not.

“Oh and hey, Roxanne…”

I peer over the top of my page. “What?”

Noah pulls a pencil out from behind his ear. “For the one last week.”

For the rest of the day, I still couldn’t make up my mind about joining forces. With the final bell ring, I stand at my locker, wrestling with it before stuffing my books inside. Just as I’m about to slide on my headphones and strut down the hall in my mind like some rock diva to Rainbow again, there's a double tap on my shoulder.

“Give me your hand, Wishmore.”

“My hand? Why do—”

Before I can finish, Noah thrusts his own hand forward with his palm facing up. “Come on, your hand.”

My brows pinch as I reach out to place my hand in his, but Noah slides his hand up, fingers circling my wrist and tugging me closer. He flips my hand over, and my eyes flick nervously between his face and the people walking behind him.

Leaning in, his tongue pokes out between his lips as he reaches into the back pocket of his Levi’s, pulling out a marker. His fingers press into my skin as he pulls the cap off with his teeth, scribbling something on my palm.

Wow. Now he is actually touching me. Skin to skin contact .

I blink rapidly as I ask, “What are you doing?”

“In case you make up your mind tonight,” Noah mumbles around the marker cap. He releases my hand, capping the marker between his lips. “That’s my number.”

He shoots me that frontman grin before shoving the marker back into his pocket and spinning around, making a slow exit down the hall. I bring my palm up to my face, staring at the phone number inked onto my skin.

The urge to sprint into the girl’s bathroom and scrub it off is almost overwhelming.

Noah really has the nerve to be so sure of my answer and it makes me want to say no even more.

My locker clangs shut as I head to Kevin, the inanimate object that is my Chevy Blazer that deserved a name when it was passed down from my dad to me. My palm still feels wet and tickly from where his marker touched me, and a stray thought bursts from the back of my skull as I crawl into my front seat: whoa, Noah Jackson is desperate.

Flinging my backpack onto the worn gray passenger seat, I glance down at the words ‘High Voltage’ across my chest. I place my Primal Vinyl name tag on the left side and tuck the black faded tee into my shorts. In the rearview mirror, I pull out my Revlon lipstick and swipe a layer, blotting my lips with a napkin as I was taught to.

Makeup used to be a fucking mystery to me. I’d flip through magazines, eyeing the glossy photos of models with their perfect red lips. But when I tried to do it? Total disaster.

The reds I picked always ended up caked and crumbly, leaving me with what I liked to call ‘butthole lips.’ You know, when your lipstick rubs off in the middle, and you’re left with this weird, lighter shade? Real flattering.

My mom used to tell me that wearing red broke my face out, but I always suspected she didn’t want me touching her collection. Still, I kept at it, mostly because I thought it looked so cool on the filters of my occasional cigarettes. Then everything changed when I met Angela Wood when she started working at Primal Vinyl.

She took me under her wise makeup loving wing and showed me that there were other colors in the lipstick universe besides red. And so a shade called Toast of New York entered my life and changed everything. The color was natural enough that it didn’t make my skin look weird, and I could safely devour a donut without worrying about my lipstick ending up all over my face.

Best of all, no more butthole lips.

Happy with my freshly applied war paint, I give Kevin’s dashboard a loving pat and cruise through the summer streets, turning the volume knob to the music as far right as it will go. Reaching downtown and pulling into my usual spot, I head inside Primal Vinyl and squeeze between the bodies of people crowding the aisles.

It’s only been five minutes, and I’m already clenching my teeth so hard. Why, you ask? Oh, just lugging this ridiculously heavy box of new inventory from the back room. My arms are screaming for mercy when some asshole knocks a tape onto the floor.

I carefully pick up the fallen cassette, the extra weight sending a sharp ache through the burning muscles. And because I’m incapable of letting things be, I know I’ll be spending the next hour meticulously organizing all the tapes.

After doing just that, I’m halfway through the letter E in the vinyl box when Angela’s laughter fills the air. Sweet Sensation’s If Wishes Came True blares from the speakers at the checkout desk near the front, and Angela, with her dirty blonde Farrah-Fawcett-like hair bouncing around, is gesticulating wildly to a customer, her giant pink hoops on full display.

That girl is an enigma to me. She’s on the popular side of the social spectrum (and pond), but she might have the warmest heart ever and it makes me want to be her friend. Unlike most of the pond royalty, she acknowledges my existence to the point that we have bonded over some mutual tastes in music.

She’s more of a mashup of Mariah Carey and Jane Child while I’m... Me . But when we both discovered Janet Jackson’s single of Rhythm Nation , we were fucking obsessed.

Every time the store gets slow, we bust out the moves from the music video right here in the aisles. It’s our thing.

I turn back to stocking the new shipment when the front door swings open, Stephanie and Tyler barging in with wide grins on their faces.

“Roxy!” Stephanie sing-songs, twirling down the aisle in her overalls until she’s right in front of me.

I brace myself. “Oh no. What do you need?”

“Nothing special,” Tyler says, plopping himself on the beanbag we have set up next to our listening station. “Just need to borrow your car.”

Stephanie shoots him a look that could wilt flowers. “What he’s trying to say,” she emphasizes, batting her lashes at me, “is that we really don’t want to go to the Bellpond Blast alone, and we know you think it’s dumb, but we need you to come with us.”

“And why do I have to come with?”

Tyler smirks, his body leaning too far back in the chair, causing him to spill his Hubba Bubba soda all over the collar of his brown printed button-up. Not sure why he willingly drinks those things, but that’s the thing about Tyler. He will eat anything you put in front of him, but nothing refined. More like... mixing every slushy flavor at a gas station and sniffing out my candy stash like a bloodhound.

“Well, if you don’t come with us,” he taunts, adjusting his suspenders to hide the stain, “we’ll make your life a living hell. We’ll break into your room and redecorate it. Neon pink and everything princess, put a frou-frou bed in there, and let’s not forget the Hello Kitty invasion.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Stephanie grins. “You bet your ass we would.”

Letting out a groan, I place the shipment box at my feet and grab the vinyl for the F section. Fleetwood Mac is the first one that catches my eye.

“The last time I went, there was a kid who ate too much blue ice cream and threw up off one of the rollercoasters and got it all over my shoes,” I remind them, glaring at Tyler over Stephanie’s shoulder. “That kid was you.”

Laughter shakes Stephanie’s tiny frame while Tyler pushes down on the chair with his arms, giving it his all to sit up. “What’s that? I can’t hear you over the sound of a Hello Kitty comforter and pink paint.”

I roll my eyes at him and squeeze the record into its place. Even though the Bellpond Blast isn’t my scene, I already know I’m going to crack.

“When you get me the comforter and the pillows, I want the ones with the glitter.”

“You will have the ones with the glitter,” they both say in unison.

I smile. I lucked out with these two as my best friends, despite their shenanigans.

“I mean, there was no other option,” Tyler says. “So, what’s the dealio? You’re gonna come?”

“Yes, you dorks.” I roll up my sleeve, glancing at my watch. If I work quickly, I might be able to leave early. “Only if you lay off the ice cream this time.”

Stephanie giggles as Tyler looks a little offended. “That wasn’t even my fault! The ice cream should not have been shaped like a shark.”

“Aren’t you lactose intolerant?”

“So? It was in the shape of a shark.”

“You are warped in the head,” I sigh, turning back to the box at my feet. Jimi Hendrix’s album is up next and I place it in its rightful spot. Before I can even trip over what’s happening, Stephanie grabs my right hand, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket as she sticks it in her face.

“What is this? A phone number or a cheat code for the Super Nintendo?”

I glance down at my palm, tilting my head to the side. “Huh, that’s weird… must have written that down for a customer.”

“Roxy! Whose phone number is on your palm?”

I shoot a quick glance at Tyler, who’s nodding slowly, leaning his head on his hand as Stephanie reads the number aloud. Each digit that gets acknowledged floods the memories back like snapshots, reminding me why it’s there in the first place.

I try to tug my hand back, but Stephanie Bell’s hand tightens, her fingers digging in on my wrist, leaving me with no choice but to fess up about the whole dumb thing.

A wide, toothy smile stretches across my face as I yank my hand free and wipe my palm against my jeans, as if erasing the memory along with the ink.

My nostrils flare as I say through my teeth: “Noah Jackson.”

The reaction is instantaneous. Shock cracks over Stephanie’s face, while Tyler’s jaw drops, eyes bugging out like I’d said “Bloody Mary” three times, and both of their hands fly to their mouths to cover a squeak.

Stephanie can’t contain herself any longer and blurts out, “Noah?” simultaneously with Tyler, who catapults out of the bean bag chair, gasping, “Jackson?”

“You... you are a sly little devil,” Stephanie laughs. “Does Harley know about this?”

My fixed smile falls instantly. “Stop. It’s not like that—”

“Then why is it written in your palm where everyone can see it?”

“Look, I can explain—”

“You better! Or... or...”

“Or what ?”

They exchange whispers, eyes shifting back and forth until they both turn to look at me. Stephanie puts on a scary face, narrowing her eyes and scowling, while Tyler acts out being choked with his hands around his throat.

Real mature . I ignore them and continue to organize the albums. Of course, right as I’m about to stick Miles Davis into his spot, Stephanie blocks my access to the M section.

“Details. Now,” she eggs, chin in her hands, elbows on top of the records, and staring at me the same way a child awaits a good bedtime story.

“He asked me to start a band,” I grumble, shoving the record in harsh and feeling bad that the sleeve crinkles.

“What was that?”

“I said —” I start to hiss, dragging both palms down my face. “Noah wants me to join a band. That’s it.”

Stephanie smiles, raising an eyebrow. “ The Noah Jackson asked you to start a band? He did?”

“I bet he did,” Tyler mumbles over his can.

“What’s this little demon up to?” She turns to Tyler, who is drooling with amusement.

“Yeah, he did. It was really weird at first,” I snort. “He said he was willing to fight alongside me and that he’d be there to ‘catch me if I fall.’”

Stephanie snickers. “That sounds like a cheesy line from a movie.”

“It kinda was. I mean, really. It really was.” I grimace and shove Paula Abdul into the P’s. “I said I’d think about it. He wrote his number down on my hand, in case I wanted to call him later.”

I show them both my palm, wiggling my fingers when Steph yanks my hand over again, licking her finger and rubbing at the number until it’s unreadable.

“Hold up...” Tyler glances around the room as he steps closer. A hand reaches out and grabs my right shoulder, swaying me back and forth. “You should call him.”

“Why would I do that?”

“ Because... you could use the fun.”

I shoot him a dirty look that usually sends people running. “Don’t go there.”

Stephanie’s eyes are so wide I can barely see her blue eyeshadow as she grabs my hand tighter. “Oh my god. He has a thing for you, doesn’t he?!”

“Who knew soda boarding was the way to a man’s heart? I have to try that,” Tyler teases.

I bark out a laugh. Their assumptions are completely wrong and they need to relax with their overactive imaginations. Waving off Steph, I wiggle my hand free, wiping the spit off on my shorts. I shoot Tyler another glare as he doubles over, his fedora slipping off his short, dark curly hair, clutching his stomach as he cracks up.

The way he blows the crumbs off of his hat when he picks it up makes the memory of the day he came out to Steph and me in the parking lot of a Pizza Hut roll through my mind. He was a nervous wreck, fiddling with that same cardigan. We’d known for ages—the hats, the suspenders, the way he blushed whenever a pretty boy so much as glanced his way? Dead giveaway. But it meant everything that he trusted us enough to finally say the words. We celebrated with greasy pizza and flat soda.

“Guys, seriously,” I groan, trying to set the record straight. “It’s not like that at all. He needs a drummer for this band he wants to start. That’s it. End of story.” I emphasize my point with a slap of my palm, desperate to squash any romantic shit they keep making up in their heads.

“I think that’s an excuse to get you alone.” A smirk grows on my friend’s pink tinted lips. “He wants to start a whole rock band in secret to get all of that— alone —time.”

Tyler’s laughter rings out through the room, drawing the attention of those around us—his loud laugh has always been able to turn heads. I mouth a ‘ sorry’ over to Angie across the way, and she smiles before returning to her customer.

As he continues to fall apart, Ty leans in closer. “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars she calls him and starts a band with him.”

I roll my eyes as they basically double-dog-dare me to call. Steph shoots me that smirk again. “Oh come on. Don’t be such a chicken, Rox.”

Tyler’s thin eyebrows raise when he hears what I absolutely hate being called, and I already know what’s coming next. He reaches over Stephanie to pinch my arm. Hard.

“He needs a drummer,” I repeat flatly.

“Then be his drummer, chicken.”

“Are you forgetting this is Noah Jackson we’re talking about?”

Something clicks in their faces then, now finally realizing how serious this is. Steph’s face morphs into that stare she always has when she means business—or when she’s debating what drink to grab from the gas station fridge.

“Yeah, you’re right...” she hums, rubbing at her chin. “Why would he want to start a band with you?”

The way she says “you” has my muscles start to go on the defense.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, unable to keep the sass out of my tone. If even my best friend is questioning Noah’s decision to start a band with me… Does she think I’m not good enough?

“I mean... Noah is a total stud , which obviously no one can deny. And you’re adorable, but... you definitely fall into the adorable category. He typically leans towards hottie instead of adorable . You know what I mean?”

I reel back, my gut reaction swift and fierce. Did my best friend really suggest that I was too “adorable” to hang with Noah? Which is honestly all the more reason to believe he’s in this strictly for the music.

After three angry heartbeats, I shake my head, scoffing—then I slap at the side of her bare arm. “Way to be harsh and judgy. I get what you’re saying, but it makes me feel like I’m being treated like some little kid compared to him.” I move to the S section on the shelf. “Why do you keep assuming he’s into me like that? Can’t he take me seriously as a drummer?”

“Because he wrote his phone number on your palm. That is the ultimate sign, Roxy.”

“Or maybe he knows I’m a drummer and he sees potential in me.”

“Yeah, the potential for some lovin’,” she giggles, and my face twists in disgust.

“He wrote his number on my palm because I needed a way to contact him.”

Something is seriously wrong with the world considering I’m defending Noah Jackson.

Her eyes flick down to the smeared phone number, then back to my face. The tightness in my stomach loosens as she grins, and I bump her hip as I add, “Now can we please talk about what you think I should do? Starting a band with that dickweed could be risky.”

“What’s the worst that could happen? You play some good tunes, and then... he makes a pass at you.” She pauses and then laughs, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Yeah, he is a dickweed.”

“A hot dickweed,” Tyler amends, earning a punch in the arm from Stephanie.

“Don’t be gross,” she scolds. “Anyway, why would it be risky?”

“We don’t get along,” I start, ticking off the reasons on my fingers, “I’ve never started a band from scratch. Especially one where we’d be winning a recording package. What if I end up failing the whole band, or he does? I have no idea where to even begin with creating a band. And since Noah has all this popularity and I’m... well, me ...” I gesture to myself, my face heating as they both give me a flat look.

My fingers start to scratch at my chest, and I’m already pulling my ‘R’ pendant into my mouth.

“I am worried that I could end up dragging him down somehow, and he’ll kick me out in the end,” I confess, tonguing the metal.

You’re kind of a shitty drummer has been lingering in my mind for the past week, whether I liked it or not. The impact that had on my self-esteem really fucking sucked.

And god… the idea of Noah rejecting me? I can only imagine his criticism would be harsher. Ideally, I’d like to pride myself on not giving a shit about what people think of me, but the truth is, it still fucking hurts when someone says it to your face. And that guy could probably make babies cry.

I spit out my necklace. “Imagine Noah Jackson telling you that you’re not good enough to be in your own band.”

That’s the thought that strikes at the core of my insides, highlighting the importance of making the right decision for myself and not allowing anyone else to undermine my worth. I need them to understand.

Stephanie looks stunned, then frowns. “Okay, look. You’re not going to fail or mess it up, and neither is Noah! You both have so much talent! Sometimes you have to put yourself out there. Even if it ends up being a total trainwreck, at least you won’t die wondering ‘what if?’ And besides... It doesn’t matter how good you are! What matters is that you have fun , okay?”

Except that it does matter that I’m good because I need to get to step four. I’m running out of time.

She holds up a pointer finger. “If he’s a dickweed then you can leave. And does it really matter what Bellpond thinks of you if you do fail in some way?”

A smirk spreads across Tyler’s mouth as he looks over at me, his eyes twinkling with something I want no part of.

“Or...” he starts, his voice hushed.

“Or?”

“Or, or, or... you two fall in love.”

I choke on my spit, and my cheeks outshine a tomato as Steph cackles in front of me.

“Wh— No— Excuse me?” My face falls before I give him a hard shove. “I need you guys to cut it out! This is serious business! I am in it for the band only!”

They both stop laughing, wiping tears from their eyes as they eye me with a sigh.

“You fantasize a lot, Roxy,” Tyler snorts. “There’s no way you’re going to work with him and not cook up some fantasy about Noah.”

“Why does he want a band, anyway?” Stephanie asks. “Doesn’t his super great social life and all his cool friends keep him plenty happy?”

I cross my arms and shrug. “Honestly, I asked him the same question but he laughed it off and gave me some speech on being a risk taker. And making me mad.”

“Wow. You two are like…” Steph makes the motions of oil and water being poured together with her hands, shaking them, then separating again. “Which makes me wonder if starting a band with him really is the best idea?”

“Oh, absolutely not. Noah is already hard to deal with on an average day. Imagine what it would be like trying to pick out a song with him.”

“See! You do not need all of the Jackson drama in your life!” She throws an arm around my shoulder. “You should take your time to think about it though and at least to rub it in his face that you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

“You know,” Tyler chirps, catching my eye with a defiant little smile on his face. “This wouldn’t be a bad trade. Being his drummer could be very beneficial to our social life.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. Of course, I should do it for you.”

Tyler’s jaw drops as he smacks at my shoulder. “Hey, you know I love a good party, but we all know that these preppies will never let us in. But... if you’re in his band, then it’s all gravy.”

“Oh, right, right. So you want to use me?”

“Guilty as charged,” he smiles and shrugs.

“You want to use me to get into parties? So... you can do what, exactly?”

Stephanie’s arm drops around me before she’s throwing her head back, laughing loudly. Tyler’s mouth drops open even further, his face utterly indignant. He says nothing as I push my hair off my neck, moving back to the row of records.

“That is exactly what I’m talking about,” she crows, dabbing at her smudged eyeliner. “Imagine all of the drama and the fun you’d be able to have at those. All the secrets and all of the dirt.”

My head starts to paint a picture of it, the brightness showing in my smile as I perk up at the idea of drinking, loud music, cigarettes, and possibly seeing Noah get slapped by girls. I’ve— we’ve— never been to a party before, not to say I haven’t wanted to, because god I have always wanted to see behind the curtain of it all.

The one shot I had was an invite from Angie, but I had an anxiety attack in the parking lot of a gas station when I accidentally sprayed gas all over the lot while pulling out the pump. Then I got pulled over for not seeing a stop sign. I turned around, drove back to Riversedge, called, canceled, and went to sleep.

Our normal parties mostly consist of us three sitting in one of their bedrooms, blasting the boombox of whatever cassettes I could grab from work, and getting drunk off whatever clear liquor was in their parents' cabinets and then filling it back up with water.

We could never do it at my house though. My mom would have noticed.

The bell of the front door chimes, and I step around my friends to see Harley standing at the front, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. Dammit , I'm not ready for him to be a part of this conversation yet. It's not that I think he'd get jealous considering Noah's reputation—we're not like that. But he tends to shut down when big things come up.

Then again, he might be the most level-headed person to ask about joining.

Harley's eyes are already zeroing in on our gossip circle. I arrange my face into something resembling innocence as he approaches, looking adorably confused while Tyler laughs behind his, whispering to me, “This’ll be interesting.”

Harley glances between all of us. “What?”

“Nothing!” My voice comes out so high and I hate myself for it. “These two were just saying hi.” I make frantic eye motions trying to shoo them toward the door.

Harley isn't buying it. His eyes narrow at their poorly concealed grins. Stephanie looks ready to piss herself laughing.

“They were just leaving!” I add with desperate cheeriness.

Harley catches my gaze, smirking as he twirls his keychain around his finger.

“Uh huh…” he drawls. “Then why was it 'interesting'?”

Before I can tell him myself, Ty whispers loudly, “Roxy might be joining a band .”

I want to evaporate on the spot.

“Okay. Well. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves—I just...” I stare at the poster on the wall, expecting Eddie Van Halen to jump out and take the spotlight off me. “Noah Jackson. He wants to start a new band and wants me to be the drummer. We've been debating if I should do it or not.”

“Noah Jackson?” His eyes quickly move back and forth between me and my friends. “That's... I didn’t know you two were friends like that.”

I shake my head. “We’re not. Not at all. This is only about band stuff.” I pause, but then my jaw sets. “He’s still an ass.”

“Okay. Well, how do you feel about it?” He gives that soft smile that makes the butterflies flap behind my sternum. God, he’s so cute. “Do you think you’re gonna join?”

I nibble on my lower lip and shrug at his loose acid-wash jeans. Cute, but wow his style has taken a turn ever since he started hanging out on the East side of the pond. The one thing that I hate most about those fancy-pants styles is how their jeans are falling off. At least Noah still wears those straight-leg ones.

I shake my head vigorously. Who cares what Noah wears?

Harley's smile remains steady as he waits for my internal debate to play out. I force myself back to his question.

“I don’t know, honestly. On one hand, it’s Noah Jackson’s band, and you and everyone else would say it’s a good opportunity. On the other, it's Noah Jackson. And he’s really not a very nice person, but... he’s also a damn good musician. Even if I don’t want to admit it.”

My lungs expand with the smell of his cloves, and this feeling starts radiating from inside my chest, like the warmth of a flickering candle. I step closer to Harley and pull his hand in between us.

“What do you think?” I ask, staring up at him.

His bushy brow quirks up as he eyes our connected hands, biting his lip while my thumb brushes over one of his knuckles. “I mean, uh... if you want my two cents.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“Well, if I remember correctly, you want to be a singer one day, right? A big star?” His eyes turn up to me, a warm glow in there that I can't extinguish by correcting him. “I’m no expert, but I wouldn’t do it. You said yourself he’s a bad guy. So... I don’t think that’s gonna change. I don’t think he’s worth working with.”

I swallow hard, catching the warmth in his brown eyes turn into something muddy. Since when does Harley get so heated about anything?

Shit, is he pissed at me for leaving him out of the loop? For talking to him last?

My mouth works soundlessly before I drop his hand. “Yeah. He’s not, and I’m not surprised that you think that. It’s... what do you think is going to happen if I say, no? Or is there even a chance that he would let me say no?”

I cross my arms and glance back at my friends for their thoughts. Stephanie looks to be biting her tongue, and Tyler eyes us all with his lips twisted to the side. Both seem too scared to speak.

“I’m not sure what would happen if you said no,” Harley says, and I look back. His brow is knit heavily, thin lips pulled into a flat line. “But if I was in your position, I would say no and walk away. Tell that punk to go kick rocks or something.”

“Well—”

“I think I’d try to forget that this ever happened because at the end of the day it’s not worth stressing over.”

I don’t want to act like he’s wrong, but turning down the opportunity to earn $1000 and a recording package? It seems unthinkable. But the fact he feels so strongly about it is what makes me question it.

How could I say no to that?

“I’m just going to think about it some more.” That’s how.

“Yeah, you do that. Don’t jump into anything right away.” He tries to smile, but it comes out all wonky as his eyes dart around the store. “Listen, I was thinking we should go to The Burger Shack on Wednesday again?”

Yes!

My heart leaps. The cozy booth we always share, laughing over fries dipped in milkshakes, his knee bumping mine under the tiny table… Hell freaking yes.

I’m grinning like a fool and I don’t even care. “Definitely. Count me in. I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

“Been waiting for things to slow down a little bit.”

The AC kicks on, sending a gust of air right into his face. His blonde hair starts swaying around his neck, and a few stray strands fall lightly across his smile. I pull my bottom lip into my mouth as I feel that heat stirring in my belly—the one that’s been neglected for so long.

Screw it. My friends are staring, but I grab onto his arm and lean in closer anyway. It’s time to take matters into my own hands if I ever want to break this dry spell.

“You know what I was thinking?” His eyes widen at my grip, and honestly, I’m a little shocked at myself too.

“What were you thinking?” he asks quietly. He knows what I’m thinking.

“Maybe we can go there to... night .” I let my intentions blaze openly across my face.

“W—well... I... uh,” he stutters. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

I tilt my head, a pout on my face as I nibble at my lip. He must have misunderstood me, right?

“Why not?”

“Can’t we hang out there tomorrow? I kinda just...” he trails off, rubbing at the back of his neck and moving his eyes around the room again.

My pout deepens into a full on frown and I make a show of rolling my eyes, trying to cover up my own bruised ego from his lack of interest. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough, but it’s been so long since he last touched me.

I’m starting to forget what his hands feel like.

“Fiiiine. If you have something that you have to do, I guess I can let it slide.” I trace a heart shape against his t-shirt with my fingertips. “You suck.”

He laughs as he places a hand on top of mine and moves it away from his chest. “And you’re insane. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Shaking my head, I cross my arms and stick out my tongue. “See you tomorrow, then.”

Then I watch as he turns and strolls out the front door, the closed sign facing toward me as it bounces off of the glass. Making fun of me. Like a chastity belt.

I turn back to my friends, Stephanie’s eyes sparkling. “That was absolutely amazing. When you turned on the charm, it was almost like a movie.”

“I’ve never seen you have balls, Roxy,” Tyler adds.

I shrug. “I’m a girl, you know. Of course I have balls.”

Steph snickers, picking up my box of records. “Okay, horndog. Let’s get this stocking done so we can play some stupid carnival games, eat all the blue ice cream you can fit into your stomach, and then ride a rollercoaster fifty thousand times until we’re so dizzy that we want to puke. And this will be fun. We’re gonna have fun .”