Chapter 14
Idon’t hear from Hayes after our run-in at Souvlaki’s. He skips French on Monday, and I don’t spot him anywhere on campus—not in the quad, not at the student union, not even lurking by the dining hall.
He’s definitely avoiding me. No question about it.
Until now, the longest we’d ever gone without talking was twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes. We were twelve. I’d broken my wrist falling out of his treehouse after he dared me to climb up without using the ladder. I never could say no to a dare.
I don’t remember much. Not the climb. Not the moment I slipped and fell. Not the drop. Just a flash of sky, a rush of wind, and then… nothing. I blacked out.
When I came to, Hayes was there, holding me, eyes wide and terrified. One hand was clutching mine, the other pressed firmly against my back to keep me upright. My wrist was already swelling, my whole body aching. But somehow, I was alive.
My mom had to leave work to take me to the emergency room. She yelled at us the entire drive while I sat in the backseat with Hayes, crying as he held my hand—the good, uninjured one.
It wasn’t until later that I learned how serious it really was. The doctor said if I’d landed just a few inches differently, I could’ve broken my neck and been paralyzed. Maybe worse.
I was lucky. A miracle, apparently. Hayes helped to break my fall.
Naturally, Mom was convinced a guardian angel must’ve been watching over me that day. One from the Underworld, I suppose.
I was so furious about my broken wrist I refused to speak to Hayes, even though I was the idiot who took the dare and should’ve known better. Back then, I didn’t know you didn’t have to prove yourself just because someone told you to do something reckless.
Hayes didn’t argue. He just looked miserable. I think he felt even worse than I did.
The next day, he bought my forgiveness by handing over his limited-edition Demogorgon Funko Pop.
It was his favorite. He was obsessed with the show Stranger Things—not just for the monsters and jump scares, but he loved the idea of the Upside Down, a shadow world running parallel to our own, only darker and more dangerous.
The vinyl figure was his version of a peace offering.
My broken bone in exchange for the best creepy monster on TV.
The gift ended our fight almost instantly. It wasn’t even a full day.
So, yeah. I’m not used to going this long without Hayes making his daily appearance in my life, but maybe a little space isn’t the worst thing.
If anything, his absence gives me room to focus on what actually matters for my future.
Time for my music. Time to work on my transfer applications.
Maybe even time to figure out who I am without him.
After classes that week, I head home each day, grab my guitar and songwriting journal, and get to work.
Maybe it’s all the pent-up emotion, worrying about Mom and about Hayes and his inevitable reconciliation with Amber, but the music pours out of me like it’s been waiting for this.
As if it’s been building up inside me for years and just needed the silence and space to finally surface.
Even the melodies, which are usually the hardest part for me, come easily for once. It’s like they already exist somewhere in me, quiet and fully formed, just waiting for permission. It feels like something’s cracked open inside me.
I record a brand-new track and upload it to my YouTube channel. It’s like nothing I’ve ever written before. More real, more raw. It’s got legs and edge—angry girl rock, pure Olivia Rodrigo energy. I fall asleep that night with my guitar still beside me and a flicker of hope burning in my chest.
When I wake the next morning, the first thing I do is check Sander Sings—and I nearly drop my phone. My new song already has hundreds of likes, pushing toward a thousand. My heart stumbles as I blink at the screen, rereading the number like it might disappear.
I’m still buzzing when I walk into Vocal Performance Studio later that morning.
The room is mostly empty. A few students are gathered in the back, and Professor Jones is at his desk, flipping through a songbook.
He’s wearing one of his signature bow ties, red with pink polka dots, paired with a crisp white button-up and khakis.
“Uh, Professor Jones?” I ask, walking over. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He looks up, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course, Ms. Smith,” he says, closing his songbook and setting it aside. “What’s on your mind?”
“I, um… started a YouTube channel. For my music.” The words tumble out in a nervous rush. “I was wondering if you’d maybe take a look. Tell me what you think?”
I slide my phone across the desk and hit play before I can second-guess myself. Guitar chords spill out of the tiny speaker as he leans in closer and bumps up the volume. My voice fills the quiet theater, and a wave of panic spikes through me.
Do I sound pitchy?
Are the lyrics too simplistic?
My confidence unravels with every note.
I look away, pretending to study the faded theater production posters from past performances on the wall, anything to avoid meeting his eyes.
The longer he listens, the more convinced I am he’s about to tell me I’m not cut out for this.
The high I felt last night after hitting upload? Completely gone.
When the song finally ends, my skin burns with embarrassment. I want to grab the phone and bury it under a rock.
But then… Professor Jones claps.
“Wonderful! Truly wonderful,” he says, eyes bright. He taps the screen and lifts a bushy brow. “And look at that—already thousands of likes. Impressive.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
I take the phone back and check the screen. Sure enough, there are over 4,000 likes and climbing. Hundreds of comments too, most of them kind. Praise for the lyrics. Fire emojis. People asking for more.
“I’m proud of you. Putting yourself out there takes guts,” he says. “How does it feel?”
“Good,” I say, sliding the phone into my backpack. “I think.”
His stomach growls just then, and he reaches into his desk drawer for a brown paper bag. “Do you mind?” he asks, holding it up like an apology.
“Oh—no, of course not.”
He hums softly as he dumps the contents onto the desk: a sad little cup of oatmeal—no toppings, not even brown sugar—and one hard-boiled egg. It’s barely enough food for a toddler.
“That’s your lunch?”
“Wife’s got me on a new diet,” he says, patting at his rounded belly. “No sugar. No salt. She doesn’t even season the eggs. Can you imagine?”
I stifle a laugh as he takes a bite and grimaces.
“Here’s my advice.” He chews slowly, thoughtfully. “The song’s great, truly. But the bridge drags a bit. Tighten it up. Add a third verse. I think there’s more story here to tell.” He gives me a pointed look. “Don’t ever hold back. The best artists never hold back.”
If he only knew. Holding things back has basically been my life’s defining skill.
“Thanks, Professor. I’ll work on it.”
“And keep going,” he says, a note of encouragement in his voice. “Maybe we can make it your solo for the Fall Showcase.”
A quiet thrill pulses through me. So far, all the solos are covers.
“Wow. That would be… really amazing.”
I rummage through my backpack and pull out the Ziploc bag of brownies Mom packed for me this morning. She still makes my lunch like I’m five years old, but sometimes it works in my favor, like now.
“Here,” I say, offering him the bag. “They’re vegan, but I swear they’re actually good. My mom’s kind of a health-nut baking wizard.”
“Well, thank you.” He unwraps one like it’s treasure. “I keep telling you, Ms. Smith, you’ve got real talent. You just have to start believing it, too.” He smiles, warm and genuine. “And I’m not just saying that because of the brownies. Though they definitely don’t hurt.”
After that, class begins, and Professor Jones introduces our new assignment, due next week.
We have to pair up and deliver a presentation on a pop artist of our choice, analyzing their musical evolution, cultural impact, and key contributions to the industry.
The concept is actually kind of cool, but I hate partner assignments.
I never have any friends to pair up with and always end up doing all the work.
I’m caught off guard when Amber’s friend Rebecca slides her desk next to mine and turns toward me.
“Want to be my partner?” she asks. “We could do Lady Gaga?”
“Sure,” I say, a bit surprised but not opposed.
We pull out our notebooks, and she exhales softly.
“She’s so talented, right?”
“Her artistry is definitely next level.” I nod.
“Tisch is my dream school—that’s where she went.
I applied last year but didn’t get in.” I glance down, cheeks warming, unsure why I’m telling her all this and wishing I hadn’t.
“It’s probably stupid, but I’m trying again. Hoping to transfer next year.”
“That’s really cool,” she says, and her expression is surprisingly earnest. “And hey, you never know. Gaga dealt with rejection too. All the greats have. And now look at her.” She leans in slightly, voice softening. “No one else gets to decide what you’re capable of. That’s up to you.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
I turn back to my notebook, dragging my pen through the margin like I’m focused, but really I’m just buying space. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what she said. It’s just strange opening up to someone I barely know. Especially one of Amber’s friends.
“So,” I say, steering us toward safer ground, “what song should we cover?”
“‘Born This Way.’ For sure.”
“You don’t want to pick something more… mainstream?”
I expected her to suggest “Poker Face” or “Bad Romance.” Something glossy and pop-forward. Bubblegum music like Amber would pick. Not a song that’s basically a gay rights anthem.
“I love that song. It’s a powerful track about owning who you are no matter what,” she says, glancing down at her two-toned Prada loafers. “That means a lot to some of us… to people like me.”
Oh.