Sing Me to Sleep

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

chapter 1 - THE OFFERING

chapter 2 - UGLY IN ALTO

chapter 3 - TAKE TWO

chapter 4 - REMAKE

chapter 5 - BRIGHT LIGHTS

chapter 6 - RUBY

chapter 7 - FIXED

chapter 8 - PROM

chapter 9 - TOO WEIRD

chapter 10 - INFECTED

chapter 11 - BROKEN

chapter 12 - WHOLE

chapter 13 - ROCK STAR

chapter 14 - WINNERS

chapter 15 - SO RIGHT

chapter 16 - SEE YOU LATER

chapter 17 - FRIENDSHIP

chapter 18 - PILLOW TALK

chapter 19 - REALITY

chapter 20 - MY GUY

chapter 21 - PLAN B

chapter 22 - CHAMBERS

chapter 23 - QUITS

chapter 24 - CREEPY

chapter 25 - REPRISE

chapter 26 - STUDY NOTES

chapter 27 - TREATMENT?

chapter 28 - TRUTH

chapter 29 - REALITY

chapter 30 - EXISTENCE

chapter 31 - HOPE?

chapter 32 - WORSE

chapter 33 - FOR DEREK

author’s note

Acknowledgments

photo appendix - IN MEMORY of MATT

Sing Me to Sleep

RAZORBILL

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Young Readers Group

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Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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Copyright © 2010 Angela Morrison

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Morrison, Angela.

Sing me to sleep / by Angela Morrison.

p. cm.

Summary: An unattractive seventeen-year-old who has a beautiful singing voice undergoes a physical transformation before performing in a singing competition with her choir in Switzerland, where she meets a boy with troubling secrets, and they fall in love.

eISBN : 978-1-101-42752-1

[1. Secrets—Fiction. 2. Singing—Fiction 3. Beauty, Personal—Fiction. 4. Love—Fiction.

5. Sick—Fiction.] I. Title

PZ7.M82924 Si 2010

[Fic] 22

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For Matt,

who left us too soon.

prologue

Damn, she’s ugly.

My bio-dad’s first words when he saw me. It’s my only image of him. A shadowy figure bending over Mom wearing a hospital gown, holding a flannel-wrapped bundle in her arms.

Damn, she’s ugly, Tara. What did you do?

Like she ate or drank something strange that made me come out red and pimply with a purple blotch on my forehead. No hair. Cone head from the delivery. My baby face screwed up and screaming at him.

Mom didn’t hate him enough to actually tell me that story. She doesn’t talk about him—not to me. He played in a rock band. Not a big one. That’s all I know. I’ve seen the picture, though. It’s in our family album with the rest of my baby pictures. The only one that survived with him in it. But Mom did hate him enough to tell that story over and over to his sister, her best friend since high school, every time his name resurfaced between them.

It’s my first clear memory. Stacking Cool Whip bowls and margarine containers on the kitchen floor, listening to Mom talk on the phone, tuning into the quiet intensity of her voice.

“Damn, she’s ugly. Our beautiful baby. That’s all he had to say.”

I was her beautiful baby. She called me that all the time.

Beautiful? Now I knew the truth. I was ugly. Damn ugly. No wonder Dad took off. Never looked back. Not at his ugly daughter making a fairy-tale tower from white and yellow plastic bowls, singing the first song she ever wrote, quietly to herself.

Da-amn ugly, da-amn ugly.

At least I can sing. Got that from my mom’s side. I may not look like a songbird—more like a song stork—but if you close your eyes, it’s beautiful.

chapter 1

THE OFFERING

Crap. There’s a naked freshman chained to my locker.

No. Not naked. Briefs. Not a good look, kid. Spindly white legs, wimpy chest, shaking arms. Black socks. Maybe his mom didn’t do the laundry all spring break, and that’s all he’s got today.

A bike chain encased in lime-green plastic goes through my locker’s handle down the poor kid’s underwear and out a leg, loops up, locked tight. He could escape if he wanted to streak.

Sniggering behind me. I don’t turn. That’s what they want. The sound multiplies. Amplifies. Magnifies into an audience.

I didn’t see it coming while I slumped into the hall traffic, sinking lower into my baggy sweatshirt and loose Levi’s, my eyes tracing the regular lines in the floor tiles, as I hid behind my long brown frizzed-out mane, face rigid just in case.

My progress was strangely quiet. No guys darting in front of me telling me to “get my effing ugly face” out of their way. No one shouting, “Take cover. The Beast is loose.” No dying animal moans echoing off the lockers as I walked by. Only silence. Deadly silence. I thought I’d escaped this morning. I should have known. The hunters are on the attack.

But I’m not the only one they attacked this time. I focus on the trembling kid. “Did they hurt you?” I accidentally brush his arm.

He jerks back, stares at the spot I touched like it will burst into flames or harden to stone and turn to dust. Can’t blame him. I’m Beth the Beast. Too tall to ever stand straight. Bony body. Face full of zits. Bug eyes magnified by industrial-strength glasses. The braces have been off for three years, but no one sees my straight, white teeth. Just fangs, long yellow ones. Dripping blood.

“They said”—the kid shudders and swallows hard—“to tell you I’m the offering.”

They. We both know who they are. Colby Peart, Travis Steele, Kurt Marks. The Horsemen. Aren’t there supposed to be four? And I think that’s biblical. Ironic. Nothing biblical about Colby and his senior ultra-jock following who hold Port High School in their grasp. Apocalyptic? That works. But the end of their reign approaches. Seniors graduate. Unless by some sick shake of fate’s dice they fail, next year this place will be liberated. The Horsemen will ride off into the sunset. I hope warriors hiding behind the hills get them and tear them to pieces.

The kid’s talking again. The press behind me seethes in close enough to hear. “They said the Bea—you—require a sacrifice.” He shudders again and looks down at the floor. “Every full moon.”

The crowd behind us roars. Laughter is supposed to be healthy, uplifting. Not in Port, Michigan.

“It’s okay.” I restrain myself from patting his shoulder. “We’ll get Mr. Finnley to bring his bolt cutters.”

The kid won’t shut up. His head comes back up, and he grimaces at me. “They said you’d drag me into your lair—”

More laughter.

Heat pours into my face, and I mumble, “I don’t eat freshmen for breakfast.”

“Eat me?” Confusion knits the kid’s brows together. “That’s not what they said you’d do.”

Riot levels break out behind us. It sounds like half the school has crammed into the hall.

I don’t turn and look. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Can you knock me out first?”

The laughter, mocking and harsh, bounces back and forth across the hall, off the metal locker stacks.

This kid must have swallowed every word of the Beast legend. I’m a giant. I’m hideous. But a crazed female rapist preying on skinny freshmen?

I hold up my hands and back off. “They got you, okay.” My eyes sting. They got me, too. “You’re safe.” I turn and try to push through the wall of unyielding bodies to find the custodian. My eyes are blurry. Crap.

Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it. “Excuse me. Please.” The surging wall of cackling bodies solidifies.

Then I see Mr. Finnley’s head. Scott’s there, too—leading him through the crowd. I swallow hard.

“Sorry, Beth.” Scott bites his lip. “I wanted to get this cleaned up before you got here—but the kid wouldn’t leave his whities.”

“That’s enough, people. Don’t you have classes to go to?” Mr. Finnley glares, and the masses scuttle off back to the cracks and drains they came from. The Finnster shakes his head and gets busy cutting the chain. “I’ll have to report this.”

That’s all I need. Another session in the office. Questions I can’t answer. “Who did this?” Silence. “Who do you think did this?” Who do you think did this? We all know. Colby and his clones are behind everything nasty that goes on here. Nobody names them. We have another assembly about bullying. Nothing changes.

I glance down at the binder I’m carrying for first period. I scribbled out the words, but I know what they say:Your words—

Why do they define me ?

Why do I believe you?

Your face,

Your lips, and your fingers—

Don’t spill them on me.

I’m bones, blood, and flesh

Not clay to be pounded,

And scorched in the fire

That seethes in the hate you feel.

I bleed when you wound me

Just like the pretty girls do.

It needs some kind of hopeful chorus. Can’t seem to squeak anything like that into the equation. No music, either. Just those thin lines that make me sound so angry. I guess I am—angry. But I don’t want everyone knowing that. I do a lot of erasing, burning, shredding, hiding, hurting. I run back to Da-am ugly and stay there.

The end of the year can’t come fast enough. If I tiptoe next year, I’ll be able to breathe—like when they left junior high.

Scott reads my mind. “Only three months, eight days, thirteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes until they graduate.”

“Why do you help me?” Scott and I were best friends in preschool, and then he was in my class again in third grade. He was skinny and had to go to the nurse’s office for hyper drugs at lunch. I was already taller than everyone else and wore thick, round glasses that made me look like an overgrown bush baby. My hair was short back then. Cut it now? No way. Where would I hide?

Scott doesn’t have to hide. Doesn’t have to help me and doom himself to eternal loserhood. He’s cute since his face cleared up. I don’t think he sees it. He’s still way short, Quiz Bowl captain, core nerd. Still my friend.

He grins, nonchalant, self-sacrificing, Clark Kent to the core. “I don’t take gym anymore. They can’t steal my clothes and throw them in the toilet.”

“But they could hurt you.”

“You’re worried?” He pats my shoulder. “That’s nice, Beth. See you in choir.”

Choir. School choir. Not my real choir down in Ann Arbor. Not the choir I begged Mom to let me audition for when I was thirteen. Not the competitive all-girls choir where I sit unobtrusively in the back and anchor the altos. Not the one I have to drive a hundred miles to, through Detroit’s rush-hour traffic down I-94 every Tuesday and Thursday to rehearsals in a freezing cold church. Not Bliss Youth Singers of Ann Arbor. The choir I live for. The choir that takes me away from who I am to what I long to be. Beautiful? I guess. Isn’t that what everyone wants? They all probably want love, too. I live with so much hate that I’m not even sure what love is. Neither is on my horizon.

Scott’s just talking about our struggling school choir. Kind of a joke. Marching Band is almighty here. But choir passes the time. Easy A. Music is music. Singing is singing. A respite from the madness. No jock senior boys allowed. Out of this school of nearly two thousand kids, there are only eight guys in the whole group, so I sit by Scott and sing tenor. I’ve got a decent low voice and perfect pitch so sight-reading parts come naturally. I can sing high, too. I can sing as high as anybody if I want. I help out the sopranos and altos when we run parts. They go to pieces when I go back to tenor.

Scott can’t sing, but he tries. I asked him once why he takes choir. Any guy who signs up is instantly labeled “gay” by Colby and his jocks—and the rest of the school.

Scott turned kind of pink. “So I can hear you sing.”

That was probably the nicest thing any guy had ever said to me. Not that Scott was serious.

I played along. “Be careful.” I punched his arm. “You’ll ruin your reputation.”

He got serious then. “I’m not gay, Beth.”

“Of course, you’re not.”

He was going to say something else, but he just shook his head and walked off.

I dare you to say I’m not ugly.

So, back to this morning. Scott’s halfway down the hall, but I catch up easy. Long beast legs cover ground quickly. “Thanks, Scott. I mean it. School would be hell without you.”

He puts out his arm like he’s a prom princess escort. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

A shuddery, weak laugh comes out of me. I rest my arm on top of his and let him lead me down the hall, grateful for the support.

He smiles up at me. No braces for him now, either. Teeth recently whitened. A bit dazzling. “I wonder what people think when we walk down the hall together.”

I laugh, stronger this time. “Beauty and the Beast. Dr. Namar did a great job on your face.” We go to the same dermatologist. So far the miracle of clear skin hasn’t happened for me. Dr. Namar keeps trying. He says the scarring will be minimal. But I have eyes.

Scott stops and turns to me. He’s got a dreamy look on his face. “Beauty and the Beast? So if we dance in the moonlight—”

“You better bring a stool.”

“One of the wheelie ones from the library?”

“Perfect. Mind if I lead?” Then I feel dumb. This giant girl dwarfing sweet, little Scott. I let go of his arm and move forward, head down, withdrawing into myself again. My shoulders round to their usual downward curve.

Scott hustles to catch up. “What I want to know is,” he grabs me by the elbow and makes me stop walking, “if I kiss you when the music stops,” he stands on his toes and whispers in my ear, “will you be my Princess Charming?”

I snort. “Dream on. No magic’s going to help this.” I pull back, deeper into my beastly cave.

Scott smiles. “I wouldn’t mind an experiment.”

I don’t like it when he gets like this. “You don’t want to waste your virgin lips on me. You could dazzle a half-decent looking freshman into making out easy.” I head for my class. “Look in the mirror.”

He scurries along beside me, scowling. “I wish you’d get over the looks thing.”

I scowl right back at him. “Look at me, Scott.” I part my hair with both hands and pull it away from my face long enough to give him a frightening glimpse. “How could I ever get over the looks thing? I am the Beast.”

“If you believe that, they win.”

“Wake up. Look around.” I wrap my arms across my chest, trying to control the delayed reaction that shudders through me. “They won a long time ago.”

chapter 2

UGLY IN ALTO

Scott isn’t in choir. I look for him after school. No luck. I have Bliss practice down in Ann Arbor, so I can’t dawdle. I need to talk to him, though. I know he’s trying to be sweet, but him saying stuff about kissing and dancing hurts worse than “The Beast” spray-painted in bright green across the trunk of my faded-orange Ford.

I want to be kissed as much as the next seventeen-year-old girl. The ugly genie gave me plenty of hormones. But why even go there? When I’m forty, some blind bald guy can fall in love with me. My sight is bad to awful so we’d have that in common to build a relationship on. I’m too hideous for a guy who can see to even touch. I read somewhere that women peak sexually at thirty-eight—so that should work well for me. We can get married and have ugly blind kids. I don’t even care if he’s fat.

And I like kids. It’s sad Mom didn’t marry again and have more. Sometimes I wonder if she still loves my father—after all this time, all the pain. The only thing she got out of the whole deal was me. Not much of a prize. A baby sister to look after would have been cool. I work summers at the library—tons of toddlers and frazzled moms. I tried to help with the crafts a couple times, but the tykes got scared. Blind kids would be good.

I could find a blind high school to volunteer at and make a play for love now. Or maybe I’ll just go home, slam a sandwich, and hit the road so I’m not late for practice.

I drive myself these days. Mom always hated the drive—had to leave work early every Tuesday. The whole thing was doable when Bliss practiced once a week, but last fall, Terri, our director, decided she wanted to try to get us into the Choral Olympics this year and bumped up the practices to twice a week. Mom decided my driving skills were excellent and bought me an old Ford so I could drive myself. At least the orange isn’t off-the-lot bright. Looks like a dying pumpkin. Perfect to join my ugly stepsister gig. I named her Jeannette, nice and lovely so her feelings don’t get hurt. Misery does love company. Look at Scott and me.

Slushy sleet chases me all the way through Detroit. I’m way late. I hate March weather. Spring around here is dark, cold, and nasty. Gray rotting snowbanks that hang on as long as they can. Sleet and ice instead of pure-white winter snow.

Traffic is a mess tonight, and poor old Jeannette is gutless. Everybody cuts us off. I don’t ever dare try that. This is Detroit. I may be ugly, but I still want to live to sing another song.

I finally shake free of metro traffic and zoom into sleepy Ann Arbor, upscale university town, dozing on the banks of a quiet creek. The stone church we sing in is as old as the town. I slip into the sanctuary halfway through their warm-up.

No problem. I’m already hot. I played our practice playlist the whole drive down. Sang through the drills. All the songs. I downloaded all the parts, not just my alto. I love the soprano solo in this gospel piece we used for our Choral Olympics audition—“Take Me Home.” I cranked Jeannette’s dying CD player until the speakers were popping and sang the solo. I was a total star in the car.

I love it when we get to sing gospel stuff. None of us in Bliss are purist enough to prefer the classical religious pieces. We all beg Terri for more Broadway. That’s the best stuff to sing. Most of the girls get pumped over the stupid pop pieces Terri throws in to keep the audiences happy. I admit I have my favorite contemporary divas packed in my iPod—who doesn’t? But when I’m performing, I want more than that. I want the music to have heart and soul, desolation and joy—some meaning, for gosh sake. It’s so hard to find anything that means anything.

Terri’s kind of delusional with the whole Choral Olympics thing. There’s no way we’re going to get an invitation. We nailed the classical test-piece when we recorded it for our audition recording, but “Take Me Home” is challenging. Even the alto is incredible to sing—all that great stuff about the sweet, sweet River Jordan. There’s this huge climax with everyone singing something else in kind of a round. Celebration and heartbreak all at the same time. Awesome. But Meadow, our soprano soloist, choked. She’s had lessons her whole life, makes the most of her breathy, pop voice. But “Take Me Home” needs power. And emotion. Terri kept trying to get Meadow to go there, take after take, until we were all angry and exhausted. Meadow was in tears and then she just disappeared. Terri had to splice something together to send to the committee.

The Choral Olympics are in Lausanne, Switzerland, this July. Terri keeps putting pictures of the Alps and lakes and castles and Swiss houses overflowing with red geraniums and flags up on the Web site. It’s going to be such a downer when we get the news. We should hear back any day now. We also applied to this festival out near Vancouver, Canada. Got into that easy. Better than nothing.

But not Switzerland.

I grab a spot at the end of the row of standing altos and fall into the rhythm of oohing and aahing, rolling higher and higher. Good. I missed the zings.

“That’s great, girls. Keep singing. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh.” The piano hits the chord for the next note up. “Everyone turn to the right. Shoulder rub the girl in front of you.”

I pivot and start massaging Sarah, the girl beside me. She has for-real, not dyed, blonde hair that hangs down her back. Silky straight. Never a hint of a wave. Hair I’d kill for. No one is behind me.

Terri steps up and rubs my neck and shoulders. “I’m glad you made it. I was getting worried about you.”

“Kind of nasty out.”

“You be careful, Beth.”

“In a few more weeks, it’ll be just rain.”

“And you can drive through anything.”

“Almost.” Mom wouldn’t let me come a couple of times last month. Bad storms. Tonight is nothing.

“It may ice up later.” I know I can stay at her place. She offers it all the time. I’ve never been brave enough to take her up on it. “Eees, girls. And I don’t want to hear any witches.” The choir keeps moving up the scale.

“I’ve got new tires. The interstate should be fine.”

Terri squeezes my shoulders one last time and bellows, “Now everybody—left.” She runs around the room to massage the girl on the other end of the line.

We sing through a couple of numbers. The first is one of those old pop song fillers. Boring. There’s this one girls’ choir in Europe that sings crazy rock songs. Sounds dumb, but they are a huge hit. I’d like to try one of those pieces.

The second song is our third competition piece. It features the altos, and we’re all over it—carry the whole performance.

“Excellent.” Terri beams over at my section. “That was gorgeous, altos. Good work.” She puts her hand up to her forehead. “Sopranos. You’re not getting the harmony right.”

“I don’t know why we have to sing harmony.” Meet Meadow. Beautiful. Dainty. Skin so perfect you want to touch it to see if it’s frosted on. Big dark eyes, long black lashes, perfectly plucked brows, pink lips—always glossy. Long, perfectly layered, and highlighted blonde hair. Never even a hint of black roots. A bustline her mom paid for. Size-one designer jeans. Heels all the time. Diva attitude. “First sopranos are supposed to sing the melody.”

Terri is way too patient with her. “The altos carry the melody through that section. It’s only eight bars. Let’s go over it again.” Meadow’s parents are loaded. They keep Bliss afloat. Terri has to be patient.

“I’m sick of this song.” Meadow flips through the sheet music in her open binder.

Terri bites her lower lip. “Would you like to practice ‘Take Me Home’?”

An approving murmur runs through the girls. We all get off on that song, and we haven’t sung it since our disaster recording session. It gets the blood flowing. We stomp and clap. Some of us get rhythm instruments and drums. One girl even gets to shout, “Hallelujah.” It’s as wild as a competitive all-girls choir gets.

Meadow shakes her head, retreats as fast as she can. “That’s okay. We should get this right first.”

I have to agree with Meadow. Singing “Take Me Home” now would be torture. We won’t get into the Choral Olympics, and Meadow can’t sing the song. It’s weird Terri brought it up.

Terri pushes her hair off her high forehead. What I would give for her cheekbones. “If that’s what you want. When we perform this at the Choral Olympics, your part must be perfect.” She smiles to encourage Meadow. “The altos are doing a fantastic job. The sopranos need to catch up.”

“Okay, girls.” Terri enlarges her smile to include the remaining sopranos. “Let’s run that part.”

It’s an easy descant. I can sing it in my sleep. They finally get it. Fall apart when we put it together. Sopranos can be so annoying. We sing that part twenty times. Just those eight boring bars. Now they can do it in their sleep.

“Excellent work.” Terri gets the sopranos high-fiving each other.

I can’t figure out why Terri keeps Meadow as soloist. Who cares if Meadow’s mom promised a check for new costumes if we make it to the Choral Olympics? Our old ponchos are still serviceable. Mine’s kind of short, but I stand in the back—way in the back. I glance around at the other girls. I guess Meadow is the best we have.

“Take a minute, girls.” Terri glances at Meadow. “We’re going to practice ‘Take Me Home’ next.” She sounds kind of defeated. She knows how bad Meadow sings this song. She knows the Choral Olympics is a fantasy, but she can’t let the girls see. I see. I’m wearing mega-thick glasses. I see everything.

I grab my water bottle, drain it halfway, stretch, and sink on the hardwood pew behind me. We practice standing in the church pews. There are eighty of us, so we don’t fit in their choir seats on the stand. The sanctuary is full of warm old wood. Great acoustics. Perfect for “Take Me Home.” Especially when we all get rocking—until Meadow gets lost, and we have to go back to the top.

Terri squats in front of Meadow, giving her a pep talk. Then she’s on her feet again. “Leah, pass out the instruments.” Leah’s the choir president. Nice girl. Her straight long hair is dark brown, almost black. Matches her eyelashes and ballerina face.

Buzzing confusion. The jingle of the triangle. Someone hits her drum. Sarah shoves the croaking shaker that I play into my hand.

Terri glares us into silence, raises her hands, and cues the pianist. The notes climb through the air, engulfing us all in the mournful sound. Eighty pairs of eyes glue to Terri’s every move.

Now it’s Meadow’s solo opening. Terri dips her hand to bring her in and—

Nothing.

Meadow runs across the front of the room and out the side door.

“Leah, go after her.”

Terri folds her arms, studies the music, tapping her foot.

I stand frozen with the rest of the choir. No one even rattles a shaker.

Leah returns with her doll-like face in a frazzle. “She’s throwing up.”

Groans and confusion. Everyone is disappointed. Terri seems really upset.

My hand creeps into the air. I’m not quite sure what it’s doing up there. I’ve never raised my hand in choir before.

“Beth?”

I swallow hard and look around at my altos for strength. I can do this. I can. “I know the solo.” My mumble is lost in the shuffle of the girls around me.

“Quiet, girls. What was that?”

Now everyone is listening, staring, questioning. I force myself to stand up straight, pull my shoulders back for courage, and take a deep breath. “I can sing it if you want. Meadow’s part. So we can practice.”

“You’re an alto.”

“I know the solo.”

“You can hit those notes?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sure.” A smile breaks free from the churning pit of cowardice in my stomach.

Terri looks at me for a beat, smiles back. “Okay, then. Thank you, Beth.”

Sarah takes my instrument. Her eyes are big—scared for me.

I close mine. Breathe deep. In and out. I’m in the car. Alone. That’s not our pianist delicately caressing the opening from the black and whites. It’s just the practice CD. I’ve done this a hundred times.

It’s my cue, and I’m there, singing—I take me down to the river,

The sweet, sweet river Jordan,

Stare across the muddy water

And long for the other side.

My voice flows pure and strong through the andante opening solo verse. I get a chorus all to myself, slow and mournful—lots of great runs.Take me home, sweet, sweet Jesus.

And wrap me in your bosom,

Where my master cannot find me.

Lord, I long for the other side.

Then the choir comes in singing, Take me home, take me home, take me home. My voice soars high above them.

Verse two. No solo in this section. I open my eyes and sing with the altos.I lay me down by the river,

The sweet, sweet river Jordan,

My fingers touch the muddy water.

There’s rich grass on the other side.

The tempo ramps up on the chorus. Things start to get wild. We’re all singing full power, top of our voices, shaking the windowpanes.Oh, the glory of that bright day

When I cross the river Jordan.

The angels playing banjo

And the good Lord on the fiddle.

Terri’s smiling all over herself—having the time of her life. She’s jumping up and down, getting everybody into it. Oh, crap, it’s me again. High and fluid over the harmonic jumble of the rest of the choir.There’s me pappy and me mammy—

Singing like they’ve never sung before—

I keep my eyes open this time. The choir sings back to me. I let loose, throw in another run at the end of the line.The dark boy who said he loved me

And fills my dreams at night.

The place is rocking, building to the climax. All of us, full-throated, sing, Take me home, take me home, take me home, like we never have before. Electric sound magic. Music flying everywhere. The key changes, and we’re into the bridge.But my babe, Lord, my sweet child, who wears my master’s eyes,

Wraps his sweet, sweet fingers so tight around my heart—

Each section wanders down its own tangled pathway until we wind back together into a perfect sustained chord: HE AIN’T READY FOR JORDAN!

We’re one with that tragic girl so far away in time and place. A bunch of white girls finding their souls.

Terri hushes us into reverence for the next line. A mother breathes because she must.

Like my mom who kept going when my dad bolted. For me. She kept breathing, kept working—too wounded to ever love again. And I stare at her with his eyes, his height, his face, his zits. Every day, I’m there to remind her. The Beast incarnate.

The girls around me chant, Pulls me back, pulls me back, pulls me back.

My voice finds its way out of the harmony. Alone. One small slave girl looking for salvation.I bid farewell to the river,

The sweet, sweet river Jordan,

Turn my back on the muddy water,

Close my eyes to that other side.

I don’t know how I keep singing the final chorus. I’m so full of her agony. My voice breaks when I sing, Where my master cannot find me. I get control, and the choir joins me in a harmonious, heart-throbbing, Lord, I long for the other side.

I’m weeping on that last note. So is Terri. So are Sarah and the girl in front of me. All the girls are wiping their eyes. The final piano chord dies away. Terri drops her hands.

Pandemonium.

Everybody crowds around me. Hugging me. Pulling on my arms. Patting my back. They’re all cheering. For me. Massively unprecedented emotion surges heat into my face.

Terri plows through the choir and hurls her tiny self at my giant frame. “Why didn’t you tell me you can sing like that?”

I sniff and wipe my eyes. “I’m an alto.”

That’s when I see her. Meadow. Standing in the doorway. Her face matches the pale-green walls behind her in the hall. “What’s going on?”

chapter 3

TAKE TWO

What Terri says next bounces in my brain but doesn’t get through to me.

She clears her throat and says it again, “Meadow, I’m giving Beth the solo in ‘Take Me Home.’”

Me? The soloist? For real? My legs go jelly. I sink onto the pew behind me.

“But it’s mine.” Meadow clutches the wood doorframe. “You can’t give it to that—”

Hideous beast. She doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows what she means.

“You can’t dash out to the bathroom when we’re onstage in Lausanne.”

“It’s not like I do it on purpose.”

“We need a soloist for this piece, hon. You’ve tried and tried. I know that. Beth can do it. You heard her, didn’t you?”

Meadow stamps her foot. “Give it up, Terri. We’re not going to be on the stage in Lausanne.”

Her cold words blanket the room, silence the glow of the music we welded in the midst of the night. We all remember the pathetic recording we submitted.

I can’t believe Terri is finally getting real with Meadow. I’m sick of all the babying, but Meadow is right. It’s way too late. It doesn’t matter now. I guess we’ll need this piece in Vancouver. Singing is singing. I’ll be the soloist there. Maybe that trip won’t be up to Meadow’s standards, and she’ll skip the whole thing.

Meadow glares at me. “I say we dump that stupid piece. I hate it.”

“Unfortunately, Meadow, I think we’ll still need it.” Terri stands up on a pew so all the girls can hear her. “You’re not going to believe this, ladies.”

“Quiet, everybody.” Leah hops on the bench and waves her hands around. “Listen. Shush.”

“I heard from the Choral Olympics yesterday.”

Dead silence.

Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes.

“The MP3 file I sent them with our audition performance was corrupted. They need a new copy. I was going to resend the recording we made back in January, but I got busy today. Put it off.”

Somebody squeals. And then another girl. It’s getting noisy. Terri has to yell to be heard. “How about we get together on Saturday and record this again—with Beth.”

“Hold on.” It’s Meadow. She looks even worse than before. “Who is going to tell my mother?”

I float home. Float into the house. Float up to Mom’s room, totally amped that I can give her this. A fragment of “Take Me Home” runs through my head when I knock on her door. A mother breathes because she must. That’s my mom. For sure. She breathes for me.

I tell her, and she flips out. “You’re going to be the soloist?”

“Yeah. Me. And Terri’s pretty sure that with me singing, we’ll get in. You should have heard me tonight.” I drop onto her bed and curl up on my side next to her, still trying to believe it’s true.

“Too bad Grandma Lizzie is gone.” Mom smoothes her hand over my head. “She would have loved to see this.” Grandma Lizzie is where I got my voice. She was in a big band, sang for the troops in World War II. She died just after I was born.

“Maybe she did. Maybe she was there tonight. Holding my hand.”

Mom gets all teary and hugs me.

I get settled for the night in my own bed but can’t sleep. Stand up and stare at myself in the mirror. The girl that looks back isn’t a soloist. She’s the one you hide behind the floral arrangement. That would work. I can sing from anywhere. I don’t want this face to wreck what they hear. I’m still that damn ugly daughter, still defined, still believe them.

I’m floating at school next day, too, but I’m so sleepy. I keep nodding off. Finally wake up by choir. Scott sits down next to me. I’m too happy to go back to where we left off yesterday. He’ll never have to cheer me up again. He can be sweet and stupid if he wants. I’m so high—nothing will hurt. At least nothing Scott can dream up. Colby could probably get through, but he’s done his worst for a while. He’ll have to lie low after his naked-freshmen stunt. Only a couple of guys directed crude remarks in my direction as I crept through the hall this morning. Life’s good. Really good.

“What’s up with you?” Scott is still grumpy. He does need to go find a cute, short girlfriend. He’s starting to fill out. He has a neck now. He never used to have a guy neck. And he’s letting his baby-blond hair grow out. Crew cuts no more. He’s almost got locks. It goes good with the neck.

“Are you lifting weights?”

“I go to the gym with my dad.”

“That must be nice.”

“He needs encouragement. You want to come with us—Saturday?”

“I’m recording on Saturday.”

“You sign with Motown when I wasn’t looking?”

“Hardly. But—” I can’t help breaking into a foolish, sappy, I-can’t-believe-my-good-fortune smile. “I’m the new soloist for Bliss.”

“The fancy chick choir? About time.”

“This is huge. Is that all you can say?”

“Congratulations. When you sign with Motown, let me know.”

I want to grab him by his sexy new guy neck and throttle him, but class starts and he needs it to sing.

Saturday I’m up early. Out the door. I’m so pumped and alive. Wonder if love feels like this. Who needs it when you can have this rush, this excitement? Maybe that’s why divas churn through men. What guy could match this high?

The roads are clear for once. No traffic, no slush, no construction. The sun even makes a brief appearance. I sail down the freeway, singing my solo with the practice CD cranked, coaxing Jeanette up to seventy. She shakes and vibrates, but I don’t let up until the speed limit drops back to fifty-five.

I get to choir early enough to help Terri set up the recording equipment. Rental stuff. Huge microphones. A double-reel tape recorder this time to back up the digital. We get lost in the wires and don’t notice Meadow and her parents when they arrive.

Her dad elegantly clears his throat. “Can I help?” He slips off his brown leather driving gloves, takes a bundle of mike cords from me, and adeptly straightens the mess. He wears a camel-colored wool coat, perfectly tailored. Really handsome. Not just the coat.

Terri’s cheeks go pink when she talks to him. “After what happened to our last file, I don’t quite trust digital anymore.” She nods at the extra equipment.

He turns to hook the mikes into the recording system. “Yes. Meadow told me you’re re-recording this morning.”

“That’s right. The Choral Olympics couldn’t get the file we sent with our application to work. So we’ve got a rare chance—the girls are so much better now than they were in January.”

Meadow glares in my direction. “But this is cheating. You should send the same recording.”

“It’s kind of messed up.” I wonder what she did to it. “I called the committee and explained we need to rerecord. They said fine.” She throws a look at me.

I turn away, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep my face in check.

Meadow’s father turns knobs on the soundboard, pretending to be preoccupied. “Meadow says you’re giving Beth her solo.” He looks meaningfully at Terri.

She sort of wilts. The man knows how to use his powers. He sells cars. Thousands of them. Terri swallows and starts shuffling through her music. “Meadow was too ill to sing it Thursday.”

“Ill?” Meadow’s dad glances at her mom.

She wraps the fur collar on her coat tighter around her neck. “Meadow was not ill. You bullied her into performing when she wasn’t ready.” She’s got full-length real furs in her closet at home. She wears them to our concerts.

Terri continues. I can tell she memorized this speech. “Beth filled in. The girls feel we should record both soloists, play it back and vote on which recording to send.”

Way to go, Terri. So sly. How can they object to that?

Meadow’s mom stares me down. “Beth can go first. Dear,” she addresses her husband, “you better stay.”

I can tell that no way does Meadow’s high-powered dad want to spend his Saturday at a tedious recording session, especially if Meadow’s singing, but he prepares to obey. “I can man this stuff for you.” He flashes a smile made for movies at Terri. “Old hobby.”

I can imagine the sound system they’ve got at their place and smile to myself. I bet Meadow is way into karaoke.

By 8:30 a.m. the pews are packed. Warm-up and neck rubs. Everybody’s loose and spirited. It feels like a party. Recording sessions are usually stressed, but not this one. Whispers run around the room. No one seems to be able to hold her instrument still. Terri rolls with it. Normally she’d be uptight, glare down any girl who made a single unwanted noise.

All the girls are eager to see what Meadow’s mom will do when she hears me sing. Sarah thinks she’ll walk out and take her checkbook with her. The girl in front of me says, “No way. She’s so delusional. She’ll think Meadow is better.”

Terri calls us to attention. Silence. She cues Meadow’s dad to start recording. I should be nervous, but there’s a fierce desire in me that doesn’t leave room for butterflies. I stand tall so I can pull a huge breath in with my diaphragm and close my eyes. The piano intro starts. By the time the pianist hits my cue, I’m that lonely slave girl again pleading with her Lord to take her to a better place. The choir joins me. The music swells and twists. I’m lost in it. No mikes. No digital recorder picking up every hint and color of my voice. No Meadow sitting in the choir seats with her mom, who watches with a stunned look on her face. I’m transported—lost in the words and the tragedy and quiet heroism they spell. I am this music. The celebration mounts, comes to its climax, and then it’s just me, my voice throbbing with emotion, sanctifying the song as I sing:Turn my back on the muddy water,

Close my eyes to that other side . . .

Lord, I long for the other side.

My face is wet again. I don’t know when the tears came.

Then silence. No one breathes. All eyes are glued on Terri’s upraised hands. She nods to Meadow’s dad. He pushes buttons, and it’s over. Perfect take.

First time.

That never happens.

Our eyes pivot to Meadow and her mom. They’re whispering. We’re still silent. Meadow’s mom stands up. Hang on. Here comes the cyclone. The woman shakes her perfectly styled head sadly and helps Meadow to her feet.

“I told you they’d split,” Sarah whispers. “Kiss those new outfits good-bye.”

I nudge with my elbow to shut her up.

Meadow’s mom guides her to the podium where the minister delivers his sermons. We’re all looking up at her. Meadow’s face is set, her mouth a firm line. “I really want to go to Switzerland.” She licks her lip gloss off. She points at me. “We’ll get in with that.” Meadow glances back at her mom. “Mom says it’s okay. I don’t have to do the solo.”

Stunned silence.

She can’t be giving in. Not so easy. I guess I was counting on her leaving in a huff when she lost the vote. But she wants to stay and let me sing? I don’t get it.

“What?” Meadow looks around the room. “You think it’s easy to have to sing the solos all the time? You think I want that kind of pressure?” She shrugs her shoulders. “Let her do it for a change.”

Pandemonium, take three.

Good thing we’re not taping again with Meadow because no one has a voice left after all that screaming. Terri passes around a big bag of honey-flavored throat lozenges, and we sit down and listen to the playback.

I’ve never heard myself like that before. Gives me chills. That rich, beautiful sound dancing above the choir is me? Doesn’t seem real. We’re sending this off to an international selection committee. Me. We’re sending me off. I get lost in the fantasy. I’m singing on a stage with lights shining all around.Can this be me ?

A microphone in my hand.

Lightbulbs flashing,

People screaming when I take command.

Can this be me ?

Taking the stage for gold dreams.

A true princess

Winning glory like the tales say

I can—

Is it me ?

After the playback, I avoid Meadow. She’s dealing with rejection better than I ever thought she could. Maybe she’s telling the truth. If I had her voice, I wouldn’t want to sing the solos either. She’s got ears like the rest of us. She’s allowed to want to go to Switzerland no matter what it takes—like the rest of us.

Her mom is another story. She hovers in the back, rapid-fire whispering to her husband while he winds up the mike cords.

“Okay, girls.” Terri ignores the angry woman at the back of the room. “If we’re going to get our act ready for the world stage, we’ve got a lot of work to do. See you Tuesday.”

I hang out so I can thank Terri, but Meadow’s mom descends on her. “If you’re actually going through with this, we need to talk gowns. They must have something elegant. My daughter will not appear on an international stage in one of those old capes.”

I get myself clean out of her way. Guess our capes are doomed. The hand-painted flowers on the front are kind of hokey, but they’re pretty. And we get to wear comfy black pants and a cotton choir T-shirt under them.

Meadow’s mom continues in a loud voice, “They’ll need an entire travel wardrobe.”

Terri’s eyebrows shoot up. “We better keep it basic. Most of the girls don’t have a budget for a new wardrobe.”

“Don’t let that worry you. I have suppliers.” She’s getting excited. “A few classic pieces. Mix and match.”

“Comfortable.” Terri’s not going to win this one.

“Well-made clothes are always comfortable.” Meadow’s mom launches into a list of exactly what we must have.

“Thank you so much,” Terri finally says. “I’ll leave it all up to you.” Good going, Terri. We won the war—let her have this battle.

“I insist on it. At least they’ll all look good.” She catches sight of me. “Well, most of them.”

I can’t thank Terri properly with this woman in the way. Terri sees me. She knows. I give it up, heft my music bag onto my shoulder, and turn to go.

There’s Meadow. Right in my face.

I mumble a weak, “Hey.”

She frowns. “I’m not going to bite you.”

I hold out my arm. “Take a chunk if it will make you feel better.”

“What? And blow my diet?”

“Thanks for—”

“That solo has been driving me crazy. I can never get it right. Terri’s always crabbing at me to stay after and go over it and over it and over it. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

“Better than singing?”

“You would say that.” She laughs and flips her fake blonde hair back. “There’s lots out there better than singing.”

I’m guessing Meadow rates love over singing. Maybe she’s not a fair judge. It’s obviously way easier for her to get guys than sing a solo. Her mega-hot boyfriend picks her up sometimes in his mega-hot red sports car. Maybe he gives her the exact same high I get when the music pours through me, engulfs the choir, and transports us to a different plane.

Sarah laughs from behind us. “Have you seen who’s on the program? The Amabile guys are one of the host choirs.”

The Amabile guys are a tenor and bass choir just across the border in Ontario, but light years away from us in the youth choir universe. The entire Amabile organization is like that. Their girls’ choir kind of invented the whole movement. Hatfield composes for them. I have all their CDs. They set the standard. The girls are legends.

But the guys?

Rock stars.

I have their CDs, too. I can’t believe we might get to meet them. Every girls’ choir in the world is crazy in love with them. It’s not that they are amazingly hot. A few are. Most are just gangly teen boys. Cute and sweet. Kind of like Scott. But when they sing—that’s hot. Amazingly.

Meadow turns on Sarah. “Really? Are you sure?”

Sarah sighs. “Funny, we have to go all the way to Switzerland to meet them.”

Leah is in the pew behind us, sorting the rhythm instruments. She leans into the conversation. “Have you seen the latest pictures on their Web site’s gallery? The ones of their Christmas concert? I die for a guy in a tux.”

“Who can sing.” We all say it at the same time. Even me, Beth the Beast who never got a guy in her life, gets this.

Sarah kind of writhes. “Ooh, why does that make them so hot?”

Meadow narrows her contact-blue eyes at me. “So Miss Soloist, what are we going to do here?”

I look around for help. “Ummm.” Leah and Sarah stare, too. “Practice hard, like Terri said.”

“No, silly. Listen, I don’t know how you came up with that stunning voice completely out of the blue but,” Meadow shrugs and wrinkles up her whole face, not just her nose, “the rest of you is a disaster.”

I look down at the hole worn through the knee of my Levi’s, rub my hand over it. “I’m sure your mom will come up with some great looking clothes for us.”

“Don’t worry about the wardrobe. We’ve got that handled. Easy fix. At least you’re not obese, too. You’ve got a bust under there somewhere right? But—”

I drop my head and stare at her shiny black pumps. “I was thinking I could stand behind something. Flowers. Curtains.”

Sarah and Leah laugh.

I smile up at Meadow. “I’ll sing from backstage, and you can lipsynch.”

Leah says, “We’d so get kicked out for that.”

“No gold medal,” Sarah adds.

Leah snaps the lid closed on the instrument case. “No press conference.”

Sarah winks. “No finale singing with the Amabile guys.”

Meadow’s eyebrows tease up. “We wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.” She scrutinizes my face. “Drop your bag. Try to stand straight.” She walks around me. “Statuesque. Nice cheekbones. The jaw is a little heavy.” She grabs a chunk of my hair. “At least there’s lots of this to work with.” She pulls off my glasses. I can’t see much, but I can tell Meadow is in her element now—way more than when she’s singing. “We can do a lot with your eyes. Have you ever tried contacts?”

“Whoa. Hold on. You think you can Glinda me? It won’t work. I’m magic proof.”

“Oh, honey.” Meadow rubs her hands together. “Glinda’s got nothing on me.”

chapter 4

REMAKE

“What happened to your hair?” Scott flicks it with his finger and makes a section puff up as he sits down beside me in the caf.

“Being soloist has a price.” I feel naked. It’s still frizzy. No way am I going to add hours to my morning routine straightening my hair with that nasty tool of torture they gave me. It’s just school. But my hair is way layered and a good foot shorter. It looked fantastic at the salon. Today I’m the Beast on shock therapy.

“They made you cut your hair?” Scott shoves a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth. “I liked your hair.”

Only Scott could like my hideous hair.

As soon as our official invite to the fourteenth annual Choral Olympics arrived, Meadow got started on me. She called it a makeover slumber party and invited Sarah and Leah and the rest of the prettiest girls in the choir—and me. No bones about who was getting made over.

I put down my sandwich. “They ambushed me.”

“A bunch of skinny wimp choir girls ambushed you ?”

“Meadow sat me down in her glitzy bathroom.” She’s got a Hollywood-type vanity mirror. “And did my face—troweled it on.” All the girls gasped and said I looked beautiful. I put my glasses back on so I could see what they were talking about. Kind of ruined the effect. Then I had to tell them all about getting contacts when I was twelve, how excited I was, what a disaster it ended up being. I remember telling my mom that my fiery red hypersensitive eyes didn’t hurt at all. She flushed them down the toilet.

“Jeez, Bethie, that’s rough. Explains the new breakout.” He goes back to his spaghetti.

“So nice of you to notice.” Last month’s fading crop of hormone-induced zits are being crowded out by a fresh load of fine red bumps all over my face. Not just my usual zit zone.

He swallows. “Stupid brats. Who do they think they are?”

“Beautiful. They don’t understand ugly.” I tear my sandwich in two.

“You’re not ugly, Beth.” He opens his milk.

“I just wanted to go home and scrub.” I take a bite and chew. “They made me sleep over.”

Scott puts his milk carton back down. “They waited until you fell asleep and then whacked your hair off?”

“Does it look that bad?”

“It’s all uneven.”

“Layers. Supposed to be stylish. Meadow got us up early, and we went to a salon.”

“Crap, Beth.” He picks up my hand. “You’re wearing nail polish.”

“I know. I can’t get it off. You should see my toes.” They waxed my bushy eyebrows to a thin line. I’m not telling where else they waxed. They tried to glue fake eyelashes on me, but after the waxing, I got a bit hysterical, put my foot down.

“You should get your money back from that haircut.” He guzzles down his carton of milk and eyes my apple.

“Meadow’s mom paid.” I roll my apple over to him. “She’s the mastermind behind the madness. She got her stylist to fit me in.” He washed, conditioned, hot oiled, relaxed, and dumped an entire bottle of detangler on my hair—like I’m a bag lady who never brushed it. Then he ironed it flat, cut long layers, and a “fringe” that I can’t keep out of my eyes. “Meadow’s mom wanted him to dye it, but they ran out of time.”

“What color?” Scott takes a big bite of my apple.

“Maybe blonde.” I shove the bangs out of my eyes, but they fall right back into them. “I stormed out of there in the middle of the debate. I don’t want to be blonde. Can you imagine me blonde?”

“No.” He reaches over and slides my bangs out of my eyes for me. “Your hair color is nice.”

“Mousy brown? Kiss it good-bye. How do you think I’ll look with highlights?”

He puts the apple down, gets serious. “Just like the rest of them.”

“That’s the idea.”

“But it isn’t you.” He stares hard right into my hyper-magnified eyeballs. “I thought they wanted you.”

“They want a star. Meadow’s mom says my nose is okay. We don’t have time to change that, anyway.”

Meadow gave me a bag of bra inserts. Since her surgery, she doesn’t need them anymore. Gross. I’m not using her cast-off inserts. Next Saturday we’re all getting measured for our new performance wardrobe. Then Meadow’s mom, Meadow and I—I begged Leah and Sarah to come along to keep it sane—are going shopping for the perfect push-up bra, designer jeans, and scoop-neck tops that show off my “striking clavicle.”

Scott puts his hand on my arm. “Will I recognize you when they’re done?”

“Just look for the tall girl with highlights bumping into things.”

“No plans to cut your legs off?” He glances down at my jeans.

“Shhh. She’s got spies everywhere. We don’t want to give her ideas.” My cell buzzes. I jump.

“Poor Bethie. I’ve never seen you like this. Are you sure it’s worth it?”

“To sing on the world stage? What do you think?” I pull my cell out of my Levi’s pocket and glance at the screen.

“Is it her?”

I nod. “Her mom’s cosmetic team can see me Thursday morning. Want to come? Hold my hand?”

He takes the cell from me and studies the screen. “What’s this about lasers?”

“Erases the scars.”

“You trust these guys?”

“Meadow’s mom could pass for her sister. They must be pretty good.”

“You really want me to come?” His hand slips down my arm to squeeze mine. The sweet side of him oozes out. I like it today. I need some honey.

“No. That would make it worse.” I pull my hand out of his and take back my cell. “They aren’t doing anything drastic. Just the laser treatments on the scars. Something new for the zits. No collagen shots for my lips or anything like that.”

“Your lips are really beautiful.” He stares at my mouth, kind of hungry. “They are so expressive when you sing.” He traces my lips with the tip of his finger. His voice gets husky. “Don’t let them touch your lips.”

I’m stunned speechless.

Scott really needs to get a girlfriend. I should tell him that. He’s a heart melter. Mine is doing strange things. I should encourage him to find somebody, but I don’t want to mess up this moment. I’m sure he doesn’t realize what he’s doing to me. How effective that wispy wave of blond hair over his left eye is.

I should tell him. He needs to know. He’ll never figure it out on his own, but I’m going to need him over the next few weeks. Something real to hang on to while Meadow’s crazy mother hacks away at the rest of me. If Scott gets involved with a perky short girl, what happens to me? Disgusting. Selfish. I know. He deserves to be happy. Get a little lip action for once in his life. If he pulled this move on any other girl, she’d be making out with him by now.

But I need him.

He cares about me. One of the few people who does. He wants to help me—wants to be my friend. Is that using him? Unfair? Don’t I deserve something? Somebody to be my best friend. To know me inside and out and still like me. Everybody else has someone who loves them. All I’m asking for is this nice boy to keep being my friend.

Until I’m ready to fly.

Sounds like a pop song, huh? Lift me up until I fly. On your shoulders I’ ll touch the sky.

A creepy pop song.

I need to tell Scott he’s a babe. I need to tell Scott not to worry about me. He can have a girlfriend and a girl who is his friend. I need to tell him.

I don’t.

I lean over, kiss the top of his head, and clear his tray for him. Least I can do.

A day later I’m lurking in the shadows, trying to get from the front door of the school to my locker. I tamed my new hair cut with an elastic this morning. We have to wear our hair up when we perform, so the stylist left the layers long enough for updos and ponytails.

“Hey, Beast.” Colby steps in front of me. “What happened to your mane?”

I don’t answer, keep my eyes down. I study the new Nikes he’s wearing. They zip. No laces. Hideous, but on Colby they’re cool. Everyone will want a pair.

“It’s not fair, Beastie.” He pounds a finger into my shoulder. “You shouldn’t make us look at that face. Here.” He shoves something cold and rubbery at me.

I don’t grasp onto it. The thing falls to the floor. A green witch mask with hairy warts and cracked lips lies at my feet.

“Put it on.”

I’ve got to get away. I start to step around the empty mask and Colby’s shoes.

He blocks me, grabs my arm. “That’s no way to treat my present.”

I struggle to wrench my arm out of his grip. He squeezes hard. I look up at him. He’s laughing, loving this. His eyes go past me, signaling. Travis and Kurt appear—grab my arms with their clammy hands and pull them back, hold me pinned, smashed against them. I can feel the heat from their bodies, smell their sweat.

I try to shrink into myself away from them, but I can’t hide. They have me.

Colby nudges the mask with his toe. “Make her pick it up.”

Travis and Kurt force me to bend down—hold me there until I open my clenched fist and curl my fingers around the mask. The vinyl is slick and cool—elicits an urge to scream and run. They force me to my feet.

Colby, who is the only guy in school taller than me, takes the mask from my hand and forces it over my head, knocking my glasses and pinning them crooked underneath it. “Wear it until your hair grows back.”

I can’t breathe in there. Can’t see. My glasses are jamming into my face. I’m dying to rip the mask off, but my arms are still pinned.

Colby bends over and whispers, “Perfect,” in my ear. He’s got hot, sensual breath that invades my head and sends bolts of unwanted desire like interior lightening strikes into my gut. That creeps me out worse than the mask.

His body is touching me.

I go nuts, fight to get free. Can’t scream. Why can’t I scream?

They laugh at that. “Don’t worry, Beast. You’re too ugly to want to mess with.” Colby backs off, and the guys behind let me go.

I run toward the girls’ restroom—crash into a wall of people watching. Laughter. A hand grabs my butt. I rip the mask off, grab my glasses, and let it fall. Head down, arms wrapped around myself as if that will keep me from falling apart, I scuttle down the hall.

My face is wet. Crap. I’m not supposed to let them do that. I crash through the restroom door—startle some smokers. I lock myself in a stall. Colby’s truth beats inside me.This is me, don’t you know ?

Touch the sky?

Who am I kidding?

Clip my wings, weight me down.

I thought my time had come.

But the dream turns to dust.

As I bow to do your bidding,

Now I see the truth—it’s all a lie.

I don’t leave my safe stall until the bell rings. I venture out only when I’m sure the restroom is empty.

I splash cool water on my face and stare at my blotched, hideous reflection. Meadow and her mom are so delusional. As if a haircut and her cast-off makeup can even make a dint on my ugly.

All morning the mask keeps reappearing. Taped to my locker. Slid onto my chair before econ. When it drops on my lunch tray, Scott picks it up and wipes off the chocolate pudding. “They’ve got to be kidding.” He folds the mask up and shoves it in his sweatshirt pocket.

He gets a clean napkin and wipes off the pudding drops splashed on my neck. He doesn’t try to joke about it.

An awful weight presses on my chest. “This isn’t going to work—is it?” Colby made it clear today. I’ll always be the Beast.

Scott pats my shoulder. “Just sing, Beth. That’s all you need to worry about.” His words bore a tiny hole in that weight and let out the pressure building up in my heart. I’m not flying. The sky is still impossible, but I know he’s right. That is one thing I can do. Sing. All the Colbys and their ugly warty witch masks can’t steal that.

chapter 5

BRIGHT LIGHTS

Don’t let anybody tell you lasers aren’t painful.

You know when the dentist says it’s going to pinch a little, and then he jabs a needle into the roof of your mouth, and it feels like it goes right up your nose and out the top of your head? From what I found on the Internet, laser treatments are kind of the same deal.

Mom says childbirth is like that on steroids. I don’t know if I’m brave enough. All that pain? It would be worth it, though, for a baby, a sweet, beautiful bundle cooing in my arms. Anything would be worth that. But even with all of Meadow and her mom’s interventions, no way a guy will ever get that close to me. I’m so delusional about the blind, fat old guy in my fantasies. I’m too ugly to mess with. Colby’s right about that. Look at all this time I’ve been friends with Scott and the most that’s ever happened between us is he touched my lips with his fingertip. I don’t think any of that stuff means anything to Scott. How could it? I’m so gross. He’s being nice. That’s all it is to him, but it makes me overheat if I just think about it. Or is that the big lamps overhead and the technician standing next to me armed with a laser wand?

The chair I’m sitting in echoes dentist, too, but it is massive, cushy, and smells like burned meat.

“Just relax.” The technician waves her magic laser. I think she’s smiling to reassure me. Her eyes seem to be. I can’t see her face because she’s got a pale-pink surgical mask covering it. “We’re going to gently burn away the damaged skin.” All my zit scars. “You’ll have some oozing for a while. Nothing to worry about. You’ll notice a huge difference when it heals. Two weeks, and you’ll be a beauty queen.” Not a princess?

Hold it. Gently burn? Burn gently? How is a burn gentle? I can take this woman. I’m bigger and stronger, but I lie here and nod, the perfect picture of cooperation. I do that at the dentist’s, too.

“Would you like something to help you relax?”

Yes. Of course. Yes. Please. “No, I’m fine.”

She turns on some waves crashing to the shore set to music, gives me sunglasses to shield my eyes from the dental-like light she shines down on my face, and pushes buttons that lean me way back in the chair. “Okay. Let’s get started. Try to hold very still.”

I hold my breath. I hate this. I hate all of this. Everyone looking at me. Trying to figure out how to fix me. I hate being reminded how pathetic and broken I am—seeing the disgust in their eyes. I hate that I need an industrial-strength makeover complete with lasers instead of a mere trip to the salon and a killer outfit. I’m not a person to these people. Especially Meadow’s mom. I’m her latest obsessive project. She let her daughter give up her solo spot for me. Now she’s taking everything that used to be me and turning it inside out, cutting, dicing, disguising. And I have to let her. I should even be grateful.

“You need to breathe, hon.” The technician rubs goo with a touch of anesthetic all over my face.

I exhale and fill my lungs again.

“This is the same process we use to remove tattoos. You may want to close your eyes.”

Okay. Closed.

It is gentle. At first. But when she gets down to the raw epidermis it stings like crazy. Burns. My eyes water. I’m glad I’ve got the sunglasses.

“There. That wasn’t so bad. Let’s move on to the next one.”

Crap. She’s just getting started. There’s something wrong with me. I’m getting kind of dizzy.

“Breathe, Beth.”

Right. Breathe. I take another gigantic breath in and blow it out.

“Not quite so huge, though. Keep it shallow so you don’t move.”

She starts on another scar.

I need to swallow. Can I? The liquid is collecting in the back of my mouth, pooling. I can’t breathe through it. Nose. Right. I’ve got a nose. I suck a tiny bit of air in through my nose and exhale the same way. I can’t stand this spit in my mouth. If I swallow it lying back like this, I’ll choke. I know it. She’s got me almost upside down. Can you drown in your own spit? Damn, that hurts. Damn. I hate that word. Why did I think of that word?

No, no, no, no. Blackness builds in me. I need to breathe deep, sit up, and swallow, but I’m stuck here. What will she say if I shove her aside and run out? My mouth is full of spit. Completely. I breathe through my nose, so careful. Concentrate on that. Don’t think about the—DAMN!

I must have made some sort of noise.

“Do you need a break?” She sits the chair up.

I swallow all that drool. So gross. “Are we about done?”

She shakes her head. “Here.” She pops open a couple of individually wrapped capsules, hands them to me with a glass of water.

I gobble down those drugs. I don’t care what they are.

“Relax for a while.” She turns off the glaring lamps and lights a couple candles. “I’ll be back in half an hour.” She leaves.

The waves crash against the shore, and I scan the place for a mirror. Nothing. Smart folks.

Right on cue, Meadow walks into the room. “I’m supposed to keep you company.”

“Do you have a mirror?”

She looks at my face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I need a mirror.” Wait. I have one. In my bag. On my first visit—the one Scott was going to hold my hand through—they decided we needed to clear up my face before they could laser me. They started me out with a new zit treatment, some secret, European spa stuff. They applied it here and sent me home with a supply. Morning, noon, and night. You wouldn’t believe my skin. I need to tell Dr. Namar about this stuff. He kept me from being totally engulfed in acne like Aunt Linda says bio-Dad was in high school, but there were plenty of breakthroughs—especially on my back and chest. So nasty. So . . . ugly.

The team also gave me secret, European spa cosmetics, hypoallergenic and noncomedogenic, i.e., they won’t give me a rash or break me out. The sleek compacts and tubes look too beautiful to use. I got a lesson in brush technique. I’ve messed around with it some. The lip-gloss pots are all flavored. Mulberry Lane. Cinnamon Candy. Watermelon Ice. I can’t bring myself to wear it too much at school yet. But the pressed-powder compact comes in handy. And it’s in my purse, sitting over there on that counter.

I stretch my arms, yawn, bend my head from side to side to crack my neck. “Hey, can you hand me my purse? I need to text my mom.”

Meadow tosses me the bag.

It’s not really my purse. I’ve never had a purse before. Backpack. Music bag. Purse? Meadow has a closetful.

She tossed this squishy, brown leather bag at me before we went shopping. “You can’t go to these stores with a backpack on your shoulder.”

I was going to leave it in the car. Really.

I search through the big belly of the thing and come up with the compact. I take it out and flip it open fast.

“No.” She tries to grab it away from me.

I hold it way, way out of her reach. I stand up and go over to the door where there’s still a soft light on. Four oozing wounds mar my face. Crap. What if this doesn’t heal like it’s supposed to? What if it makes bigger scars? My whole face will be one hideous wound.

“What? It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“My mother looked way worse than you do. When it all heals up, it’s like you have brand-new skin. And you’re young. It will heal fast for you.”

At that moment I decide Meadow is almost human. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She slips the compact out of my hand. “Let me put this away for you.”

I watch her ditch it in the purse.

“You go lie down awhile, and I’ll take care of this.”

She leaves with the purse. She’s way more into Project Beth than she ever was into singing that solo. Maybe I’ll give it back to her and go crawl in a hole somewhere. That would be better than this, wouldn’t it? Is my world debut worth all this? I sit down, sink back into the cushy chair, and that’s the last thing I remember.

Ooze? Yeah. Gooey, oozy, weepy, pussy mess. And I have school. I’d stay home, but my group is giving a presentation in AP history and if I’m not there, they’ll screw it up totally. My GPA needs the solid A I’ve got in that class.

I wash off the crusty crap that dried on my face overnight with warm water and the special medicated cleanser they gave me and survey the tube of medicated concealer for the wounds and the beautiful array of cosmetics spread out on my bathroom counter. I’ve got no choice—the face magnified in the makeup mirror Meadow loaned me resembles a car-accident victim in a driver’s ed film.

I smooth on a pinch of the concealer. It must have an anesthetic in it. That little wound feels so much better. I spread it on the rest of my battered face. Smooth on another layer for good measure. Then I brush on the base powder, hit my cheekbones with the blush like they showed me. A touch from the Watermelon Ice pot of lip gloss. I even try to get the eyes right. Concealer. A natural-beige shadow with a tinge of shimmer. Just a touch of brown mascara. Bronzer for a sun-kissed glow to go with my new hair color.

I put on my glasses and stand back. The effect isn’t so bad. As long as my face doesn’t start oozing in history, I’m good. I’ll ditch after that. I don’t care.

“Is that you?” Scott started saying that when they dyed my hair blonde. It’s getting old. And the hair isn’t pale blonde. No Madonna act here. It’s actually only a couple of shades lighter than my natural light brown. Meadow’s guy at the salon did an amazing job with the highlights. When Sarah and Leah help me blow-dry and straighten it, it looks nice. Sarah says with my height I could be a model. Until I turn around. For school, I’ve been letting it frizz out to keep Colby from attacking again, but today I need it away from my face, so I go with the ponytail and straighten my bangs. I made it through the hall without Colby seeing me, but Scott doesn’t let up.

He walks up beside me with his books under his arm and leans against the locker next to mine. “I thought you said the makeup was just for choir. That you felt weird wearing it.”

“I do feel weird. Does it look that bad?”

“What are you trying to prove, Beth?” He flicks my blondish hair with his finger. “Every time I turn around you’re a different person.”

“The laser treatment made a mess.” I throw my backpack in my locker. “I have to cover it up. Do I look that bad?” I force myself to turn his way so he can examine my face.

He takes his time. “You look good.” His voice is low again. I can’t read what’s in his face. He drops his eyes, stares at my knees. “I didn’t think you liked the whole makeup scene.”

“It always made me break out. Makeup is kind of fun. I know I’ll never be pretty, but I’m starting to like being less repulsive.” I pull some lip gloss out of my sweatshirt pocket. “What do you think of this color?” I smooth on my soft-pink, shimmery Watermelon Ice.

“It looks tasty.”

I hold it out to him. “You’ll never guess what flavor it is.”

“I’d rather try it on you.”

He’s doing it again, making me crazy. I hope my face is sweat-proof. The makeup can’t totally hide how red I’m getting.

This time I’m brave enough to tell him the truth. “You really should get yourself a girlfriend.” I’ll miss the time he spends with me, but I’m his friend. He needs to hear this from someone he trusts. Someone he’ll believe. “You’re turning into a babe, Scott. Really.”

He cuts me with the coldest look and stalks off. He’s so touchy these days. I was trying to be nice. Self-sacrificing. Heroic. He gives me heck for every little thing they do to me. It’s not my fault. I just want to sing. And then he teases me. Flirts almost.

He still doesn’t get how much that hurts. We’re not in third grade anymore. I have feelings like any other girl. And he’s the only guy in my world. No wonder he turns me on. I’m so desperate—all these hormones really want to unload. But he’s my friend. My best friend. He won’t ever think of me as a girlfriend. I don’t want him to. Really. I don’t. His friendship means everything to me. The little snot.

My phone buzzes. Meadow. Great. She loves playing stage mom. I guess that’s what she’s been trained for all her life. Like mother, like daughter. Her mom wanted a superstar diva and all she got was Mini-Me.

My mom called hers last night. She’s not all that comfortable with this woman she hardly knows playing stage mom with her daughter. Mom started off thanking her for taking such a keen interest in me. “I’m concerned about the expense.”

We’re not rolling in cash like they are, but Mom’s a partner in her accounting firm. She does all right. I had braces like everybody else. We have insurance and stuff. Just because I choose to live in Levi’s and baggy sweatshirts, doesn’t mean I can’t afford stylish stuff if I can find it in skinny, extra-tall. I have my own car. Good old Jeanette. I don’t get a new one every couple of months like Meadow, wouldn’t dream of staying on in Europe after the Choral Olympics and going to race car driving school in Germany so I can get a Porsche for Christmas like her, but Jeanette is my own car.

Mom paused. “But—” Another pause. “Choir sponsors?”

Another longer pause. “That’s remarkable. The clothing, too? And all the girls are going to the salon? What about the cosmetic surgery? I’d be happy—”

She noticed me listening and walked down the hall. Fat chance, Mom. I followed, stood right in her face. She scowled at me.

“Well, all right then. I didn’t realize the choir had such an extensive lineup of sponsors in the beauty business.”

So much for Mom’s scruples. Meadow’s mom could have been lying. Whether Meadow’s parents bankrolled or just fund-raised my transformation doesn’t really matter. They donate tons to the choir. They are talking about using us at a couple of grand openings they’ve got coming up and recording a radio commercial. Girls’ choir and luxury cars. Guess that works. All of a sudden, I’m Bliss. They like how the engine hums, but I need a lot of bodywork. They’ll get their money out of me. I’m not worried about them.

My cell is still buzzing. “Hey, Meadow.”

“My mom says don’t forget the fitting tonight. Be sure to wear your new bra and put some extra in it.”

Judges mark down for cleavage. I don’t need that stupid bra or the padding. That thing’s a killer. Give me my sports bra any day.

“And how are you today?”

“Oh, yeah. How’s your face?”

“It was cemented to my pillow when I woke up this morning.”

“Ick. How does it feel?”

“Right now? Mostly numb. It’ll kill when the anesthetic in the cream wears off.”

“Try some aloe.”

I laugh.

“It’ll be worth it when you’re beautiful.”

“That may not happen in my lifetime. Maybe the mortician will finally get it right. Unless they bury me with my glasses.”

“Ugh. You are so morbid. Listen, you’ll never be beautiful if you don’t believe it.”

“I just want to get to the point where I don’t scare people when we walk out onstage.”

“My mom says you need to send yourself positive reinforcing messages every day. That’s how I made it down to a size one.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

She hangs up. More calls to make. More people to boss. She’s loving this, and she doesn’t have to sing. I get all the pressure now. All the pain. All the misery. All the work. But it’s going to be worth it.

Halfway through second period my phone vibrates. I slip it out, hold it under the desk. Meadow again. 2day’s affirmation: I am a nokout. Repeat 100X. Will send nu 1 2mor0.

Knockout? Goodness.

I make it through AP history. Everyone in class is staring at me while I present. I get in a panic that my face is oozing and mess up a little, but no one realizes that but my teammates. They know I got them their best grade of the semester, so they don’t dare complain. The joy of group projects. At least I never get stuck with guys in my group. Guys won’t work with me. I don’t mind carrying a few of the less talented girls. Even if they do sit around and talk while I do everything.

I dash down to the bathroom to try to repair whatever they’re staring at. But my face is fine. I’m actually almost okay looking today. My eyeballs are still magnified to freakish proportions, but the rest of me is presentable. My lips look especially nice. No wonder Scott got giddy like that. I’m a heck of a long way from a knockout, but not beastly. Maybe I can write a song about that.

I don’t manage a whole new song, but my old standby gets a new verse during econ.Changes.

Why do they surprise me?

Can everyone see

Inside

That I’m still the same girl?

Now who will she be?

Can she be beautiful?

Will she be blinded, too?

Why am I anxious

To leave my old shell behind?

Can it be possible?

Will all the people love me?

No hopeful chorus yet. Stay tuned, though. Maybe hopeful is around the corner.

chapter 6

RUBY

Leah makes me sign up for the online network they are all on. My page is pathetic. I don’t know what to do about a picture. That part is blank. Looks lame. The whole choir friended me—even Terri. That’s kind of cool.

I’m going down the list, clicking “Confirm,” and right in the middle of those smiling Bliss faces, there’s one from a guy.

It startles me. I didn’t think I’d have to deal with guys here. Maybe Scott, but not a real guy like this one. He’s beautiful. Unreal good-looking. Dark hair, pale skin, moody brown eyes a girl could get lost in. Derek. Sounds kind of phony. Maybe he’s the network host. Everybody’s first friend.

I click on the message attached to his request.

Good day, I’m one of the ABC soloists. Heard you on Bliss’s Web site. Welcome to the Choral Olympics. Chat with me?

ABC? Oh, crap. This guy is from the Amabile Boys’ Choir.

Stupid, Terri. She changed up Bliss’s Web site. I start singing as soon as the site launches. She must have put my name up there. Great. This babe of a guy thinks I’m some beautiful Blissette and wants to chat.

I move my mouse to “Ignore.”

I know what guys who look like this one are really like. Mean, nasty brutes. This guy sings, though. I adjust my glasses and lean forward—trying to see beyond the angel face to the demon it must hide. I need to call Sarah. She knows about guys. She’s a champion at guys.

No. She’d make me confirm, so I could pass him off to her. Too bad Meadow has her boyfriend. I owe her something like this. Her ethereal perfection matches this Derek guy exactly.

Leah? Naw. This is hardly official choir business.

I’ll just ignore. I like that feature. I click my mouse. Crap. The arrow wandered over to “Confirm” while I was ogling his picture. There’s got to be a block feature. While I’m hunting for it, the chat box pops up.

Derek: hi, Beth . . . thanks for confirming me

I type, “I didn’t mean to. Can you tell me how to block?” I erase that and send a cautious, noncommittal, What do you want?

Derek: I’m our choir’s designated spy

Beth: really?

Shoot. I should have called Leah. This is official choir business.

Derek: honest to gosh

Beth: you won’t get anything out of me

Derek: sounds like it will be fun trying

Beth: oh, please

Yuck. Now my hands are all sweaty. I dry them on my jeans while I wait for his next post.

Derek: it’s unusual for a choir to come out of nowhere like you guys did

Beth: you guys scared?

Derek: hardly

Beth: then why bother to spy?

Derek: are all your pieces as good as that one on your site?

I decide a strategic lie is necessary here—for the good of the choir.

Beth: better

Derek: hard to believe

Beth: it’s true

Derek: your vocals are beautiful on that one

Beth: really? you think so?

He’s making me blush. I’m such a wimp at this stuff. Crap. I need to concentrate.

Derek: if your other pieces are even half that strong, Bliss should do well in Lausanne

Beth: we think we can win

Derek: win? don’t get your heart set on that . . . you’re competing against us

Beth: and you don’t lose?

Derek: not lately

Beth: but you’re worried

Derek: not really

The cocky little Canadian snot.

Beth: then why spy on us?

Derek: spying on you

Me? What does he mean by that? I should just close the screen, but I don’t. I can’t help it. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I’ll play along. Just to see what it’s like.

Beth: that doesn’t sound like official choir business

Derek: you have such a lovely voice . . . I’m curious about the rest of you

Beth: this conversation is over!

Derek: don’t be like that . . . aren’t you curious about me?

Beth: no

Derek: really? are you serious?

Beth: why so surprised?

Derek: most girls are . . . curious

Beth: I’m not most girls.

Derek: cool. see you in Lausanne

Beth: where we’ll beat the heck out of you guys

Derek: not likely

I’ve had enough. I don’t know how to end the chat session, so I close the whole site. I don’t ever want to go back on it again. I don’t care what Sarah and Meadow say.

Great. We’re wasting half this practice trying on dresses. That cocky Amabile boy made me realize we’re nowhere near ready to compete. To even stand a chance in an international competition, we can’t sing standing in parts like a traditional choir—altos, first and second sopranos. We have to be all mixed up to get a nice blend. Judges can hear the difference. We’ll be laughed right out of Switzerland if we don’t.

It’s tough to sing that way. The altos can’t follow me. The other parts can’t follow their strongest singers. Each chorister has to be able to sing the part on her own. And it’s all got to be memorized perfectly. It’s coming, but we’re running out of time. We’re going to be competing against choirs from music schools. They practice for hours every day, not a couple nights a week. Our big spring concert is three weeks away. We need every minute of every practice. Terri’s thrown in a couple marathon Saturday sessions after school’s out, but I’m not confident we’ll be where we need to be. I don’t want to just go to the Choral Olympics. After all Meadow’s mom has put me through, I want gold. And that boy across the border in Ontario’s fake excuse for a London, he better watch out.

So I hang out at practice that night, steaming. I’m also mad that I gave in and wore that dumb bra. No inserts. They creep me out, wobbly rubber things still sitting in their bag. I’m not touching them. The bra is bad enough. The underwires are digging into me, and it’s just not comfortable to be pushed and squeezed like this. It’s really strange to look down and see cleavage. I’m such a coward, though. I figured I better not risk Meadow’s mom’s wrath tonight by showing up in my sports bra for her fancy fitting.

She and Meadow put their hearts and souls into these gowns. I need to keep being a good girl, and I’ll get to sing. It’s all so unreal. I’ll wake up one morning and it will have evaporated. I’ll be the Beast anchoring the alto, and we won’t be going anywhere. Each day that goes by and that’s not true makes the next day less real. Less solid. Thin fabric that will tear if I do anything wrong. The only trip I’ll be going on is whatever the hell Colby plans next for me.

I want to go back to scribbling lyrics on the back of the last song in my choir binder. I think I was getting somewhere, but Leah and Sarah, both armed with those straightener things, are ironing my hair again. “Ouch.”

How did it go? Something about daisies and butterflies. No, it was . . .Not quite a tadpole,

Not quite a swan.

An opening bud?

The sun at dawn?

Crap. Too embarrassing for words. I need to erase it all. Fast.

Sarah burns me again. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” The lyrics in my brain disintegrate. “Thanks for helping me.”

“I can’t hold this steady.” Sarah puts down the straightening iron. “I’m so nervous.”

Leah releases the lock of hair she straightened. “Why?”

Sarah sighs. “What if the gown looks bad on me? Red isn’t my color.”

“But they aren’t red.” Leah clamps the straightening iron on another chunk of hair and slowly slides it down. “They are ruby. Jewel tones look good on everybody.”

“You’re starting to sound like Meadow’s mom.” Sarah puts down her straightener and brushes out her side of my head.

“Well—she’s right. The other choirs will all be in black, white, or some nauseating blue.” Leah releases the last smoothed strand of hair. “We’ll make such a statement. No one wears red.”

“Maybe because it’s slutty.” Sarah has been moody all night.

“It’s elegant.” Leah takes the brush and perfects my hair. “You saw the fabric. Definitely not slutty.” She hands me the mirror.

“It is pretty.” I can’t imagine me wearing something made of it.

Meadow appears at the sanctuary door. “Beth—you’re next.”

“Wait a minute. I need to tell you three about something.”

I fill them in about my chat with Derek. Meadow whips out her iPhone, pulls up my page, and uses my friend link to get to Derek’s page. “Oh, baby. I call dibs on him.”

“You can’t call him. He wrote to Beth.” Sarah peers over Meadow’s shoulder at the tiny screen. “She gets to decide.”

Meadow studies the screen, navigating around his page. “He obviously thinks she’s me. I’m Bliss’s soloist.”

Leah puts down the brush and tries to get a look at Meadow’s screen. “You have a boyfriend, don’t you?”

Meadow shrugs. “He’s starting to get on my nerves. Derek here is definitely an upgrade.”

“Meadow!” Her mom’s voice bellows up from the depths of the church.

“Let’s go, Beth.” Meadow drags me to the basement lair.

Downstairs her mom has transformed the dingy basement. Big lamps. Lots of mirrors. Four portable wardrobe racks glistening with ruby dresses. There’s a screen in the corner. Four other girls are wearing long slips and stepping into their gowns.

Meadow’s mom herds me behind the screen and hands me an extra-long slip. My tee is really tight. I set down my glasses, pull off my tee, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the screen. Put my glasses back on for a clearer view. That bra makes me look way sexy. How can a lacey bra and cleavage transform my bony body like that? My too-long legs are waxed smooth, my stomach is flat, and there isn’t a single zit to be seen anywhere on me. Maybe I can go to the beach this summer. Lake Huron never really warms up, but I love wading in the icy water on a muggy July day. I haven’t done it since I was a kid.

I pull the satiny slip over my head. The fabric slides over my body like a whisper. I shimmy my designer jeans that I only wear to Bliss rehearsals and for Meadow’s excursions out from under it. The soft fabric touches my skin, clings to the curves of my body. Totally luxurious. I feel like I did when Scott touched my lips.

Scott.

What would my old friend with his white teeth, clear skin, sexy-guy neck, and wispy locks of blond hair think of me like this? I can almost picture myself with a guy like that Derek. I stand there working out a hopeful chorus.An awkward tadpole

Turns to graceful frog.

The swan can swim

Beyond her deep bog.

Delicate petals escaping the storm

Beautiful prince who says

He’ ll keep me warm—

“Beth—” Meadow’s mom saves me from my insane thoughts.

She pulls me over to one of a half a dozen women with tape measures around their necks and pins in their mouths working on girls in the room. This one’s got a bunch of pretty ruby fabric draped over her arm. Cranberry. If it were Christmas we could call it that. The fabric turns into my gown when she holds it up.

I step into it, put my arms through the short sleeves that are gathered at the shoulder, puff briefly, and then gather onto my arm a few inches later. I wriggle to get into it. Meadow’s mom zips me up in back.

The gown is simple. Round neck—not low enough to show my bracreated cleavage, but my lovely clavicle is exposed. Empire waist—the bodice is gathered tight under my bustline, and the full skirt flares out from there. Nothing tight across the stomach. Terri’s so practical. We can use our gut for breath support and not burst our seams. Or look fat. The whole effect, from the short feminine sleeves to the soft gathers that give me more bust, to the perfect drape of the richly colored fabric broadcasts elegance. If you cut off my head, I’d look amazing. It must be good from the back, too, with my perfectly cut, dyed, highlighted, flattened hair hanging down my back.

Meadow’s mom claps her hands. “Meadow, come look at Beth! ”

Meadow rushes over. “Take off your glasses, so we can get the full effect.”

I obey. Her mom gasps. She’s an artist seeing her creation for the first time.

The seamstress makes me step up on a stool and marks my hem. She walks around sticking pins here and there where the fit doesn’t measure up.

I squint down at Meadow. “Is there a way I can unfriend that Amabile guy?”

“Don’t you dare do that. I need access to his page to prepare my offensive.”

“What if he wants to chat again?”

“Call me, and I’ll tell you what to say. Better yet, send me as a friend suggestion.”

“How?”

“Never mind. I’ll do it.”

Sarah calls down the stairs. “Too bad, Meadow. We found him, too. Looks like he’s got a girlfriend. She’s all over his profile.”

“What’s his status?” Meadow calls back up.

Leah replies, “Complicated.”

Meadow smiles. “Perfect.”

“Ouch.” The seamstress just poked me instead of the side seam she meant to pin. I can’t believe Meadow is going on like this. Her boyfriend is so hot. “You’re going to break up over this Derek person?”

Meadow rolls her eyes at me. “Not yet. Don’t be stupid. When I get together with Derek in Lausanne—”

She’s so sure—so cocky—exactly like him. They’ll be perfect for each other.

“I can send Teddy a text calling things off.”

“Won’t a long-distance relationship be difficult?”

“I’ll have the Porsche, silly. Maybe I’ll bring him to driving school with me. I better get Daddy to make a reservation for him—just in case. What do you think, Mom?”

Meadow’s mom absently agrees and sends Meadow up to get my purse and a couple more girls. They’ve got to get through eighty—and quickly so we can practice. The seamstress finishes and starts to unzip me.

“Not yet.” Meadow’s mom searches my bag, finds the untouched mulberry lip gloss—it’s way too dark. I stick to the watermelon. She smears the rich wine goo on my lips, touches up my foundation and blush, goes at my eyes like the pro she is. She stands back. “The girls have got to see this. And it’s only going to get better when your face finishes healing.”

“We’re going upstairs?”

“The girls need to see how our hard work has paid off.”

Our hard work won’t pay off until we’re on the stage in Lausanne singing way better than those Amabile guys ever dreamed they could. “I need my glasses.”

“No. I’ll lead you.”

“That’s okay. I’m not blind.” I hate that, though. Walking around in a blur. I wonder if they’ll let me put my glasses on the whole time we’re in Europe. The dress swishes as I mount the stairs. A few girls catch sight of me. “Look. Shhh. It’s Beth,” goes around the room. Meadow’s mom, with a hand firmly in the center of my back, guides me up onto the stand.

Meadow appears beside me. “Well, girls, what do you think of our soloist?”

I only see their blurs, but I can feel it. The awe.

The voice of a younger girl blurts, “Can I have your autograph?”

That breaks the silence, and they mob me.

“You’re beautiful, Beth.”

“Look like a model.”

“It’s amazing.”

I get giddy, overwhelmed, laugh and hug them, careful of the dress. Stressed that Meadow’s mom will yell at me if it gets crushed. They can’t be serious. Beautiful? Me? I really want to believe them. Believe this excitement that makes my heart go nuts in my chest. It can’t be true, but the girls keep coming.

“I didn’t know your eyes were that blue.”

“You’re going to be a star.”

“You should do pageants next year.”

Pageants? Get real. It’s the dress. Just the dress.

After about fifty girls tell me it’s true, I start to believe them a tiny bit. I just wish I could see the swan, too.

chapter 7

FIXED

Last night I had a nightmare. We are onstage in Lausanne. Everyone is stunning in her red choir gown, except me. All I have on is the satin slip. And Scott is in the middle of the audience, staring at me with that look on his face like last Thursday in the hall. If he doesn’t get a girlfriend soon, I’m going to go nuts and attack him in the music room—friend or not. The Beast legend would be out of control after that.Gather round little kiddies

And say your prayers.

Hike up your jammies

And skedaddle upstairs.

The Beast, she’ ll be prowling

All through the night,

Hunting sweet laddies

Who look just right.

I don’t know how I can feel like this. Scott is like a brother. We’ve been friends forever. I can’t like him romantically, but I find myself noticing strange things. Like the shape of his shoulder. It’s hot out this week, and he’s wearing a wifebeater today, and I can’t stop staring at his shoulder. It’s not zitty like it used to be. And there’s muscle on it.

He catches me in choir. “What?”

“Nothing.” I force myself to keep my eyes focused on the boring music we’re singing the whole rest of the period. Bolt at the bell.

“Beth.”

I don’t stop. “See ya, Scott. I’m kind of in a hurry.” He doesn’t know I’m sparing him a fate worse than death.

My cell vibrates, and I pull it out of my pocket, flip it open. “What, Meadow?”

“It’s your mother.”

“Sorry. I’m losing it today.”

“What gives? I thought your face was getting better.”

Like I’m going to tell my mother what’s on my mind right now. I’m sure she’d really appreciate a conversation about Scott’s sexy shoulders. “I’m just tired. Practice last night went late.” And then I had to drive all the way home from Ann Arbor—didn’t get back until one in the morning.

“Would you like to take this afternoon off school?”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

“Good. Walk to the office and pass the phone off so I can get you excused. I’ve got an appointment for you, and then you can sleep all afternoon.”

“An appointment? Not you, too.”

“It won’t take long. Meet me at home. I need to drive you.”

It must be major. She’s taking off work. “Mom . . . ”

“Please, Beth. Humor me on this one.” Her voice sounds excited—as bubbly as an accountant is ever going to get.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought of something they haven’t.”

“I feel like Frankenstein.”

“You mean his monster?”

“Yeah. You and Meadow’s mom can fight over the mad-scientist part.”

“You may not realize it yet, but what’s happening to you is big. I’m going to be a part of it.”

“Clapping in the audience isn’t good enough anymore?”

“I’m not going to be in Switzerland like them.”

“You’re jealous of Meadow’s mom?”

“She’s done so much for you.”

“How can you even compare yourself to her?” It’s tough to say this into a stupid cell phone while standing outside the office. “You’re everything, Mom.” My voice breaks and I have to whisper. “Where would I be without you?”

She sniffs. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you. The boys—you used to come home crying from grade school.” Until third grade. I had Scott to share it with after that. It made such a difference. “You hide it from me, but I can tell how they hurt you.”

If Mom knew about the near-nude boy chained to my locker, that mask, a whole hall of guys howling when I walk by, all the creative ways high school boys can remind a girl she’s damn ugly. Less than human. Worthless. The way the girls shun me, too. No one ever wants to get stuck with me. If Mom knew, it would destroy her. “I look fine now.”

“What about your glasses?”

“I won’t wear them when we perform.”

“Not good enough.”

“You find some space-age contacts?”

“Better.”

A huge billboard I’ve driven by hundreds of times on my way down to choir unfurls through my brain. “Oh, no. Not more lasers.”

“This will be easier than fixing your face. It just takes a few seconds.”

“No, Mom. Please. Burning off zit scars is one thing, but that thing in my eyes?”

Her voice gets firm. “Suck it up, girl. Just one more step toward your genetic independence.”

The hair. The acne. My awful eyesight. All from him. Now I see what she wants. No more reminders. No more guilt. Her daughter released from every curse he left behind. She wins. No way can I argue that one.

Monday I go to school for the first time without glasses. It’s like I’m invisible. No one notices. No one says anything. Not even a single bark. I’m nuts, but negative attention is still acknowledgment.

I don’t see Scott until choir.

“You trying contacts again? Not a good idea, Beth. You’ll end up blind or something.”

“Nope.” I try to smile. “This is something more permanent.”

“Did they dye your eyes now? They’re really blue today.”

“Maybe it’s the drops. I had laser eye surgery Friday. Cool, huh? It makes me dizzy, but the doctor says my brain will adjust, and I’ll have almost perfect vision.”

“Whoa. You don’t need glasses at all?”

“Don’t lecture me, okay. I’m kind of shaky. Probably should have stayed home.”

“No, no, of course not.” He puts his arm behind me for support, rests his hand in the middle of my back, guides me up the tiers to our tenor seats. “This actually makes sense. It’ll change your life. I can’t believe the Cosmo team came up with it.”

I don’t sit yet, lean back against his hand—it feels so good. “It wasn’t them. My mom kind of insisted on it. Remember grade school?”

Scott’s empathetic, “Yeah,” floats into my ear.

Squirrel Face. Viper. Boys stealing my glasses every recess. Four pairs got broken. The lenses were so heavy—always popping out. Scott rescued one pair from the boys’ bathroom and got beat up for his trouble. “It still haunts my mom.”

“Not you?” His hand moves to my elbow, and he steadies me into my chair.

“It is me.”

“Not anymore, Beth.” He sits beside me.

“It’s not so easy to not be that girl anymore. You know what I mean?”

He nods. He’s been there, too. And, snot that I am, I assumed he could shrug it off and go act like Mr. Charming to snag a girlfriend. He’s a guy. No feelings allowed. He’s supposed to just want action.

“Let’s turn over a new leaf together.” His hand returns to my back, moves up and down, gently soothing. “What do you say?”

“Remember when we were going to run away? In fifth grade? I’ll make the sandwiches again, and we can take my car. How much cash do you have?”

“I was thinking we should face it this time.” His hand stops moving. “Let’s go to prom.”

I laugh at that. “Like I could ever get a date.”

He leans in closer. “I just asked you, stupid.”

I stare at him. “You want to go with me?” My head shakes back and forth at how impossible that is. “I’m too tall.”

“And I’m too short.” He grins.

Crap, this is for real. “Will you make me dance?”

“Can you?” His hand, with arm attached, moves to my far shoulder.

“I doubt it.”

He squeezes a hug into a split second. “I can teach you if you want.” Scott dances? “I’ve been to loads of family weddings.”

“Isn’t there someone else you’d like to take?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You’re sweet, Scott, but maybe this isn’t a good idea.” My head won’t stop slowly shaking no way. “I don’t want to muck up our friendship.”

His arm drops, hangs casually between us. He frowns. “Why can’t friends go to prom together?”

“It won’t creep you out?” I can’t look at his face. “Going with me?”

“Hardly.”

“Guess I need a dress.” I stick my tongue out at him. “Meadow will be thrilled.”

Scott sits up as tall as he can. “This I gotta see.”

chapter 8

PROM

Prom ends up being the same night as our concert. Such a pain. Scott comes to the concert in his black tux, looking way too good to be my old grade school bud. We’re leaving right after. Port High has a tradition of having its proms at a country club. We’re going to be way late, but that’s good. The party will be hopping, and we can lurk quietly in the back for a few songs and then leave.

Meadow peeks through the side door of the sanctuary before the concert starts and spots Scott in the audience. She takes him for an Amabile spy, searches the crowd wildly for Derek.

“No, that’s my friend, Scott.”

“Your prom date?”

“Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”

“He’s way hot,” Sarah chimes in. “Introduce me after.”

Not on your life. I’d never sic Sarah on my poor, defenseless Scott.

Terri walks in from the side and takes a bow. She’s in a gorgeous black outfit. Guess Meadow’s mom got to her, too. She welcomes the crowd, says a spiel about golden Olympic dreams in Lausanne, and then we’re singing. The numbers whirl by. Each one gets a lot of applause. The audience is our family and friends. They’ll applaud anything.

Our finale is “Take Me Home.” I nail my solo. The hall goes nuts when it’s over. They are on their feet, pounding their hands together while we take a bow. Terri bows. The pianist bows. I have to step forward and bow by myself. Then we all bow together. The audience still claps. They won’t shut up until we sing it again.

I’m surrounded when it’s all over. Mom pushes her way through and gives me a big hug. “You’re beautiful. And not just the outside.” It’s her gift that shines through me. That is the only really stunning thing I have. She squeezes again. “I’m so proud of you.”

Scott’s waiting in the background. He does look nice in that tux. It accentuates his shoulders. Dang, those shoulders. Why do they get to me? He was going to get his hair cut for tonight, but I told him I wouldn’t go if he did. He so liked that. I hope I can control myself this evening. I don’t want to do something stupid and freak him out. He’s being so nice to take me.

I finally shake the last hand, hug another old lady, and break away to change.

My prom dress is cream-colored silky stuff, almost the same style as our gowns, except the skirt hits me a few inches above my knee and the scoop neck shows more than my clavicle. Meadow insisted. I’m glad the acne all over my chest is history. This outfit definitely wouldn’t have worked. I used a whole bottle of self-tanning lotion to get my legs tan. They turned out okay. My dress makes them look excessively long.

My mom’s waiting around with Scott when I come out of the dressing room. She gets all teary and tells Scott we better be in by one.

One? Like we’re going to be out that late.

“Sure.”

“And what are you driving?” She stands close enough to whiff his breath.

I turn as crimson as our choir gowns. “Mom. It’s Scott. Give it a rest.”

He laughs. “My dad’s BMW. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

We get out of there, and I can relax into the firm bucket seat. The leather smells good. Something else does, too. I think it’s Scott. Aftershave? It’s kind of intoxicating. I reek like hairspray—or worse. That concert was hard work. But it’s not like Scott’s even aware I’m in the car. He’s way into driving. Guys are so easy to please. A powerful car at his fingertips, and Scott is in heaven.

“Hey”—he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel—“grab that cooler from the back.”

I’m disappointed. I didn’t expect Scott to bring booze. He’s so not like that. He knows I’m not. “I can’t believe you—”

“Open it.”

I lift the cooler out of the back, put it on the floor between my feet, and flip up the lid. There’s a large, pink cloth napkin on the top.

“My mom made me put that in—for your dress.”

I peek under the napkin. There’s a bottle of sparkling cider, plastic wine glasses, a couple of bulging wraps encased in plastic, and six big fat brownies. “What is this?”

“Ultimate chick food—according to my big sisters. I wanted to take you out to a nice place, but with the concert—”

I get a lump in my throat. “This is so sweet.”

“Dig in. You must be starving.”

I start with the brownies.

We get to the hotel in time for pictures. “You better hurry.” The teacher who takes our tickets pushes us down the hall. “They close up in ten minutes.”

“We get pictures?” How can Scott be so stunned? Even I know that.

“I need to fix my face.”

He frowns at me. “No, you don’t.”

I quick put fresh lip gloss on while he pays the photographer.

“So if they turn out, we can order extras?”

“Scott! ”

“Just checking. My grandmother might want a copy.”

“She can have mine.”

His face falls.

“I didn’t mean you. I’m hideous in pictures.”

“Twenty years from now, we’ll need these to prove to our kids that we actually went to the prom.”

“Our kids?”

He gets pink around his edges. “Your kids. My kids. Future hypothetical miserable adolescents.”

“Like us?”

The photographer motions us to stand in front of a cheesy archway wrapped in silk leaves and twinkle lights. She looks from me down to Scott. “I think we need a chair. You should sit, hon.”

Scott glares at her. “No way.” He points to my legs. “I want those in the picture.”

“You sneaky brat.”

“I’ve never seen them before. Who knows when you’ll show them off again?”

The photographer’s laughing at us now, but Scott gets his way. She has us stand facing each other, puts Scott’s arms around me—adjusts them so his hands rest in the small of my back. She has me clasp my arms behind his neck, shakes her head, repositions my arms to mirror Scott’s. “Now, turn your heads. Chin down, dear. Stand up straight. Smile a little. This isn’t a funeral. Look here.” She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers. “That’s good.” The camera flashes.

I feel stiff and awkward and blink.

Scott, the little sneak, tickles me. I laugh, and she snaps another shot. “Oh,” she says, “that one is nice.”

Scott keeps one hand on my back and guides me into a blue plush room with chandeliers turned low. A slow song is playing. “Let’s dance.”

I hesitate. He knows I’ve never been to a dance. Enemy territory. He went in junior high. Maybe some in high school. Guys can do that—watch from the sidelines. Maybe he even danced. I don’t know. I was home writing sad songs that I tore into tiny bits and threw out my window.

“Come on, Bethie.” He slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair at an empty table in the back. “Slow ones are easy.” He glances at the sparkly clutch Meadow loaned me. “Anything valuable in that? ”

“Just my face.” Who knows what that’s worth? Hundreds. Thousands. I toss the bag on the table and glance around. There are a couple teacher chaperones watching stuff at the tables. One of them nods at me.

Scott grabs my elbow and pushes me onto the dance floor. He puts his arms around my waist again. I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, barely touching him. He’s staring straight at my cleavage.

“Stop looking at that.”

“Didn’t you wear this dress so I could look at it?”

“I wore this dress because Meadow made me.”

“Thank you, Meadow.”

“You’re creeping me out. Knock it off.”

“Where should I look?”

“How about my face?”

He tilts his head back, and we move around in a slow circle. “This isn’t going to work. My neck’s getting stiff.” His eyes drop back to my cleavage.

I step on his toes—hard. “Look to the side then.”

“Whoa. Everybody’s staring at us.”

“Crap.” Heat pours up through my body and out through my face.

“Just keep dancing.”

“No, let’s sit down. I’m thirsty.”

“You just drank that whole bottle of sparkly stuff.”

I glance around the room over the top of Scott’s soft-blond head. “They are not staring.” I look down at him. “You are the only one staring inappropriately.”

“Come closer then so I can’t.” He pulls me tight and lays his face on my chest, never missing a beat.

“That was smooth.”

“You can learn a lot watching from the sidelines.”

“So you’re comfortable now?”

“Crap, Beth. Shut up and dance.”

I rest my chin on the top of his head. Shoot, he smells so good. I close my eyes. We fall into the slow, seductive rhythm of the song.Remember when you first held me ?

And I believed love could be?

Your lips awoke my senses.

You melted my defenses.

I grip Scott’s shoulders. It feels so good to touch them. My hands slide back and forth exploring the shape of his deltoids as we sway together. This dress is lower in back, too. He has one hand on my bare skin and the other at my waist.If you love me, I’ ll still be here.

Open your heart without fear.

Come back to me

And I’ ll be everything (whoa, whoa-oa, oh).

I’m enjoying this way more than a friend should. I pull him even closer, caress his back, get my hands in his hair and stroke his head—kind of maternal, kind of not.

“That’s nice.” His breath tickles my skin.

Another blush. Does he feel the heat? “Shut up and dance.”Be my baby, and I’ ll be yours.

Don’t say maybe, say forever more.

The truth is, babe, you’re what I’m made for.

The chorus takes over, winds back, and repeats. Scott and I don’t talk much for the rest of the song. We’re both way too into the physicality of our bodies brushing against each other, moving together. Why is he doing this to me? Why am I letting him? The song melts into another song and another, and I melt into Scott.

Then there’s a fast one, and we pull apart, kind of wake up. Embarrassed.

He looks up at the clock, almost midnight, and back at me. “Do you want to leave now?”

I shake my head. “I want to dance slow some more. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

He smiles and takes my hand. “Sure.”

All this touching tonight. It’s making it harder and harder for me to remember he’s just my friend.

We wander back to the table with our stuff. He lets my hand go and pulls out my chair. I sit down.

“I’ll go get us some punch. Now you can be thirsty.”

“Make sure it’s safe.” I do not need spiked punch. I’m high enough already.

“Okay.”

He disappears. I fiddle with my purse. My lips are way dry. I fish out my Watermelon Ice and smear some on.

“Excuse me. Can I sit here?”

I know that voice. My body goes rigid. I don’t turn around. You’d think he’d leave me alone this one night. I glance to the side in the opposite direction, looking for a knot of guys watching whatever these jerks have set up. I can’t find them. They must be behind me.

Colby sits down.

I don’t look at him. Don’t engage. The first rule of bully defense.

“So you’re here with Scott? How did that happen?”

Silence.

“I mean what awful thing did a babe like you do to get stuck going to our prom with Scott? Are you his cousin? Friend of the family?”

I lose it. “Don’t you have a date?” I spit the words into his arrogant, handsome face.

“She drank one beer too many before the dance.” Colby nods toward a girl sleeping at the table beside ours. “So I can rescue you.” He moves his chair closer to mine.

I pull away from him.

“You’re supposed to be grateful.”

“Get over it, Colby. Let’s have the punch line.”

“How do you know my name?”

I stare at him. My brain finally processes what’s going on. “You don’t know mine?”

“If we’d met before, doll”—he rakes me up and down, and I want to slug him—“I’d remember you. Legs like that—a guy doesn’t forget.” His voice is low. He’s trying so hard to be sexy. He leans forward, stares down my dress. “My parents are members here. I can get into the pool.” He looks back at my face and raises his eyebrows. “Do you want to go check out the hot tub?”

“You should know me. I go to Port High.”

“How long?”

“Forever. I’m Beth.”

“Is there a Beth?”

I stand up, unfold slowly. “You call me the Beast.”

The creep’s got nothing to stay.

Scott arrives at that instant, holding a cup of crimson punch in each hand. I take both and dump them all over Colby. “Thanks, Scott, but I’m not thirsty.”

Colby jumps up, ready to kill me. Scott gets between us, pushes him back hard. Now he’s going to kill Scott. I grab Scott’s arm and pull him onto the dance floor. Colby can’t attack us there in the open.

He stands and stares, teeth clenched, fists balled up, then stomps out of the room.

A few point after Colby and laugh, but most are too drunk, too busy gyrating on the dance floor, or making out in the back, to have caught the quick exchange. The chaperones conveniently didn’t see anything.

Scott moves from side to side. Wooden. Scared. “He must have gone to the john to clean up.”

“Let’s get out of here fast.”

“No way.” He stops trying to dance. “I’m not letting that creep ruin our prom.”

“Are you kidding? That made my night. Thank you.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“How will getting the crap beat out of you on our way to the car prove that? There are only a couple songs left.”

“Self-preservation? Kind of a cop out.”

“He’s really drunk, really mad. We can’t give him time to find Travis and Kurt.”

“Okay, you win.”

As we drive home, Scott says, “Promise me, Beth. Next year. Let’s do this again without Colby.”

I shake my head at how crazy he is.

“I’m serious.”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

As we close in on my house, I start to get uptight. Everything inside me is dying to kiss him when the car stops, but will that creep him out? Sure we danced slow like that. He seemed to get off on it as much as I did. Kissing seems light years away. If I plant one on him and he’s grossed out, how can we be friends after that?

We pull into the driveway.

“Don’t move.” He gets out, goes around the car, and opens my door. He takes my hand and helps me up. He doesn’t let go of my hand. He stays there, standing so close—his lips are right below mine.

I just need to stoop—

Tip my face down—

I hug him quick, whisper, “Thanks, Scott, I loved it,” and bolt for the front door.

Crap. No—Mom didn’t lock it. I’m through the door and taking the stairs three at a time—all the while expecting Scott to come chasing after me and subject me to more senseless torture. I turn on my bedroom light. I can see his car through the crack in the drapes. Why is he still out there? Go home, Scott. Save yourself. I throw myself into my bathroom, turn on the shower, jam my iPod in the speakers and crank it.

As soon as I’m in the shower, I realize my iPod is in the middle of my diva playlist. I really don’t need to hear throbbing, passionate songs right now. I stick my head under the water to block out the music. The third one that plays is the first song Scott and I danced to. I shut off the water so I can hear it. I dial it to repeat while I get dressed.

I sneak over to the window. He’s gone. We’re safe.

“Beth?” Oh, shoot. Mom. I woke her up. “Can you turn that off?”

“Sorry.” I whip back into the bathroom, grab my iPod, search my room until I’ve got headphones, and throw myself on my bed. The song is starting again. I lie there, eyes closed, letting the music beat where my heart should be.

I roll over, grab my notebook, and start scribbling a new verse. One for me.The scent of you on my fingers

Makes me crazy while it lingers.

Forget it, my heart murmurs.

Why do my fool lips need yours?

Could you want me? If it’s a joke,

Please don’t haunt me—dreams in smoke.

All we’ve been through . . .

We should both already know, whoa, whoa, whoa.

Can’t you see how much you have changed?

Frightened to move? Yeah, I’m the same.

Insides yearning—can I walk away again?

The chorus starts. I roll onto my back, holding the notebook up, so I can try to sing my verse at the next chance.

I whisper-sing the words overtop the diva’s voice blaring through my headphones. Why does Scott do this to me? I’ve got to tell him—put him on his guard. Explain how wild he makes me feel. If he knows ahead of time that I might lose control and attack him, he can defend himself. He’d think it was funny, right? Kill himself laughing. I’d fake a laugh, shrug the whole thing off as insane, and remind him he needs a girlfriend. He didn’t get the message last time. You can’t hang out with your old grade school pal forever.

The song starts to play again. I place my hand on my chest where Scott’s face pressed while we danced. I want that again. I can’t help it. I want his lips, too. I’m such a creep. I want my best friend.

It’s his fault. He started it. Why is he doing this to me? How dare he smell that good. How dare he hold me like that while we danced. How dare he let his lips come that close to mine.

I sing my verse into my pillow, over and over, fall asleep with the music still playing, dream of bending down and pressing my mouth to Scott’s.

chapter 9

TOO WEIRD

Our last Bliss practice before we take off for Switzerland is a killer. All day Saturday. Goes an hour over. All Sarah and Meadow can talk about on our breaks is Derek. Even Leah gets into it. He didn’t confirm Meadow. After our chat, he’s probably blocking me. Good. I’m already sick to death of him.

I’m starving on the drive home. I could use one of Scott’s brownies.

Scott. It’s been so weird with him since prom. I don’t have the guts to bring up my issues. Don’t trust myself. He acts subdued. Not talking much. Hurt? I don’t know. I wish he would tell me. I’m mortified that I ran away from him, but it would have been worse if I hadn’t. The last two weeks of school we sat by each other in choir and just—sang. I knew the prom thing was a bad idea. Still. Other than the night I became soloist, it was the best evening of my life.

School’s been out for two weeks. I haven’t seen Scott or heard from him. So weird. Last summer we hung out a lot. And we’ve always studied together. We didn’t do that once for finals. He’s working at the Save-A-Lot this summer. I’m not making milk runs. I leave in five days for Europe. Maybe he’ll be normal when I get back. I hope so. I want it to be like it was.

I deleted that song we danced to from my diva playlist. I can’t ever listen to it again. All it takes is a few notes and I want him all over. It’s kind of exciting to feel like that—passionate like Meadow and Sarah go on about—but I can’t be that way. It’s never going to happen. Scott’s my friend and I’m the Beast.

“Hey, Mom.” I chuck my bag in the corner and head for the kitchen. I hope she cooked.

The kitchen is bare. Great. I open the fridge and rip a drumstick off a rotisserie chicken. There’s a noise in Mom’s study. “Mom? Did you eat without me?” I walk down the hall and push open the door.

Mom is sitting at her computer, tears streaming down her face. I’m across the room in a stride and lean over and put my arms around her. “What?”

“Aunt Linda lost her baby.”

This happens to poor Linda a lot. “That’s awful.” Pregnancy and miscarriage talk used to make me squirm, but now it’s fascinating. I gaze at Mom. She would have liked more babies—I’m sure of it.

“This was her sixth miscarriage.”

“I’m really sorry.” I squeeze Mom’s shoulders. “Can I get you some herb tea? How about that violet kind you like?”

“I’m fine. Can you sit a minute?”

I perch on the edge of one of her wingback chairs. I feel stupid with the chicken leg in my hand.

“They did some testing on the fetus.”

I’m not so hungry anymore. The smell of the chicken is turning my stomach.

“And ran some genetic tests on Linda.”

“That’s all she needs. They should leave her alone.”

“But now she knows what’s going on.”

“They found something?”

Mom nods. “It’s genetic.” She pauses, looks at me intently. “Linda is a carrier of what’s called a trisomy—a triple chromosome. Very rare.”

“And it causes miscarriages?”

“Babies that have it either die and miscarry”—Mom swallows hard—“or are born with severe mental and physical handicaps. Linda’s doctors told her not to try anymore.”

“But Anna,” my cousin, “is fine.”

“She could be a carrier.”

A shudder goes through me. “I’m sorry, Mom. Poor Aunt Linda. That’s all she needs.”

“Honey.” Mom looks down at her hands and then forces her eyes back to my face. “You need to be tested. You could be a carrier.”

“What do you mean?”

“From . . . him.” Dad? Even gone—ruining my life, finding a way.

“That means . . . all my babies . . . ” Will die? Be severely handicapped? I’m not sure what they mean by that. There’s a kid in a wheelchair at school. He’s kind of twisted and talks weird, but he’s smart. I could deal with that. I could love a child like that. Even a baby who wasn’t smart. I think you’d end up loving them even more. They’d never grow up. Always be with you. I’d like that. I’d never be alone again.

But all of Aunt Linda’s babies died. Except Anna. “Did you have miscarriages, Mom?”

She shakes her head. “I just got pregnant the one time. With you.”

I guess nature made me a beast for a reason. Too ugly to attract a mate and pass on the curse. Would an adopted baby love me or be frightened like those kids at the library last summer? Do they give children to single beasts?

Mom gets up and hugs me. “You’ll be fine. It’s nothing to worry about.”

I hug her back and try to believe, but the quiver that runs through her body makes it difficult.

Over her head I catch a reflection of myself in the window behind her desk.

Dyed, straight blonde hair.

Perfect clear skin.

No thick glasses.

I’m beautiful.

But inside, I can’t escape. I am what I am.My world was close to change.

Breaking these shackles,

My bid for freedom

So near this time.

But chains still bind me tight.

All my cries

For love, for hope

Fade in the night.

Just run away.

That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll get on that plane, fly to Switzerland, sing to the world. Even this new curse, this awful new power my father may have over me, can’t stop me.

chapter 10

INFECTED

“Oh, baby, look at that.” Meadow jabs my ribs with her elbow.

Two way-hot guys wearing jeans and red and white hockey jerseys are talking to the guy who seated us. One of them is a tall guy I remember seeing on the Amabile guys’ Web site and the other one—

Catches me staring—

And grins at me.

My eyes hit my plate, and I jam a forkful of pork schnitzel and buttery noodles into my mouth. I blush to the tips of my fingers. He’s got a magnetism that didn’t show up in his pictures online. Angel face, medium height, slim build, dark, soft hair. Pale, pale skin. I can’t believe I actually chatted with this guy. I can’t believe I was such a snot. He doesn’t know who I am—doesn’t have a clue that the awkward scarlet-faced girl staring at him with her mouth hanging open is the mysterious Bliss soloist. He’s awful, right? Horrid. As bad as Colby. For sure.

“It’s him.” Meadow perks up. “Derek.”

Poor Meadow. The trip up here this morning was brutal. Debilitating stage fright is merely one of her conditions. It’s all real, too—no act. She’s okay now. We’re sitting in a cozy restaurant, the Crystal something or other, all windows, snow-covered peaks smack up against them, that reflect so much sunshine it makes your eyes hurt. All this balanced on top of a peak in the middle of one of the most famous mountain ranges in the Swiss Alps. The Jungfraujoch. Don’t ask me how you say it. It’s part of this giant installation worthy of a James Bond-villain hideout. They call it the Top of Europe. When we first arrived and saw giant peaks right in our faces, we all stopped at the same time. Staring. Amazed. Alps on steroids.

Down in Lausanne, where we started today’s journey, the Alps across the lake are a striking blue granite with hints of snow at the top. The quaint old city is rich with green grass and trees, the blue lake and bluer skies, red geraniums pouring off every windowsill—perfect summer, cool and sweet down by the water. Such a relief after the heat in Rome. The place is like a fairy tale come to life compared with the humid, overcast Great Lakes summer we left behind.

Up here on the edge of the skies where clouds and birds and the very tip-tops of mountains live, it’s freezing white perfection. The glaciers on the peaks are pure and lovely, like an everlasting first snowfall.

To get up here, we took train after train, and the last one went straight up through the middle of the solid granite mountain. All we could see was the rough stone walls cut a hundred years ago for tourists like us. Tunnels and Meadow don’t mix.

She was breathing fast and shallow, head down, a sheen of sweat seeping through the makeup coating her face.

I remembered that awful panic feeling when I was getting my face lasered. Meadow’s mom was in a different car. She always fades away when Meadow is in meltdown. Guess she doesn’t like to watch her own handiwork gone wrong.

Meadow sympathized with me when I was flipping out during the lasers. On the train ride earlier today, I glanced down at myself in the picture displayed on the back of my new camera. I looked nice. She did this to me. I hated it—every second. But now? I should be grateful. At least grateful enough to help her out.

“Hey!” I shook her arm, and her terrified eyes glued to my face. “Look at these pictures from Geneva yesterday.” I stuck the slim digital camera Mom and I bought after my appointment with the DNA guys under Meadow’s nose. Mom got me in for testing two days before we left. Cancellation. So lucky. We both needed cheering up after that.

She focused on the screen. “Are you sure that’s Geneva?”

“Yeah. There’s one of you at the UN.” We sang in the entrance in front of all the flags. “Let me find it.” I skipped ahead to a pretty one of her.

“I can’t believe we missed the Amabile guys by ten minutes.” She has their schedule memorized. Guy talk works best to snap her out of it, so I kept her on the subject.

“Wasn’t that them yesterday afternoon?” We had paraded en masse with all the competing choirs through the center of Lausanne, singing and waving flags. Hundreds of choirs. Thousands of singers. And a mass of guys in Canadian red and white that had to be the Amabile boys.

“Seeing them from the back, miles away, isn’t what I came for.”

I slowly scrolled through the shots. “You’ll see them tomorrow.”

“No way. We’re competing. Terri will keep us tethered all day. But Amabile sings tonight. We got to get out and go.”

Terri won’t let us go to the opening gala. After today’s long trip up the mountain, she wants us in early and asleep. Now that Meadow’s had her sighting, maybe I can talk her out of sneaking out. I’m here to sing not stalk. And tomorrow it finally happens.

Not that we haven’t been singing. We already spent a week in France, Italy, and now Switzerland. We sang at the base of the Eiffel Tower, flew to Rome and performed in the middle of that huge square in front of St. Peter’s in the Vatican. Then to Geneva. Now we’re settled in our quaint little hotel in Lausanne. The room is way tiny, but the whole place is utterly clean. Even my neat-freak mom would approve. Our hotel in Italy was a total dump. Paris was worse. My only complaint about this one is the sign outside. A giant blue mermaid who forgot her seashells. At least she makes it easy to find. And she’s nothing like the saggy middle-aged women sunning themselves down by the lake that we ran into. I can’t imagine being seen like that. Meadow’s mom said sunning keeps them firm. Yuck. Didn’t seem to help for those ladies.

When the train rolled to a stop about an hour ago, Terri came into our car. “Bundle up ladies.” We tumbled out, and I pulled my coat tight. We’re all wearing the same tan pants and cream raincoats with our Bliss logo embroidered on the collar, fleeces underneath for warmth up here in the mountains.

Meadow clutched my arm. “I thought it was going to get better.”

We were still in the guts of the mountain. Dark, brooding stone. So cold.

“Scarves.” Terri wrapped hers around her face. “Quickly now.”

Meadow planted herself. “Where are we going?”

Leah got on Meadow’s other side, supporting her. “We’re obviously not singing in the train station.”

We hustled down a stone corridor, breathing through our scarf-covered noses to protect our throats. We broke through big double doors into an open, airy space, warm and glassy. Up close and personal with mountain peaks every way you look. But that didn’t cheer Meadow up.

But now, she looks like she’s just had a miracle transfusion. An undocumented Amabile sighting right here in our restaurant. They aren’t supposed to be up here. They must have changed up their schedule to outrun the groupies.

“Hurry up. He’s getting away.” Those poor guys. They will not outrun Meadow. Gorgeous guys are her element. She’s excited, for sure, but possessed, ready to spring. Now I’m the one hyperventilating.

She can’t expect me to go along. “No way.” I know Meadow. She’ll actually talk to them.

“Oh, yeah. Miss Star, you get that tall guy with him, Blake. I looked him up specially for you.”

“Please,” Sarah tears her eyes away from the door the guys disappeared through. “You’re not giving that to Beth. She wouldn’t know what to do with him.”

Thanks, Sarah. I think.

“Come on, Beth.” Meadow’s on her feet, jumping around.

“I’m not going to make a good impression if I faint when we sing.” I keep eating, slowly, pretending I’m calm, not embarrassed, not nervous. Totally indifferent. I tell myself I’m not interested in guys like that. Guys like Derek loathe me. He’s the enemy. I glance out the window behind me to make sure the bright-white mountains aren’t melting in the glow of Derek’s smile like I am. I should be creeped out that he made me feel like this, swirled into a panic.

Meadow watches me take every bite. As soon as I get the last noodle in my mouth, she grabs my arm, jerks her head at Leah and Sarah, and the chase is on.

Just outside the restaurant, there’s a stairway that leads us to a busy area directly off the entrance. There are counters where you can buy touristy stuff and racks of postcards over to one side. The rest is glass and blazing, white rugged mountain peaks.

Meadow spies the two guys looking at the postcards. “Come on.” She goes right up to them, zeroes in on Derek. “Hey, are you guys Amabile?” I would be embarrassed to say something that stupid, but from Meadow it sounds like poetry.

The tall guy looks at the back of his jersey that’s plastered with their logo. “What tipped you off?”

“We’re your neighbors.”

The tall guy gives her a blank look—guess they get this a lot.

She doesn’t balk for a second, turns to her boy. “From Ann Arbor. Michigan? You know that place just across the border? Bliss Youth Singers.”

Derek grabs the hand she’s sticking in his face. “You really are Bliss?”

Meadow lights up. “Yeah. That’s us.”

He lets go of her hand and looks at the three of us standing behind her. “Do you know Beth? The one who sings the ‘Take Me Home’ solo on your Web site?”

Sarah and Leah drag me forward. Meadow isn’t pleased. Neither am I.

“Hey.” He shakes my hand now. “That’s Blake. I’m Derek. Nice to finally meet you.”

I’m surprised I don’t faint, but I almost throw up all those buttery noodles churning in my mortified stomach. My reply isn’t an intelligible word. I can’t speak or even breathe, can’t look at him. I just stare at his soft, pale hand touching my rough, bronzed one.

“Sorry I was such a turd that night online.” He’s not smirking at me. That smile is genuine, so heartstoppingly genuine.

I manage, “Me . . . um, me, too.”

“Truce?”

“Sure.” He draws his hand away from mine.

Blake turns so poor Meadow gets shouldered out. “Derek’s over the top with his counterintelligence duties.”

Sarah laughs up at him and oozes closer. She’s well-endowed with natural assets and isn’t afraid to invest them. I don’t know how she communicates all that to Blake with a single giggle, but he obviously gets the message.

Derek flashes me another grin. “I have a confession to make.”

More heat pours into my face. Maybe it doesn’t show through my foundation.

“I downloaded ‘Take Me Home’ from your Web site, which,” Derek’s smile opens up to include the rest of the girls, “really needs pictures.”

Leah’s eyebrows draw together. “I didn’t think you could do that.”

“Pictures? Easy.”

“Download the song.”

“You can’t but—”

Sarah giggles again. “You stole our song?”

“Borrowed?” He gives me this sweet forgive-me look.

Blake tears his eyes away from Sarah to add, “So he can spy on you.”

“Shut up.” Derek elbows Blake in the ribs. “I’ve always loved that piece. We did it in chamber. And the way you do it—so much feeling. That needs to go on Bliss’s next CD.”

“CD?” I am so lost. Meadow and her mom forgot one thing when they remade me. I’d give anything for a personality transplant right now. I am so out of my depth.

Derek tips his head, talks low, like it’s just the two of us. “Our conductor makes us listen to our numbers at night when we go to bed. Some flighty hypnosis trash. Sometimes I cheat—slip in something soothing.” His deep brown eyes capture mine. “You sing me to sleep.”

Blushing, sweating—what a mess. At least I keep my lunch down. Who could possibly answer that? He must be doing this on purpose, take perverse delight in reducing tall, awkward girls to puddles.

Meadow comes to my rescue. “Now you’ve met Beth.” She maneuvers me to the side. “Here’s Sarah, Leah, and I’m—” She pauses and smiles at him like he’s won the lottery. “Meadow.”

Blake and Derek mumble polite stuff.

Meadow keeps after Derek. “I’ve got your CD.”

Blake says, “The new one or the old one?”

Sarah laughs at his elbow, catches his eye again. “All three. I even got the new Primus recording.” Primus is the name of their special group for the older guys.

Meadow picks up a postcard. “We all do.”

Derek turns to where I’m pretending to look at fuzzy gloves with “Top of Europe” and mountain peaks embroidered on them. “How about you, Beth. Do you listen to us?”

I nod. “I have all the AYS CDs, too.” My tongue seems to function better if I don’t look at him. “They, um, set the standard.”

He shrugs. “None of them has your voice.”

Meadow maneuvers to a spot on Derek’s other side. “Are you guys singing up here?”

Blake puts a postcard with a guy blowing an alphorn back in the rack. “Uh-huh. We just checked the schedule.” He pronounces “schedule” as “shedule.” Sarah smiles at that. Blake raises his eyebrows at her. “Thirty minutes.”

Sarah picks out a card I can’t see and shows it to him. “You must be right after us.”

“Cool.” Blake looks around the rack at all of us. “We should do a piece together—in the name of international harmony.”

Derek turns back to me, picks up a black velour beanie. “Are you singing your solo? I’d love to hear it live.”

“No.” I croak, swallow, manage to find a voice that doesn’t wobble too much. “That’s our competition piece. We’re saving it.”

“Secret weapon?” That grin again.

Dang. I’m going to die right here and now. And then they’ll win for sure. A guy with his cuteness factor blended with little-boy sweet shouldn’t be allowed to roam free and unprotected. He’s infectious. Crap. He’s an epidemic.

I can’t help smiling back at him. “Maybe not as secret as we thought.”

“Do you girls want to get a drink with us?” He says “girls” but he looks at me. “They’ve got this hot apple stuff that really clears out your throat. Great for the pipes.”

Leah looks at her watch. “I don’t think we have time. We’re supposed to warm up in five minutes.”

Blake leans over Sarah and whispers, “Your loss,” in her ear—loud enough so we all hear. She keeps her cool, does this almost imperceptible cat-wriggle response.

Meadow tugs at the beanie in Derek’s hand. “How about after.”

Derek drops the beanie and turns back to me. “Only if you promise to sing the test piece with us.”

Sing with them? Oh . . . my . . . gosh. “But we sing the treble arrangement.” I’m gross sweaty again. I can even feel perspiration breaking out in the small of my back.

Derek doesn’t seem to notice. “The bass piece is in the same key. It works. We sing it in our chamber choir with the AYS all the time.”

Meadow shakes her sexy straight hair back out of her face. That gets Derek’s attention. Blake’s, too. She purses her glossy red lips. “Won’t the AYS get upset if you guys sing with us?” I need to memorize what she does with her body. Head tilt, hip out, weight shift, chest movement. It all looks perfectly natural. I feel like a board standing next to her.

Blake’s eyes are all over Meadow now. “They are in China.”

Sarah frowns behind him.

Derek picks up the gloves I looked at. “I’ll make it happen.” His arm brushes mine. Not Meadow’s?

The guy must be magic because five minutes later when we meet for warm up, Terri’s bubbling over. “The Amabile Young Men’s Ensemble performs after us. Their conductor just invited us to sing the test piece with them.”

When our choirs sing together, the sound fills up the entire non-acoustical glass, chrome, and cement installation. There are eighty of us and fifty of them. I’m standing in the center in the front. I’m too tall for the risers. Derek is right behind me, singing in my ear. That means he’s only a couple inches shorter than me. He shows off and sings the soprano part. I’d like to hear his tenor. I bet that would melt the glaciers out the window. Shoot, he could melt the stone underneath. I’m grateful he’s goofing around. His tenor would be way more than I can handle.

Maybe I have heard it. There’s this one piece on their latest CD with an aching, tenor solo. That’s got to be Derek. Meadow manages to stand beside him. She sings better than usual. Guess all she needs is a little inspiration. What is she doing in an all-girls choir?

After the performance, the guys take us through the main sights, starting with the ice palace full of goofy sculptures. Meadow slips on the ice right into Derek. He catches her arm. “Take it easy, eh?”

She clutches onto him. “Thanks.”

He drops her arm, gets ahead of all of us. “Watch.” He runs across the ice floor and slides all the way down a narrow hall that leads to the exit, his authentic Canadianness oozing out. Maybe he plays that weird game with the stones. I can’t see him in hockey gear.

Then Blake has to do it. Sarah tries and almost falls, but Blake catches her. Meadow knows she’ll end up on her butt, so she just watches. I go for it and do end up on my butt.

Derek’s there, helping me to my feet, touching me again. “Are you okay? I should have warned you. It’s slippery.”

“Slippery ice? I’ll have to remember that.” I stare at him. Can’t help it. Is he really this nice? Really this different from any guy I’ve ever known? That’s impossible. Best behavior. Good impression. International harmony. That’s all this is. Underneath, he’s a guy. They all are—except Scott. Poor Scott. He seems so far away.

We take the elevator to the very top of the peak and go out on a wild, wind-whipped viewing platform. Even with all my layers, I’m frozen in seconds. Feels kind of good. Banks my interior fires pumping up all this heat.

“We better not get chilled,” Leah calls.

We all agree she’s right and duck quick back through the doors.

The guys lead us to the cafeteria-style restaurant where they ate lunch with their choir while we were hogging up the nice place.

Leah glances around with the corners of her mouth drooping. “What were you guys doing up at the other restaurant?”

Blake looks at me and then Derek. “Derek heard a rumor you girls would be here. He was looking for Beth.”

Derek elbows him hard. “Shut up, you jerk.”

Sarah turns to me. “Oooh, Beth. You’ve got a stalker.”

I’m embarrassed into a scarlet neck again, but Derek doesn’t flush at all. He coughs like he’s got something stuck in his throat and then laughs. “She figured that out the first time we chatted.”

I try to compose myself while he and Blake push two tables together.

Sarah points at the table next to ours. “Look at that.” Big cups of hot cocoa overflowing with whipped cream. Swiss cocoa. Banned. We can’t have chocolate, either. No cream. No cheese until after we perform. That’s torture in Switzerland.

The guys drool, too.

“You off dairy like us?” I take a chair.

Derek sits down beside me. “Yeah. We’ve got the gala opening tonight. Gotta keep the pipes clean.”

Blake rolls his eyes at Derek. “What a joke that is.” He slaps the menu down on the table. “To hell with clean pipes. I’m having some.”

Derek shakes his head and turns to me. “Are you going tonight?”

I start to explain, but Meadow plops down beside him and pats his arm. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

“Great.” He smiles at her but turns to me again. “I’ll look for you after.”

The three of us sneak out with Meadow. I feel a bit guilty, but the concert is a blast. Why did we come all this way if we’re going to hide in our hotel room? As soon as the Amabile guys hit the stage, every girl in the audience forgets about saving her voice and starts screaming. The guys steal the show. Meaning, Derek steals the show. He’s magnetic. Everyone in that giant auditorium tunes in to him and has a great time. I wish they could do more than three numbers.

“Okay, ladies.” Leah’s acting all official when she’s just as AWOL as the rest of us. “Let’s get back before somebody blows our cover.”

“Hey—” It’s him, Derek, pushing through the crowd toward us. “You made it.”

“Great show.” Meadow touches him again.

“Did you all like it?” He gracefully eludes her grasp, looks around, focuses on me. “What did you think?”

“That spiritual you guys sang was a blast.” I can look at him if I’m talking music. “Really different from ours.”

“It rocks. You can be tender. We’ll bring the house down.”

I nod. “Your solo vocals were totally pure.”

“I can do throaty, too, if you like that kind of stuff.”

“Throaty?” Meadow butts in. “Sign me up for that.”

“I haven’t heard that piece before.” I actually elbow out Meadow—this is official choir stuff. My business. “Where’d you find it?”

Blake comes up and catches the end of the conversation. He knuckles the top of Derek’s head. “Out of this guy’s twisted brain.”

“You wrote that?”

Derek looks at the floor. “Just arranged it. It’s an old spiritual.” A faint tinge of pink washes over his cheeks. “I like working with authentic tunes and lyrics.”

Blake swings his arms around Sarah and Leah’s necks and hangs on them. “Speaking of twisting brains, did you ladies hear that we can drink here? Just beer. Wine, too, if you’re a fancy pants.” He glances at Meadow. “Legal age is sixteen. Bars will serve us. How about heading uptown to see what we can scare up?” He focuses on Derek and me. “You coming?”

Derek gets a strained look on his face. “You know I can’t.”

“That’s right.” Blake winks at us. “This boy’s got a drug habit to feed.”

Drug habit? My eyes dart to Derek’s face.

He glares at Blake. “Shut up.”

“After all I’ve done for you, man. You could at least come hang with me. Make sure I get home safe.” He whispers something that makes Sarah laugh.

Sarah looks ready to head out with Blake. “We compete tomorrow.” I sound like a nagging mom, but this is serious.

Derek turns to me. “I’d rather make sure Beth and—sorry what was your name?”

“Meadow.”

“Yeah. And Sarah and Leah all get back to their hotel safe. Can I walk you girls home?”

“Traitor.” Blake drops his arms off Sarah and Leah and pushes them toward Derek. “That’s Derek. Always looking after the women.”

“Shut up! ”

“If I don’t make it back to the hotel, it’ll be your fault.”

Derek’s eyes roll. “I can live with that.”

Derek walks us to the metro. Meadow makes sure she walks beside him, but he keeps turning back to include the rest of us. He keeps coughing again, like he did up on the mountain. I don’t blame him. He worked hard tonight. He looks tired, too. Wan, not just pale. But still he rides down to Ouchy, the part of Lausanne next to the lake, with us and escorts us to the Mermaid.

“Thanks, Derek.” Meadow flounces up the steps.

Leah and Sarah say good night and follow. I’m with them, but Derek touches my arm like he wants to say something. I fall back.

“I’m glad we finally got to meet.”

“Me too. You guys are great.”

Derek shakes his head. “I’m glad I got to meet you.” He touches my arm again, lightly like a butterfly flutter, and walks away.

I stand there, entranced by his retreating figure, and whisper, “Me too.”

chapter 11

BROKEN

I catch up to the other girls waiting for the elevator in time to hear Meadow say, “I think Derek’s into me.”

She’s perfect like him. How can he not be?

The elevator door opens, and we squeeze inside the tiny box. Leah pushes the button for our floor. “He’s too charming to be real. He walked us home.”

“Escorted.” Sarah laughs. “There’s four of us—and we have Beth. As if we wouldn’t be safe.”

Once an Amazon always an Amazon.

Meadow leads us off the elevator. “Obviously, he wanted to hang out with me as long as he could.”

We make it down the hall and into our room without being spotted. Terri, Meadow’s mom, and the other choir mom chaperones all have rooms on another floor, close to the younger girls. We’ve got four single beds squeezed into a room that is barely a double. We have to keep our suitcases on our beds during the day or we wouldn’t be able to get through the bathroom door.

Sarah snags the bathroom first. I start to change. Meadow dumps her case on the floor, throws herself on her bed, rolls over, stretches. “Derek has the bluest eyes.”

“They’re brown.” I throw the long tee I sleep in on and slip my bra and jeans out from under it. We weren’t stupid enough to sneak out to the concert in our official Bliss wear.

Meadow sits up. “Whatever.” She sighs and falls back on her pillows. “They are perfect.”

I sit down on the edge of my bed. “Do you think he really does drugs?”

Meadow pitches her pillow at me. “I like him. Don’t diss him.”

I catch the pillow, pile it on top of mine, and stretch out. “I think he’s nice, too.” Massive understatement. “But Blake said he has a drug habit.”

Sarah comes out of the bathroom with her toothbrush in her mouth. “Blake was joking.”

Leah looks up from her suitcase at Sarah. “What, girl, do you see in him?”

Sarah turns back around and slams the bathroom door.

Meadow stares at the door. “Blake and Sarah?”

Leah shakes her head. “You’re blind.”

Meadow rolls on her side. “Blinded.”

Leah goes back to pawing through her suitcase. “Did anybody see where I put my pj’s?” She finds them and starts to change. “You know who Derek reminds me of?”

“Who?” Meadow sits up and looks around for her pillow. I chuck it back. Get her good in the face.

Leah pulls on her jams. “That guy in Phantom.” She’s way into Broadway.

I sit up. “Raoul? I don’t see it.” Okay, so am I.

“No. I bet under that charm he’s dangerous.” Leah hops onto her bed. “Drug habit. That gorgeous pale face. And he composes. He’s the Phantom.”

Meadow wriggles and sighs. “He can drag me to his lair anytime.”

“But I think Beth looks more like Christine than you do.”

“Beth? No.” Meadow rolls on her side and studies my face.

Leah folds up her suitcase. “She’s the one with the voice.”

I shoot Leah a warning look. “Derek’s face is way too angelic to be the Phantom.”

Meadow says, “I wonder how he gets it that pale.”

I sit up, cross-legged in the middle of my bed, and lean forward. “Maybe he goes back to his room and shoots up.” I really don’t want to believe that.

Meadow shrugs. “He probably just does a little weed.”

“That’s hardly a drug habit.” He didn’t deny it, though. Didn’t offer any explanations. Behind those melting eyes and the gentle pressure of his hand on my arm, could he be dangerous? “Maybe we shouldn’t try to hang out with them so much tomorrow.”

Meadow sits up. “No way. If he is into drugs that means he major likes me. A guy into abusing substances needs a lot of motivation to skip a chance to go to a bar. Motivation like me.”

She rolls her eyes at Leah—thinks I don’t see, but I do and I get it. I’m not in the club. I don’t know anything about typical guy behavior. A little weed. A couple of bars. I admit that scares me. I don’t want any part of it.

I stretch and glance from Meadow to Leah. “We compete tomorrow. We need to focus.” I need to focus and not think about Derek lying in bed listening to me sing—while he trips out on whatever he takes. “I don’t think we should take any risks.”

Sarah throws open the bathroom door. “They’re doing lunch with us tomorrow after we perform. I already set it up with Blake.”

“Way to go, Sarah.” Meadow jumps up, hugs her, and steals the bathroom.

Leah and I groan. She plops on my bed next to me. “Now we’ll never get in there.”

Sarah jumps on my bed, too. Her flawless skin glows.

I hate to be a downer, but I still say, “Blake seems a little wild.”

“No more than the usual guy.” She pulls a face at me. “I know you’ve never been to a party, but—really—it’s no big deal. They all drink.”

I drop my voice to a whisper. “What do you think about Derek and the drugs?”

Leah shakes her head, impatient with my persistence.

Sarah wrinkles up her nose. “I don’t know. He doesn’t fit the average stoner profile, but artsy creative geniuses do drugs, too. He is pale.”

I nod. Beautifully pale. White, white skin. Dark, dark hair. And then those brown eyes and a sensitive, fascinating mouth. It’s kind of on the tortured side of the spectrum. Maybe that’s where the drugs come in.

The whole gentleman, won’t-go-to-a-bar thing could have been a huge act to trick Meadow. Or me. Did I frown when Blake brought up the bar? Probably. Derek could be up in that bar with Blake, chugging down a cold one—no, this is Europe, a slightly chilled, kind of warm one—at this moment, laughing with Blake about how he fooled me. How his plan is evolving nicely. How I stood frozen on that hotel step, massively entranced, as he walked away. He looks perfect, sounds perfect, but what do any of us know about him? He could be hiding anything he wants behind that heart-stopping face. I know what guys who look like Derek do.

Leah leans in close. “I don’t know if Derek is a scary drug addict, but there’s one thing we all know.” She looks hard at me, a smile playing around her lips. “He’s definitely not into Meadow.”

I pull out of the cozy knot. “He was being nice. Professional.” My heart starts zooming. “Guys don’t get into me.”

Sarah puts her fingers to her lips and whispers, “They do now.”

“Get used to it.” Leah tickles my feet. “You’re hot, Beth.”

I push her away. “You’re delusional.”

Sarah tickles me from the other side. “You could get anybody you want.”

I squirm away from them. “What about Meadow?”

“Blake told me Derek only goes for girls who can sing.” Sarah pushes aside her thick bangs.

“She sang really well this morning.”

“Not like you sing that solo to him every night.”

I swallow hard, shake my head. “This isn’t me. I don’t know how to get Derek.” I put out my hands to ward them off. “I’m here to sing.”

Leah and Sarah trade glances. Sarah pats my foot. “That’s all you’ll have to do.”

I don’t sleep well. The biggest day of my life is about to dawn. No pressure.

Right. I toss and turn, get up—trip over Meadow’s bed on my way to the bathroom. I put the toilet lid down and perch on it, my legs pulled up under my chin, my arms clutched around them in an upright fetal meltdown.

I’m dying to sing. That’s how I unwind. I fake it, quietly mouth through all our pieces. When I get to the end, I go back and lie down, close my eyes. I see Derek alone in his hotel room with a razor blade and a line of white dust, or a needle in his hand and a rubber strap tied around his arm. That picture fades, replaced by the wave of emotion that went through me when he said—Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep—

Tonight.

If Derek knew the pre-dyed, pre-manicured, pre-made-up, pre-lasered Beth, the Beast, would he have been so happy to meet me? That’s what I was when I recorded. He could be just like Colby, only smoother. A star singer instead of a star jock. Colby could be nice when he wanted to be. He managed to get all the beautiful girls at school that he wanted. If his performance at the prom is any kind of clue, maybe his brand of nice is mostly arrogance. Derek didn’t seem like that. How do I know, though?

So he listened to me sing, walked us home, and touched my arm. Does that mean he isn’t just as nasty as every other guy in the universe? Except Scott. But Derek isn’t a short, nerdy sweetheart who’s been bullied all his life. He’s gorgeous, oozes talent, experience, confidence. He isn’t anything like Scott. Could Derek be for real as nice as he seems—despite the drug habit? I close my eyes and find something new in my heart. A small spark of something I don’t recognize.Awake tonight,

I give up

And embrace the glow you lit

When your eyes captured mine

And I heard you whisper,

‘Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep—

Tonight.’

All of my life

I wait for

A touch like wings brushing my heart.

Is this blush on my face

All you have to give me?

Sing, sing me to sleep.

You can sing,

Please, sing me to sleep—

Tonight.

I wake up too early. My head is pounding, and I feel like I’m going to puke. Breakfast and a couple of Advils help. Warm-ups and a run through help more. We pile on our tour bus and ride uptown to the ancient church where we’ll perform.

Then I have to deal with getting ready. My face is a routine by now. Meadow’s mom winds my hair up and fastens it to my head with the sharpest hairpins on earth. She shellacs it all in place. Then I’m stepping into my ruby gown. I get nervous again—hide out in the bathroom singing my solo over and over until we’re called.

We file onto the risers in our swishy ruby gowns. Eighty elegant girls. I feel okay, almost confident. I know my voice won’t let me down. The venue helps my nerves. No cold auditorium. A warm chapel full of wood like we sing in back home. Should be good acoustics.

I look at the audience. The benches behind the judges’ table are filled with guys in white golf shirts with a fancy red “A” embroidered on the pocket. Their whole choir came to hear us. Derek is looking at me. Our eyes lock, and he smiles. At that moment I’m grateful I look so dang perfect. Drug habit or not, he’s impossible to resist. I smile back at him. He gives me a thumbs-up. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly while Terri walks into the room. Polite applause. We sing the test piece. Totally nail it. More applause. We sing our technical second piece. The applause is louder for that one.

The piano starts “Take Me Home.” I close my eyes. The music transports me back to the church in Ann Arbor. It’s just the girls and me. No pressure. Derek’s there, too, though, waiting for me to sing, wanting to fall in love with my song. I open my eyes at the cue. My voice pours out. I look away from Terri, find Derek watching me, hanging on every note, mesmerized. It sends a thrill through me. Somehow I keep singing, but he’s stolen me. Every note, every quiet throb of passion is for him. Take me home, take me home, take me home. I’m not sure how he’s doing this, but even though I’m up here on stage with eighty girls, singing for the judges and an audience, it’s way intimate between Derek and me. The intensity of it mounts when I sing, The dark boy who said he loved me / And fills my dreams at night.

He’s the dark boy who filled my dreams last night. I want him there again, tonight and every night.

He is the first one on his feet when the last note fades. His choir joins him. The rest of the audience rises. No cheering. Decorum reigns at the Choral Olympics during the judging. But the clapping doesn’t stop. We march out, our dresses swirling dramatically around our feet, with the audience still applauding. They don’t stop until one of the judges makes them.

The chaperone moms herd us into our dressing area. We can’t scream like we want. Or even hug. We make do with high-fiving and cheek-kissing.

Meadow’s mom directs the others as they unzip us and help us out of our gowns. We all change into off-white capris and ballet pink blouses with puffy short sleeves and eyelet-lace accents. We even wear matching sandals. I dress automatically, thrilled by that ovation and the pleased look on the judges’ faces and the way Derek’s mouth trembled at the song’s close. I wish I could take my hair down, but we’re supposed to leave it up.

I wipe off the heavy lipstick they made me wear to perform and smooth on Watermelon Ice. Reminds me of Scott. Poor Scott. He’s so far away from me here and now. So different from Derek. Steady. Loyal. Sweet. Friend.

Derek doesn’t seem like any of those things. Especially the friend angle. But sweet? For sure. Last night showed sweet. And singing for him just now was extreme sweet. But that was in me. How did he feel? What could he possibly see in me? Maybe it is all an act. Those guys have been around. He’s had a lot of chances to perfect picking up a girl to pass the time with at a festival. I never imagined something like that happening here, but, heck, I’ll play along. Why not? He doesn’t know who I really am. I am free here. He thinks I’m beautiful.

We meet Derek and Blake at the pizza place across the road from our hotel. The pizzas are all named for movie stars—mostly American. The guys got us a table outside on the sidewalk. Kind of loud with cars going by but way European.

“Great job.” Derek shakes my hand in both of his—holds onto it while he says, “Beautiful, Beth. Exquisite. How do you do that?”

I draw my hand back. “I heard you sing. You know how to do it.”

“Not like that. I can’t sing like that.”

Blake leans over his shoulder and looks me up and down. “Maybe you just need the right inspiration.”

He gets another elbow in the gut and, “Shut up,” from Derek.

We order pizza to celebrate. Blake cheats again with the dairy, but Derek gets pasta with meat sauce. When his order comes, he takes out a handful of capsules and swallows them—notices my stare, shrugs. “Vitamins. My mom is way into macrobiotics.”

I believe him. Every word. Honest.

This place serves authentic Italian pizzas—thin crust, wood fired. I stuff a slice melting with mozzarella into my mouth. It’s so different from home. Fresh and chewy. And the tomatoes are sweet. I close my eyes to savor it better—can’t believe I’m actually eating with him. I’m learning this guy stuff as fast as I can.

“You don’t eat it like that.” Derek watches me swallow from across the narrow table. He picks up a slice of my pizza, folds it over. “Here.” He slides it into my mouth. Obedient as always, I bite and manage to chew without turning too pink. He’s staring—looks like he’s starving.

“You want a piece? This is way too much for me.” Everyone gets their own small pizza here, not giant ones that will serve a table like back home, but it’s too much.

He shakes his head. “Cheese.”

“You guys sing tomorrow, right?”

“I hope you’ll come.” He looks at me the way he did while I sang.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” I gaze back at him and hope I’m sending the right message.

I’m lost somewhere deep in his velvet-brown stare when my cell phone rings in my bag. I’m carrying it today. Mom said she’d call to see how our performance went. She warned me that calls from Europe cost a fortune in roaming and long-distance charges, so we’ve made due with emails, but today actually talking will be worth it.

I find it before she hangs up. “Mom?”

“Beth?” She says something I don’t hear.

I shout, “Hang on a minute,” and get up, walk up the sidewalk. “I think this is better.”

“How did it go, honey?”

“Great, Mom. I sang like I never have before.” I glance back at Derek sitting at the table, leaning back in his chair, staring at me. He holds my eyes, makes my face hot. “We met some nice guys from Amabile—over the border in London.”

“Good, dear. I’m glad you’re having a nice time.” She sounds down.

“You okay?” I worry about her alone.

“Sure.” Her voice breaks.

“What’s going on Mom?”

“Nothing that can’t wait until you’re home next week.”

I close my eyes. No, not today. Agree with her. Hang up. Wait. You don’t want to know. “Is it that test?”

She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear soft crying sounds.

“It was positive, wasn’t it?” Something deep inside me clenches hard against the pain that’s cutting into my heart. “I’m a carrier.”

“We’ll go see a genetic counselor when you get home.” She takes a deep breath, tries to control her voice. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

“Okay. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Don’t let this news ruin your trip. Forget about it and have a great time. We’ll deal with it when you’re back. The doctors wanted you to go on the pill right away, but I told them we didn’t have to worry about that. I’m proud of you, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so—so—sorry.” She’s crying again.

“I love you, too.” My voice cracks on the last word. The phone goes dead. My eyes sting. I figure I have about two minutes before I fall apart. No way can I go back to pizza. And calm, cool, beautiful Derek.

There are yellow stripes on the road in front of me. Crosswalk. Good. I step into it. A car slams on its brakes. I jump. I’d be dead in Detroit, but the Swiss stop. I look up at the leathered face of an old Swiss man, raise my hand to thank him. He smiles and waves back. A lump grows in my throat.

Now traffic is stopped for me, going both ways. I hurry across, pass paddleboats and a place selling ice-cream cones and soda, walk down to the lake. There’s a ferry terminal on my right. Big trees. Benches. I find one that’s mostly hidden behind a fat tree trunk and bushes.

I sit down, try to get a grip. The lake is a mirror today. Really blue. The sky, too. A few fluffy clouds and sunshine. Mountains, blue in the distance with white jagged peaks, rise up on the other side. It’s so serene. I can’t look at it. I need clouds. Driving rain. Crashing waves. The beauty of this place mocks me, screams Da-amn ugly back in my face.

I almost escaped him. Almost escaped all of them. Every guy who’s ever called me a beast. I’d started letting myself hope I had a shot at something like a normal life. A relationship. Marriage. A family. I’d resigned myself to that blind guy when I was forty, but this new facade transformed my fantasies.

Look at Derek. Even Scott.

Crap. At the prom, Colby hit on me.

Somebody could love me. I’m not repulsive anymore. Meadow’s painful intervention gave me that gift. Kind of amazing.

This death sentence on my unborn slams the door shut. Natural selection wins. I am the Beast. Who could love that? The risks are way too high.

Maybe I can get them to rip it out of me—all of it. Everything that makes me a woman, that makes me yearn to love somebody, everything that makes me cry right now for babies that will never be.Empty.

God, take all these feelings,

Let me just be

A shell

Alone on the seashore

While life swells around me.

Soft tiny fingers,

That sweet baby smell,

Still the dream lingers.

Please, take me from this new hell—

Tears slide down my face. I wipe at them, angry. He shouldn’t have the power to make me cry. My father is a faraway shadow. I never even knew him.

Hot liquid pours out of my nose. Gross. I bury my face in my purse.

Somebody sits down on my bench, hands me a packet of tissues.

Derek.

“Thank you,” I whisper, rip out a soft white tissue, and wipe my nose. I try to hand the package back to him.

“Keep it. I’ve got a suitcase full.”

I clutch the package, fumble to open it up again.

“Bad news?”

“Kind of.” I get out another tissue and sop my face.

“I’m sorry.”

He sounds sincere. I want him to be—desperately need him to be. “Thanks for finding me.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I was watching you. I can’t stop watching you, Beth.” He’s rubbing my back now—like you would a hurt child. “I could tell the call didn’t end well.”

I close my eyes. The tears are coming back.

“Is your family all right?”

I nod, swallow hard. “I had some tests done right before we left. My mom got the results.”

His hand stops moving. “You’re not sick, are you?”

I shake my head.

“You’re not going to die on me?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to go?”

“No.” I sit up and stare at the lake, try to get a grip. “I can’t have kids.” Saying it out loud, to this velvet boy, makes it real, seals my fate. I break apart, can’t stop it—even with Derek watching.

“Come here.” He puts both arms around me, tucks my face to his shoulder, and holds me. The sobs win.

He whispers soothing stuff, hums a tune I’ve never heard, and rocks me back and forth. Never once does he say, “It’s okay.” You could love a guy like that. Easy.

I finally get control. His shoulder is wet under my face. I raise up a little. “Crap. I made a mess of your shirt.”

“I have four more just like it.”

“Your pasta will be cold.”

“I like cold pasta.”

I manage a smile. My lower lip shakes. “I’m sorry.” I smooth the wet spot on his chest.

He presses my head back down. “I’m not.”

“I must look awful.”

“I’m not looking.”

“I guess you can let me go now.”

“Do I have to?”

“No.” My throat aches like the tears are going to start again. “If you don’t mind, it helps.”

“Good.” His lips brush my forehead.

“Derek?”

Now he’s kissing my temple.

“I don’t really know you.” Is he taking advantage of me or does he know this is exactly what I need?

His mouth drifts across my face. “Sure you do.”

I close my eyes—can’t breathe.

His mouth finds mine. He kisses me, soft and tender, whispers, “Does this help, too?” And kisses me again. “I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks—since we chatted.” His lips caress and soothe as much as his hands did. “You’ve got me in some kind of spell. Am I rushing you?”

“I think—” My eyes drift open. “I want to be rushed.”

That brings his kiss back. My lips move against its soft touch.

“You’re beautiful, Beth,” he breathes into my ear.

“Don’t say that. Not today. If you knew the real me—inside.”

He takes my face in both of his hands. “What—you’re an ax murderer?”

That distracts me into half of a smile. “How’d you guess?”

“I knew it.” He bites my lower lip and tugs on it. “I love dangerous women.”

His kissing gets faster, more intense.

I pull back.

“Rushing?” He touches my face, kisses me slow and soothing again. “Are you feeling any better?”

I put my hand over his and whisper, “Don’t stop. It’s amazing therapy.”

“For me, too.”

“You need therapy?”

“I’ve had my share.”

Drug habit. Therapy. Dangerous. Genius. Artist. Who is this guy I’m making out with on a park bench in broad daylight on the banks of Lake Geneva in Lausanne, Switzerland? He’s no Colby. Not even Scott could be this understanding. He looks like an angel, sings like an angel. He found my breaking heart and coaxed it into a new rhythm. A rhythm so sweet, so captivating, so enticing, I can’t get enough.

Who is he?

His arms wrap around me, his mouth moves to my neck—

And I don’t care.

chapter 12

WHOLE

“Back off, Meadow.” That’s one good thing about being a beast. I know how to defend my territory—call it animal instinct.

She was on the sofa in the tiny lobby of our hotel watching for me. She’s on her feet and in my face before the door swings shut behind me. Too bad there’s not a window out to the street. She could have seen Derek kissing me good-bye.

“What happened to you. Your face is a mess.”

“I got some bad news.”

“And you had to drag Derek off because . . . ?”

“He noticed and came looking for me to see if I was all right.”

“You are so naive. You should have heard what Blake said about him after you both ended up missing.”

“Blake’s a jerk. Why would I care what he says?”

“Derek plays this game everywhere they go. Picks out a girl beforehand, overwhelms her, gets what he wants, and then the festival is over, and he vanishes on a jet plane.”

“Sounds like somebody else I know.”

“You mean me? Hardly. Ann Arbor isn’t that far from London. I’m after more than this week.”

“Until I got in your way.”

“Exactly. You need to step aside and leave this to a pro. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hurt? She has no idea what it means to be hurt. “Too late. He kissed me.” We made out until he had to go to practice, and if this week is all there is, I’ll do it again every chance I get. Go home to your boyfriend, Meadow.

“I made you, Beth. Remember that.” Whoa. Now Meadow looks like a protective beast. She holds the dirty look long enough to make me blink.

I really want to pull this fake hair off my head, scrape the makeup off my face, and strip off every Meadow tainted thing I’m wearing. I hate that she’s right. Derek may love my voice, but it was the fake me he was making out with.

Meadow crosses her arms. “So—what’s this awful news?”

I’m a mutant beast and will produce deformed offspring. No way I’m telling Meadow that. “It’s personal.” I push by her, take the stairs up.

“Three more days,” she calls after me, “and then kiss him good-bye.”

The whole choir goes to the concert that night. We’re in the balcony. Derek’s choir has seats on the floor.

“There he is.” Sarah points him out to me. Derek is standing up searching the hall. “Where’s Blake?”

Leah spies him, too. “Stand up, Beth, and wave at him.”

I feel so stupid. “He’ll never see me up here.”

Leah prods my ribs. “Stand up.”

I get on my feet to shut her up, watch him searching the auditorium, section by section. Then he’s waving, smiling, pointing at the exit.

“Go,” Sarah whispers. “I’ll distract Meadow. Find out where Blake is.”

The orchestra is warming up. It would be so cool to perform with a full orchestra to back us. I tell Terri I’m going to the girls’ room and slip out without Meadow tripping me.

I hurry through the exit, and he’s there—pulls me behind a pillar and kisses me. It works standing up. I wasn’t sure. I just have to stoop a little.

I run my hands down his arms, exploring the muscles. “Hey.”

He takes my hands. “Hey.”

That’s all we manage. We get lost in lips, miss the opening two numbers.

“You all right?”

I bite my lip and nod. “I better go back, though, before Terri sends Meadow for me.”

He grins. “Anything but that. She scares the hell out of me.” The oo in his out is so delicious.

“You’re not into high-maintenance hotness?”

He laughs. “Come here—one more time.”

We miss the third number, too.

“I gotta go.”

“Meet me tonight. I’ll hang outside your hotel until you can get out. We can go back to our bench by the lake.”

Is Meadow right? Does he expect that already? “I don’t know if—”

“This isn’t about sex, Beth. I wouldn’t disrespect you like that.”

I’m flaming red. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Trust me. I just want more time with you. We can walk and talk. Sarah told Blake you write, too.”

I’m going to kill her. “I scribble lyrics. Bad ones. Nothing like what you do.”

“I want to hear them.”

“No way.”

“Please.” He kisses me.

“No.”

He kisses me again—lingering and utterly persuasive.

“I’ll go out with you, but no lyrics.” I’d die if he ever heard that thing I made up last night. And no one will ever hear what I composed sitting on that bench this afternoon. But that was before. Before Derek found me and kissed me and changed me.

Derek smiles, gets ready to kiss me again. “Bet I can get you to sing them for me.”

“You’re welcome to try.” I close my eyes, ready to get lost in him one more precious time.

“I’ll bring my best tune.”

“Are your lips tired yet?” he whispers into my ear.

I’m in Derek’s arms, draped across his lap, knees bent, feet up on our bench. There’s a fresh breeze blowing so it’s cool. I snuggle into his warm hockey jersey-clothed arms, glad that he wore it. “I could kiss you all night.”

He props me upright and stands up. “Let’s take a walk.”

I don’t want to stop making out. “No.” I grab his hand and tug.

He pulls me to my feet and kisses me one more time. “I need a break—or it will be about sex.”

Why doesn’t that scare me? Crap. I have a massive urge to shove him back down on the bench and see what happens. The Beast wants loose. Who knew I could be this skanky? Maybe those dumb doctors do have something to worry about.

Derek takes my hand, and we walk along the paved pathway that skirts the lake. He points across it. “Those lights are France. Evian, where the water comes from.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked it up to impress you. The lake is a thousand feet deep.”

I stop walking. “I don’t want a tour right now.” I try hard to sound sexy. Me. Sexy.

He turns and points to three large tufts of feathers, bluish white in the moonlight. “Those are swans—should I wake them up?”

I shake my head and let him tug me forward. “Why are little boys like that?”

“I’m a little boy?” He glances sideways at me and frowns.

“No. Most definitely not.” We come to a grayed statue and turn our backs to the lake to look at the frozen woman. “I’m trying to figure out what you are.”

“Dazzled.” He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses it. I’m surprised the statue doesn’t melt. I am. So melted.

We stand like that, breathing each other in, eyes sinking, sharing the miracle of feeling like we do. I think he’s going to kiss me again, but he turns away, coughing, gets out a fresh packet of tissues.

I sigh. The evening is cool for summer, especially here by the lake. This air can’t be good for his voice. “I don’t like the sound of that. Are you getting a cold?”

He coughs again.

“You’re singing tomorrow. You should get back.”

“Don’t worry.” He tugs on my hand, and we wander toward our bench. “I’m allowed to sleep in.”

“Star treatment?”

“This from the diva.”

“I’m so not a diva.”

“I know.” He wraps his arm around my back without letting go of my hand—so my arm goes with it, and he can pull me in close. “I can tell from the way you sing.” He speaks quietly, his breath warm on my earlobe. “A diva couldn’t come up with the purity and emotion you get. You’re an artist.”

“Coming from you—that’s huge. Thank you.”

“Simple truth.”

“I like the way you see the world.”

“I’m seeing it differently today.”

“You make it sound like I’m the first girl you’ve said that to.”

He stops walking. “I’ve had a huge crush on you—” He bends his arm and holds me tight to his chest, buries his lips on my neck.

I stroke his soft, perfect hair and whisper, “With my voice. You don’t even know me.”

He raises his face, lets go of my hand, so he can cup my face between his palms. “I know your soul. It’s there in every note.” He brushes my lips with his. “You can’t fake that. You can’t hide it.” He holds my lips a long time. “I was dying to meet you.” He’s breathing faster.

It all gets too unreal. I pull away. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Very funny. You know what the guys back in the choir call you?”

I can imagine.

“The goddess.”

His eyes are so full, so deep—I drop mine, stare at the chipped pink polish on my toenails. “I’ve been called a lot of things but never that.”

He puts his index finger under my chin and gently raises my eyes back to his. “Thanks for hanging out with a mere mortal.” He tucks a sticky hair-sprayed dyed-blonde lock behind my ear and moves in to kiss me again.

“You know how fake I am?” I turn my face away. “This hair. My face. If you saw me back home—”

“But we’re not back home. We’re here. We don’t have to be who we are back home.” There’s a fierceness in his voice that frightens me. Is he running from the realities of back home as much as I am? That is what I’m doing—with him, to him—substituting how I feel when he kisses me for the empty desolation that tries to creep back as soon as he stops. I cling to him. Need him. He grips me tight. Can he need me, too?

We stand there holding on, trying to stop time, compress it into this moment so we can drift on this feeling forever.

I raise my head off his shoulder. “What is it—for you—back home?”

“Let’s walk.”

I keep expecting him to start telling me, but he’s silent.

It gets uneasy—at least for me. I want to ask him about drugs—is that what he’s in therapy for? Or is it something else? Musicians aren’t particularly stable. Even perfect ones like him. Instead, I just say, “When did you start composing?”

He swings my hand then, ready to pretend with me. “I’ve been arranging for the choir a couple years. I play the piano—guitar, too. Of course, there’s the choir stuff, but I like Marley, and folk. Jazz it up sometimes. Not much pure pop or rock. But sometimes I can get down. Guess I’m a musical omnivore.”

I look out at the black lake and the lights winking on the other side. “Me, too. I’m no expert on Marley, but the folky stuff works for me. And then, I do listen to most of those divas.”

“Do you play?”

I shake my head. My dad played the guitar in his band, left an old acoustic behind. Mom still has it. Strange. I don’t know why she didn’t burn it.

We stop walking, stare out at the lake. A ferry goes by, all lit up with music playing. Derek squeezes my hand. “Let’s hop on one of those. Run away.”

I like that idea. “But it’s a lake.”

“A big lake.”

“We need to go back. You’ve got to go to bed.”

“Sing me something you wrote first. I need a lullaby.”

I shrug my shoulders. “You first.”

He puts his arm around me and starts to hum, breaks into Ooohs. This voice is rich with texture—not that pure choir voice he used at the concert. The melody is entrancing, winds into my heart, makes me want to smile and cry at the same time. It fades away. “That’s all I have.”

“I love it. What do you call it?”

“‘Beth’s Song.’”

chapter 13

ROCK STAR

Derek keeps his eyes on his conductor all through their competition performance until he starts his solo. His delicious chocolate eyes find me in the fifth row breathing in every note. Somehow he turns an “Ave Maria” into a love song. I’m lost in the power of it—overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotion that pours out of him. Tears form in the corner of my eyes. What is this? How can I feel like this?

I take everything back that I said about divas and love. If love is anything like the way I feel this moment, sign me up. Singing makes me happy, alive, but this is unbelievable.

His solo finishes, and the rest of the choir joins Derek. He focuses intently on the conductor again. We stand and applaud with everyone else when they’re done.

Leah frowns. “I think they beat us.”

Meadow stops clapping. “They’re kind of professional. It’s not really fair.”

I’d forgotten that we were competing with them. Gold medal. Right. Best youth choir in the world. I’m sure we’re looking at them.

Sarah watches Blake step down the risers. “Even with you, Beth, we’re not in their league. No one is.”

I lose the thread of their conversation as the next choir files onto the risers. I get up and go outside. They are in the foyer, shaking hands. Derek sees me and starts to head in my direction.

When he gets to me, he takes both my hands. I stare at him. What can I say after that?

He squeezes my hands, leans forward and whispers, “When’s your free time today?”

My throat is so dry I have to swallow. “Two hours, after lunch.”

“It’s mine.”

We wander, slowly, around the center of Lausanne, holding hands. Derek seems tired. He jerks away when I put my hand on his forehead to check if he has a temperature. “I thought I wasn’t a little boy.”

The rest of my choir is touring the cathedral. We avoid it. Too many stairs, according to Derek. There’s a big market set up in front of the tiny shops in old stone buildings. Tables of fresh fruits, veggies, honey, and carts selling cheese make the narrow winding streets even narrower. Derek buys some nasty dried-up sausage and makes me try it. So salty. I buy some fresh strawberries to get the taste out of my mouth—and his. The city center is a maze. We get totally lost, head downhill until we pick up the metro signs. We take it down to Ouchy and end up back on our bench.

He sits down, and I take up my position. Instead of kissing me, he pulls me into a hug.

I bury my face in his neck. It feels like coming home. “One more day and the fairy tale ends.”

“Don’t remind me. I want to stay here with you forever.”