I shift forward to the edge of the seat, our knees nearly brushing. Frustration seeps into my voice. “Nothing you couldn’t learn on the internet. My dad won’t teachme.”
“I’ll teachyou.”
Gratitude has my entire body tingling. I exhale heavily, realizing I haven’t really played with him, in front of him, in a couple years. We were kids then. Now, the stakes feelhigher.
“Thank you. We could start with ‘Part of YourWorld’?”
He’s shaking his head before I finish. “Nothing from the musical. Somethingelse.”
“Okay.” I mentally scroll through the possibilities. “Let’s do something in six-eight.”
“You have a time signature preference?” He grins, and my stomachflips.
“Yes. Six is perfect. It’s like… a Möbius strip. A twisted loop.” I connect my thumbs and pointer fingers, then twist one hand upside down so my thumbs touch my pointer fingers instead. “No end and no beginning but order and momentum. ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by Metallica. The Beatles’ ‘Oh! Darling’. Enough Queen tracks to fill analbum.”
He shakes his head, and I think he’s about to make fun of me, but all he says is, “The lady wantssix.”
Then he kicks off Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” and my heartlifts.
This is already more fun thanrehearsal.
We practice until my throat’s worn out. Tyler accompanies me on guitar, watching, givingnotes.
I have so much to learn. This guy is not only the most talented person I’ve ever met—he’s an encyclopedia. We’ve talked music before but not technique, strategy, physicality. My mind races trying to keep up with everything he tellsme.
I haven’t felt so alive in ages. Even the best rehearsal has never felt as good as this. Maybe because I have to deal with the glares and the snide comments and thesabotage.
Here, it’s just people who love music. It’s the biggest high there is. More than acing a test or winning anaward.
“Better,” he says when we wrap up. ”Now you need to do that atrehearsal.”
I look down at him from where I’m standing, leaning a hip against the wall of the bus. “Carly’s going to be there fucking with my head. It’s like something’s crawling up my spine and I can’t get away fromit.”
Tyler turns something over in his mind. “Sing it one moretime.”
I start, and he rises, moving to stand behindme.
Close behindme.
He touches the waistband of my jeans, and I jolt. His fingers brush the bare skin of my lower back, and I hiccup. “What are youdoing?”
“Keepgoing.”
The words come out rough as his finger traces a slow path up myspine.
I focus on my breath, my tone, the shape of the vowels and consonants in my head, my mouth, mythroat.
I pour everything into keeping my voice level. When he reaches the back of my bra, he reverses directions, stroking backdown.
Slower.
Harder.
My shoulders start toshake.
Tyler’s touch searing my skin is nothing like Carly’s sabotage. It’s hard to keep going for an entirely different reason. Every phrase is harder to execute; every word is a struggle for my brain; each vowel sticks in mythroat.
Finally, I finish, and his touch fallsaway.