Pulling off my red Brent Academy polo and tossing it on the bench behind me, I slide my shades on and stand in my khakis and white T-shirt waiting for my girl, Ivy Taylor, to get closer. I keep my eyes fixed on her, ignoring all the other students around me. Sure, some of the guys walking by give me crooked looks, but that’s as far as they take it anymore. They’re used to seeing me by now—I’ve been waiting for her most days after school since I started driving. At first they didn’t like me on their school grounds, but after a few fights they learned to leave me alone or get the shit kicked out of them. Just because I dress like a preppy ass doesn’t mean I am one.
Today I skipped out of school early—leaving my brother at the pristine private school we attend so I could see my girlfriend. Ivy attends a magnet school in the heart of LA. She lives nearby in a rent-controlled apartment building with her mother and three much younger sisters. Their father took off on them long ago and Kelly Taylor, Ivy’s mother, is nothing if not resentful about it. In fact, her spiteful attitude is sometimes directed at me, and lately she’s restricted our time together. She says she got a new job with later hours, so now Ivy has to go home right after school and I’m no longer allowed over when she’s not there. Coincidental? I doubt it. I can see through her—she views me as a threat to her golden ticket.
There’s no one to blame except myself for not keeping my big mouth shut, but I couldn’t help it. Her vendetta against me started when she overheard Ivy and me planning our rehearsal schedule. She made the idiotic statement that her daughter was a born actress and she should be spending her time rehearsing for parts and preparing for auditions, not playing in a band. She even went so far as to ask me, “Don’t you agree, Xander, that with Ivy’s looks she should be an actress, not a singer?”
“Do you even know Ivy?” I asked with a dry laugh.
“Yes, I know my daughter. And I know that with her beauty, she’ll be an instant superstar. She just needs a push in the right direction. She needs to put herself out there more is all. Did she tell you an agent contacted me?”
I looked at her, dumbfounded, shaking my head. Because no, Ivy hadn’t told me.
She grinned. “Well, one did—last week. He spotted Ivy when the band was playing at that school in Anaheim and thought she’d be perfect for a TV show airing in the fall. She auditions for it next week.”
Ivy’s head dropped as she spoke. “Mom, I told you, there’s no way I’m wearing a bathing suit on camera.”
Mrs. Taylor snapped, “Ivy, maybe the lifeguard part isn’t right for you, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t another role you’d like in the series. You need to go for the exposure, if not for the practice.”
“Mom, I don’t want to act,” Ivy reluctantly told her mother.
“We’ve talked about this. Singing in a band will take you nowhere. The money is in acting.”
“She doesn’t care about where the money is,” I retorted, glaring at her mother. I mean, come on, Ivy’s a modest, shy girl. It took forever for her to feel comfortable around me. Traipsing around a movie set half-dressed isn’t exactly her thing, and honestly, I don’t think I could handle it anyway. I didn’t even bother to address where the money is. That was just a ridiculous statement. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Taylor, but everything isn’t about money. Ivy’s never even expressed the slightest bit of interest in acting—it’s always been you making her go on auditions that she doesn’t want to go on. I think Ivy needs to decide what she wants to do herself.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Money has never been an issue for you or your family,” Mrs. Taylor said.
I didn’t respond. She was wrong. Yes, my grandfather had money, but my mother had been living paycheck to paycheck over the last couple of years. My father’s erratic work schedule never guaranteed enough to even pay the mortgage, and if it weren’t for my grandparents we’d have lost our house. But that wasn’t something I was going to get into with her. I may have had a smug look on my face, I don’t know, because she stared at me for the longest time and so did Ivy. The difference? Ivy’s stare said, “Thank you.” Mrs. Taylor’s stare said, “Fuck you.”
The truth is, I know Ivy very well. We’ve been together for four years. We met through Logan. He and I were playing on the same basketball team when he told me he was looking to put a band together. I asked who he had lined up. He told me he played the drums and he had a cousin who sang, played guitar, and wrote songs. When I asked what his cousin was like, he said, “She’s a talented girl whose voice draws you in the minute you hear it, and the beautiful tone of her guitar playing only sucks you in further.”