“Class, settle down,” Mrs. Smith said, clearing her throat and tapping her conductor’s baton on the edge of her music stand. “Before we get started today, I wanted to introduce a special guest to you. Her name is Sawyer Bell, and she was a student here at Houston High several years ago. One of my orchestra students, in fact, in this very room. Sawyer is also the only student from Houston to ever be admitted to Juilliard’s violin performance program. With a scholarship, no less.”
It was weird as hell to sit there in her old classroom and listen to her former teacher regale a bunch of bored-looking teenagers with her past accomplishments. Not that Sawyer wasn’t proud of getting into Juilliard—she was. What she wasn’t proud of was how long it’d taken her to admit it wasn’t what she wanted. Which made being here extra-weird, since she’d withdrawn from school earlier this week, and she and Vix were taking a brief vacation and driving up to New York to do all the official stuff and pack up the rest of her belongings she’d left in storage.
She’d explained all this to Mrs. Smith, who still wanted her to come talk to the class. Vix was convinced it was some creepy student-crush of Mrs. Smith’s, but Vix was a weirdo. Sawyer had thought about canceling a million times, but her sense of responsibility was too annoying to let her. So here she was, wearing shorts and her cowgirl boots, a strappy tank top and her hair loose around her shoulders. She didn’t look that much different than some of the girls in the class, seated in a semicircle behind music stands, various instruments on the floor or in their hands. Well, her shorts were maybe a little shorter than theirs. They had a dress code at Houston, and Vix had picked out these shorts.
“I invited Sawyer here today to talk to you about Juilliard and competitive collegiate programs, to give you some advice if you’re interested and to tell you a bit about her experiences.”
Mrs. Smith gestured for her to take her place at the podium. Even though Sawyer performed all the time on stage, she felt nervous, like she was making a presentation in class. Which was kind of what she was doing, right?
Great, what’s next? I have to go to my old math classroom and take a test I haven’t studied for? Naked?
She smiled and gave a dorky half wave to the students. “Hi. Are any of you thinking of applying to Juilliard?” If no one raised their hand, she was going to make this a real short presentation.
A few students raised their hands, but not with the same sort of vehemence that Sawyer would have when she was on the other side of the podium. Which, to be honest, told her they wouldn’t get in. But what a thing to say. “Anyone else thinking about applying for performance programs at other schools?” That got a few more hands, but not many. Music was not something a lot of people wanted to seriously pursue outside of high school. Some of these students would take a scholarship to a school if offered, while majoring in something else. Most of them wouldn’t touch an instrument again until maybe adulthood, playing in community orchestras or similar. The ones who were antsy and sneakily checking their phones instead of paying attention . . . well, they were jerks, geez.
“Here’s what I can tell you about how these programs work.” Sawyer went through the basics about gaining admission to Juilliard—the process was similar to other competitive music programs—and what to expect. It wasn’t anything they couldn’t look up on the internet, either on the school’s site or on a million different forums.
A few kids had honest questions, including one cellist who was maybe more serious and ambitious than Sawyer had given her credit for initially. The slow hand raise might have indicated she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but Sawyer could have told her that wasn’t the sort of attitude you needed at a place like Juilliard. The questions were rote and mostly dull, and the whole thing felt like a waste of time. She was admittedly looking forward to it being over when Mrs. Smith said, “Anything else, Sawyer? Maybe something you wish someone would have told you, before you applied?”
If she hadn’t added that last part, Sawyer wouldn’t have said anything but goodbye. But that made her realize she did have something to say. “Yeah, actually.” Her voice went from the polite, public-speaking tone she’d adopted to something more genuine. “Here’s what I wish someone would have told me—just because you get in, it doesn’t mean you have to go. And if you do go, and you find out it’s not what you want? It’s okay to leave.”
That got their attention.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Smith, but Sawyer kept going.
“I got in, I got a scholarship, and I’m proud of that. But I got there, and I hated it,” she said. “I kept waiting for it to be something it wasn’t, and it took three years before I could admit I didn’t want to be there. I’m not saying I made a mistake taking the scholarship and going, because it wasn’t a mistake. What was a mistake, though? Staying when I knew I didn’t want to be there. I thought it made me a failure that I didn’t like it. I felt trapped, and you can’t play music when you feel like that.”
Sawyer swallowed hard. She hoped if nothing else, this maybe got through—and not only for music, either. Do what you love. Take risks. And when something doesn’t work, take a different one. But don’t stop taking them. “The best advice I ever got was from someone—well, from here, actually. She told me to play my own music, and I didn’t understand for a long time what that meant. It doesn’t matter if you’re playing symphonies or rock songs or whatever. Sometimes it takes a while to find your own music, but believe me, it’s so worth it when you do. Otherwise, all you’re playing is notes.”
Well, that seemed like a good place to end things. Sawyer looked over at Mrs. Smith, hopelessly amused by this whole thing.
“Thank you, Sawyer,” Mrs. Smith said. Her voice was a lot less friendly, and her smile was tight. “It was kind of you to come today.”
“Thanks for having me,” Sawyer said, and that was that. She grabbed her purse and pulled on her sunglasses, heading outside into the bright sunlight with the sounds of the orchestra tuning behind her.
Vix sat in the grass, fingers itching for a cigarette. She’d given it up, again, mostly because Sawyer’s dad hated it and told her all about how bad it was. Even though her own parents had told her that for years, it hadn’t made her want to stop. But Steven Bell was right, it really was bad for her voice. And, as he put it, “I don’t want you and Sawyer living in our basement because you can’t sing anymore.”
She wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not. Like Sawyer, he had a dry sense of humor. But she didn’t want to live in their basement either, as much as she liked Sawyer’s mom, Rhonda, and Steven. She was done with basements. She and Sawyer had looked at a few places to rent, starting in the winter after the fall tour. And she’d already promised Sawyer not to smoke inside.
Maybe it was being back here, in high school. It nudged at her rebellious instincts like she was a teenager again. She’d already been told to “get back inside” by an overzealous teacher who’d mistaken her for a student. Once she’d explained she was waiting for her girlfriend and that she was twenty-five, he’d lit a cigarette and smoked it like it was the last one he’d ever have.
New teacher, probably. Maybe watching him enjoy the cigarette was the reason she wanted one. Vix reminded herself she didn’t have to go back in and deal with adolescents all day. At least until she was trapped in a van with a few overgrown ones, that was.
She sat with her back against the tree, looking at the parking lot. The lot used to be for teachers, but it looked like they’d opened it up to students since she’d been there. There were a lot of fancy cars too. Germantown was a wealthy area, and when Vix was a student there had been other kids her age driving Beamers and shit.
Vix had been given her mom’s Honda Accord when her mom bought a new car. She was still driving it, as a matter of fact.
A shadow fell next to her. “Hey.”
Startled, Vix glanced up through her sunglasses at Sawyer. She was wearing those shorts Vix had talked her into buying that showed off her gorgeous legs, one of those blousy tanks, and her boots.
“You’re like the silent assassin, geez. How’d it go?”
“I don’t think they’re going to ask me back anytime soon,” Sawyer said with a laugh, pushing her hair back behind her ears. She gave Vix a brief recap of her speech.
Vix felt her face turn red at the play your own music thing. “Seriously, you know that was me being a bitch, right?”
Sawyer folded herself down next to Vix on the grass. “Yup. And it didn’t matter back then, anyway. I wasn’t ready to hear it, and I’m sure those kids aren’t either. But hey. It turned out to be true, so.”
“I guess I’m some kind of wise sage,” Vix joked. She giggled. “I love that you told them Juilliard sucked.”
“I didn’t say it sucked! I said it wasn’t what I wanted. Actually, I had a pretty good line about if you don’t play the music you love, all you’re really playing is notes.” Sawyer’s face wrinkled up. “Or something. It was good, though.”
“Uh-huh.” Vix grinned at her and waggled her eyebrows. “Wanna make out?”
“Duh.” Sawyer jumped to her feet, dusted her hands over her ass to dislodge any grass, and held a hand out to Vix.
“I meant here,” Vix said, amused, taking Sawyer’s hand.
“It’s a high school.” She gave a little tug, but Vix stayed put.
“Yeah, and I don’t have to get to class for at least . . .” Vix glanced at her bare left wrist. “Ever. So? Come on, you don’t think this is romantic? We make out the first place we ever met? I was totally sure you’d be into that.”
“Nope.” Sawyer tugged her hand again, and this time, Vix let Sawyer pull her to her feet. “I’m not that girl anymore, and neither are you.”
“Uh,” said Vix. “I’m kind of still that girl. Maybe with more tact, but otherwise . . . yeah. I got yelled at by a teacher.”
Sawyer shook her head with a little smile on her face. “I want that memory to stay how it is. But I appreciate you offering.” She did pull Vix in and give her hug, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her neck. “Also I’m allergic to grass.”
“Ah.” Vix thought about that. “What about the parking lot? You got any strong memories about it?”
“It’s a million degrees, Victoria.”
“Guess we’ll have to get naked.” Vix waggled her eyebrows as they started walking toward the car, parked all legal-like in the visitor’s lot.
“I’m not getting naked in your Honda in front of our old high school,” Sawyer informed her. She smiled. “But my dad’s at another conference, and he took my mom with him this time, so we do have the house to ourselves. I wouldn’t mind making a few memories of hot sex with my girlfriend in my childhood bedroom.”
“As long as you don’t make it sound creepy again by saying ‘childhood bedroom,’ I’m in,” said Vix, as they approached the car. “But I want to do something first.” Gently, she pushed Sawyer back against the Honda, leaned in, and kissed her. “I basically didn’t have any memories—good or bad—about high school. But now I do.”
Sawyer looked pleased, and then kissed her back. “Come on. Let’s go get naked.”
Vix laughed and stepped away so Sawyer could go around to the passenger side. Vix’s phone adapter never worked, so they were stuck with the radio or the Smashing Pumpkins tape that had been lodged in the Honda’s tape deck since Vix’s senior year of high school. They opted for the radio, put the windows down and opened the sunroof, then turned the air conditioner on high and sang along loudly with “The Boys of Summer” on the classic rock station.
Vix looked over at Sawyer, who was holding her long hair back from her face and moving around in her seat as she sang, a pair of overly large fashion sunglasses covering her eyes. Vix was thankful her own summer girl wasn’t going anywhere, and wasn’t a dream—or if she was, Vix didn’t have to wake up anytime soon. The love story of Vix and Sawyer Bell—full of snark, sex, and cheap motels—was just beginning.