Holland

“Are you out of your mind?” Savannah is staring at me when I hang up the phone.

“Just keep your eyes on the road. I’d like to live so I can practice this afternoon.” Savannah’s not the best driver, especially when she’s distracted.

“Wait. I thought you changed your mind. I thought you didn’t want to mess with the most eligible player in the U.S.

And now you’re planning on sneaking off to have dinner with him? How do you plan on getting away with that, anyway? Your mama is picking you up after practice. I offered, but she said no.” She’s been whipping her head back and forth between the road and my face while she speaks. Her blonde hair is flying around in the breeze from her open window. Her hands speak with her words, gesturing here and there while she keeps tucking her wild hair behind her ears. She’s adorable and annoying.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll figure it out. Holland, you’re starting to worry me. Who are you, anyway, and what have you done with the real Holland? You have one make out session with a hot guy, and suddenly you’re scheming and sneaking around and making dinner plans. You were going to forget him; too old, remember?”

“I didn’t think he’d call me after you read that stuff on the Internet.” I throw up my hands and let them slap against my bare thighs. Shit. I wish I had worn something more sophisticated than a t-shirt, jean shorts and my sparkly Chucks. He’s taking me out to dinner, and he thinks I’m at least twenty-one.

“Yeah, well he’s still that guy. Just because he called you doesn’t make him any less of a player.”

“Shut up, Savannah. If it weren’t for your summer itinerary, I wouldn’t be in this mess.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. She was only trying to make me happy, and it’s not her fault this thing with King and me happened.

“I’m sorry, Savannah. I didn’t mean that, really.”

“I know,” she says, reaching out to hold my hand. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, and he seems like the kinda guy that could do some really serious damage, ya know?”

“Yeah . . . I do.” I really, really do. I’ve never had feelings like this before. I can’t tell if they are normal, first time liking a guy kind of feelings, or really serious adult feelings. I do know one thing, though. He called. He wants to see me, and I’m not missing out on the opportunity to see him again with clear, sober eyes. It will also be sort of interesting having the home field advantage this time.

“You have to do me a huge favor, Savannah. Seriously huge.” I need something else to wear. I can’t let him see me looking like . . . like a teenager. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye.

“Shit . . . I’m afraid to ask. What kind of favor?”

“I need something to wear. He’s going to a meeting, and then he’s coming to listen to me practice. I look like a teenager.” I gesture at my outfit.

“You are a teenager. Holland, are you sure about this? Sooner or later, he’s gonna know you’re only nineteen. What then?”

“I’m going to New York this fall. I’ll never see him again after that. I just wanna have some fun. Please?” I beg with my hands pressed together in front of me. She looks at me quickly. I hold up my hands in their prayer position and beg again in a tiny voice, fluttering my eyelashes.

“Please.”

“Oh, God. Okay, who can say no to that face? What do you want me to bring you?” she says with a deep sigh.

“Thank you.” I squeal and side hug her awkwardly from the passenger seat. “How about a dressy romper and some heels—not stilettos. My feet are still sore, but something casual.”

“Okay. Yeah, I have something like that. I’ll bring it over. What about your hair?”

“Crap, I didn’t think about that. I’ll just take out the ponytail and wear it down.”

“You’re gonna have a rubber band ring. I’ll fix it for you.”

“I knew I could count on you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I have a feeling I’m gonna regret it someday when you’re bawling on my shoulder about this guy breaking your heart, but if you’re dead set on playing this out, I can’t let you do it alone.”

I love her.

Savannah drops me at the curb in front of STRINGS, the music studio I’ve been practicing at since I was ten.

“You promise you’re gonna help me?” I say, turning back to look through the open door of her parents’ Durango before I close it.

“Duh, of course, dummy. I told you I would. Hurry up and get in there so I can run home and get you an outfit that will make you look old,” she says, swishing her hand at me to close the door. I take my violin from the seat and push the door shut with my hip. She doesn’t even wave goodbye. She’s on a mission to help me in her true best friend fashion. There’s no stopping her now.

Inside STRINGS, the cool air rushes over my sweaty skin. Texas in the summer is no joke. It’s hot out there, and I’m glad I’m in here. I bypass the counter where most people check in. Shanna, the woman who makes the appointments, nods at me when I walk by. I’m here twice a week to practice and record my music. She knows me on sight. Halfway down the long hall, I remember that I should probably warn Shanna that I’m expecting visitors today. I hadn’t even thought about her. What if she accidentally says something to my mama the next time she calls for a time slot? I guess I’ll have to cross my fingers and say a little prayer that she doesn’t, because it’s too late now. He’s coming, and I’m not stopping him.

I step around the corner and wait for Shanna to finish checking someone else in. When she’s done, she turns her attention to me.

“Hey, Shanna. I wanted to let you know my friend, Savannah, is going to be dropping by this afternoon for a few minutes.” Shanna knows Savannah, and she also knows I take my music very seriously, so she doesn’t balk about me having a guest, but I’m not sure what to tell her about King.

“And uh . . . a man is coming to hear me play too. If you could let him come back, he’s an um . . . he’s an orchestra scout.” She raises her eyebrows. There’s no such thing as an orchestra scout and she knows it, but whatever. It’s an excuse to get him back there. I don’t want her thinking he’s my boyfriend. He’s not, I don’t think. I don’t know what to call a man—who is six years older than me—that I’m interested in and have already slept with on our first non-date.

“Alright, Holland, I’ll send them back. No messing around, though. Your mama is paying for practice time, not social time.” Crap, there goes all hope that she won’t mention this to my mother. I’ll just tell her the same thing. I met him at orchestra practice. He was looking for talent, so he came to listen to me play.

Wow, I can’t believe how the lies are piling up. I’m digging myself in deeper and deeper with everyone. I’ve gone from goodie two shoes to juvenile delinquent in twenty-four hours.

“I know, Shanna. It’s all business, cross my heart,” I swear to her and make a quick X over my heart before darting back down the hall.

In room three, I move the microphone away from my chair. I’m not recording today, so I set my music on the stand and take my violin from its case. I perch on the edge of the chair with my back straight and close my eyes. After a few cleansing breaths, I raise my bow and begin to play a partita of Bach’s. I don’t need the music. I know it by heart. It flows from me like water down a stream. My body sways with every note; emotions that only my instrument can conjure stir in my soul. I was born for this. I need it. To live without my music, I am simply not me.